BlitzBlog

As you may have read or heard (or witnessed), I am a bad golfer. The only thing consistent about my game is my inconsistency.
I can slice a drive 300 yards- 150 out and 150 right, usually into the woods. I can then follow that shot off a plugged lie in the weeds, between two roots, with a knock-down 5 iron through a bush, over trees and roll it onto the green to 3 feet.
And miss the putt.
And possibly the one after that.
As I said, inconsistent.
There's an old saying, “The reason it's called 'Golf' is because all the other 4-letter words were taken.” And yes, I've had reason to use many of them in the 15 years or so I've been attempting to play this blasted game.
The one thing I've always kept in mind is that when it comes to golf- and sometimes Life- is that it's often better to be lucky than to be good. I know, because I've been both.
There have been 2-3 seasons where I've been hitting the ball well. Shooting low scores and generally (or should I say, more often) being able to make the ball do almost what I intend when I swung at it. And yet when I am having one of those seasons, my enjoyment of the sport is a totally different experience. I am more serious, but the enjoyment is that of being able to improve, or at least live up to my own expectations. On the more common years, when I generally suck, my enjoyment comes from the comeraderie and being able to laugh at my own (and my friends') failings- or flailings.
But there was a time- one occasion, where I was supremely lucky -twice. It was July 3, 2004. I was teeing off at the eighth hole on my home course- Central Valley Golf Club. I was playing my typical round- through seven holes I was about 12 over par, with my buddy Marc and two guys whom I didn't know, who we were put together with on this holiday weekend.
The eighth is a simple little par 3, 125 yards with a decent sized uncomplicated green about 6 feet above the tee box. I took out my nine iron, teed it up, and swung away. It felt good off the club, and I knew it'd be on the green. It was high- very high- and it softly plopped down on the dancefloor like a butterfly with sore feet. It looked like it hit close to the hole, right over the flag, and stuck there. I reached down to pick up my tee, and one of my partners yelled, “It dropped!” I looked up, saying, “Huh?” And he said ” It dropped. It's in the hole!” I looked at the green and could see no sign of the ball. Instead of just planting itself, I guess the ball spun and slowly rolled back into the cup. We walked to the green and yep, there it was, in the hole between the flag and the side of the cup.
My first Ace.
Uh oh.
I have about $20 in my pocket and I now have to buy the clubhouse free drinks when we get there. Oh, well, I hope they take plastic.
At the turn, our playing partners had to leave, so for the back nine, it was just Marc and me. We played the rest of the round, where my game unfortunately returned to normal. I think I wound up with a low-90 score.
We headed in and went for a drink in the bar. We walked in and we saw another 2 people in there, who were just leaving. It was me, Marc, and the bartender. So I bought us all a couple of drinks and considered myself lucky now twice. First a hole-in-one that I know has more to do with luck than skill, and then getting off with a sub-$20 payout in the clubhouse.
I could say I was lucky three times- I didn't have to explain why this round just cost $200 to Kate.
Man I love this game.

Dave The Blue Frog McCarty makes another guest contribution….
In my previous contribution to the Blitzblog, I waxed a bit poetically about Clarksdale the town. I feel the need to have a go-at-it one more time, and then I’ll shut up. I know that Matt has written a blow-by-blow account of our trip and he has done a marvelous job at that. Considering the quantities of alcohol that were consumed I’m amazed at his ability to recall events that took place during the Blues Cruise Redooz.
As Matt already stated, the acts that we saw were amazing. The Friday Night performance at Ground Zero by James ‘Superchikan” Johnson was as pleasing visually as well as musically. This guy’s stage performance was as exhausting and exhilarating as James Brown was at the height of his career. I think we paid six bucks each to see this three set show and to be honest, I would have paid a hundred more. His all-female back up band, which included his daughter on drums, a bass guitar player and some slammin’ keyboards by the wonderful and most gracious LaLa were on fire. That night we also saw Jimbo Mathus and Knockdown South at the Hopson Plantation. Jimbo had made his reputation as a jack-of-all-trades musician with the group Squirrel Nut Zippers. His new group sounded like a bit of the Allman’s meet the Dead and have lunch with Robert Johnson kind of sound. It was a nice blend of southern rock with jam band and heavy blues elements. On Saturday we saw the incredible T-Model Ford, This man could charm the scales off a rattlesnake, and his performance was exactly that of a snake charmer. He plays that North Mississippi Hill Country Blues style with it’s pulsating repetitive rhythm. It’s a bit hypnotic and it makes you want to dance let alone share in a warm shot of whisky with the man. That night at Ground Zero it was Big George Brock and his fabulous harmonica. George’s influences were Sonny Boy Williamson and Little Walter and he plays like them. Big George was most gracious and kind to me as he offered some advise and compliments to yours truly. He also invited me to St. Louis where he lives, to play some blues with him. The last act we saw was Duwayne Burnside and the Mississippi Mafia at the Hopson Plantation. Duwayne is the son of the late, great R.L. Burnside one of Mississippi’s truly great Bluesmen. His style has elements of North Mississippi Hill Country blues with more of a modern, sonic Jimi Hendrix influence. I lost it when he played his dad’s song, Miss Maybelle, a piece that could make the dead rise up and boogie til’ dawn. He had his nephew and R.L.’s grandson and drummer Cedric Burnside sit in with him on a song. I got to meet both of them and they were equally as kind and gracious as were all the musicians we met.
Now here’s the part that I can go off the deep end with. As Matt has stated very eloquently in his blog about the kids that we met and saw perform in Clarksdale. They were jaw dropping amazing, and to add to that would be to say as gracious and humble as the acts that I just finished telling you about. To be born and raised in an environment that is so conducive to the Arts is one thing. To be able to perform at that high a level and to do it almost effortlessly is quite another. And it is everywhere, children, playing instruments and singing, writing songs and composing music. And it’s not just Blues Music, but Pop, Rock, Folk, Jazz and R&B. I would assume that the Clarksdale High School Marching Band is as badass as the football team if not even more badass. From nine-year-old Omar, on his guitar to the Perry Family ages 14,11 and 7 respectively. By the way, that 7 year old happens to be a little girl who has more real talent than Brittany, Jessica, Ashlee, Christina and God Forbid Paris Hilton have collectively. Unlike the aforementioned music industry manufactured “Bimbo Starlet’s” this young lady can pound a set of drums like Phil Collins. She’ll be learning how to play guitar this year, I look forward to seeing her on my next visit, by that time she will probably be giving guitar lessons to Eric Clapton. The children of this town appear to be some sort of unique phenomena, but I suspect that the truth is more everyday normal. If you look at the history of this area and the undeniable influential musicians who came from here you begin to realize and appreciate the musical legacy that has been handed down to these children. And not just the legacy, rather the culture of creativity that seems so imbedded in so many from these parts. That culture is passed from parent or family member to child. The children here are so not full of pretentious self centered selfishness that you see so much of today. They are grounded, courteous, and polite and yet exude a self-confidence that would astound most people. I am very happy we got to meet them and hear them play.
One final note, as Matt stated in his blog about what’s real. His advice (and mine too) is that you go to the Crossroads. The story of Robert Johnson selling his soul there is perhaps the only thing that isn’t real about this place. Yet what is real seems to have a near mystic quality to it. The sacred ground feel to this place is very real, because it is sacred ground. The music that came from here is the heartbeat of American culture. So much of our culture is based on our music that it has permeated every aspect of our lives. How we think, how we dress, how we eat and even how we pray. We cannot imagine our lives without our music; it’s everywhere and we LOVE IT!!!! And so I bow down to the Delta, I now have its dirt on my hands and its mud in my veins and it’s music in my heart. If you listen real close you can hear the sound of the Southern railroad train going CLIKITY CLACK as it knifes its way through the Delta from New Orleans to Memphis. Its nighttime, its hotter than hell and you hear that whistle blow off in the distance and you want to cry and laugh at the same time. It’s the sound of the Blues and it’s coming your way, get on board.