Musings from Reifsnyder

As this reporter sits in the studio of AI Productions and observes that AI-XVII will be underway precisely I week from tonight, my meticulous planning and mañana work philosophy has led to a state of near panic.  How much adrenaline can one person produce anyway?  I was sure this was going to be the year of well-paced, leisurely preparation.



But all seriousness aside, harking back to the highly regarded series of 'Ruminations' from AI-XVI, the most famous ruminant since Bambi has again blessed us with his thoughts as the days rush toward the commencement of this, our XVIIth gathering.  Or as Churchill opined: "Never have so few done so much for no apparent reason."

Here then, as the AI Staff furiously works to prepare the golf course,

trusses chickens, refines the entertainment or lack thereof, and continues the search for clean sheets, we present:  Musings From Reifsnyder.

T-MINUS ONE WEEK AND COUNTING

The oddity that “golf” and “The Apartment” could, or even should, be thought of in the same breath is quite ironic, especially after a meal with lots of garlic. Between late 1976 through the ’78 U.S.Open, Mitch and I never played together: nor, I might add, with each other.

Naturally, we watched and appreciated the greatest in golf, all due to the “Miracle of Tee-Wee”. Rarely did a Sunday afternoon pass between The January Clambake at Pebble and the PGA--wherever-the-fuck the fourth and, in fact, distantly fourth major of the year was being contested--Mitch and I—and Gordon, when it was at least 80 degrees—would be glued to the set and, occasionally, to the seat. We spouted golf lore, imitated the announcers, entertained guests, tossed about free packs of sotweed, played Billy Joel way too loud, poured beers, and watched the drama unfold. No one is close when it comes to with whom I would choose to watch a sporting event: after (from a warm bubble-bath with) Amy Adams, I would have to say, well… Mitch. No bubble-bath required.

But it was not until the early '80s, while our esteemed host and Tournament Director was honing his business skills (acquired, now famously, from an intensive five-day, balls-out, accelerated program at Cornell) and realized he could make ten times as much if he knew how to play golf. Let’s face it: his softball career was over.

We first played at a public course in or near Columbia, Maryland, what Mitch, Kathi, Sean E. and a large snow-white furry beast,“Serbo”, called home in the early Reagan years. Hobbits’ Glen? Or maybe Hobbitts Glen?  Maybe Hobbit’s Glans?

As it happened, I was at the top of a meaningful push in what was my competitive drive to become and stay a single- digit handicap player…and Mitch? Our generous host and quite fortunate spouse of Kathleen—The One-Armed Banquet Director—Marinari’s, was just beginning to take all this country club stuff seriously. He was terrible. No freakin idea. Here’s a guy with well-established athletic talents—including, but not limited to—hitting a softball a country mile and, with the wind out of the east, even a suburban mile, kicking your ass at “horse” in roundball, and, when called upon, lifting an entire twenty-three pound ham out of the Apartment oven after an afternoon and evening at Dunkle’s playing pinball and bangin beers at two bucks a pitcher.

AI-XVII is here.

Heimsch is ready.

Gordon too is ready, sadly not for competitive golf.

The Boob, again, is my favorite to win.