I’m back from a Florida weekend of hacking up two golf courses. Our group played 36-holes, but I gave up on half of them. I landed in just about every pond possible, hit the roof of a house, nearly took out a member of our foursome sitting in his golf cart, and somehow managed to strike two narrow 150-yard marker poles that couldn’t have been done intentionally in a million tries. I tried my best to patch the divots and keep my sanity. There was one moment of glory when I reached the green in two on a par-four and barely missed the birdie putt. 

I also drank too much whiskey and got too little sleep. My roommate was wearing a monitor for his daughter’s diabetes that failed to wake him up but seemed to torture me every time I was ready to drift off to sleep. We acted like we were teenagers, with the youngest 59 and the oldest 75. Each of us was once responsible for millions of dollars in television advertising revenue on our respective stations in Ft. Wayne, Terre Haute, Decatur, and Lafayette. Only one of us was still employed. It was a great weekend of off-color jokes and treasured memories. 

We were staying in a 1.2-million-dollar-man-cave about a block from the Gulf of Mexico on one side with the bay close by out the opposite window. It was decorated with lots of signs that announced things like, “if you’re not barefoot you’re over dressed,” and “Live the Salt Life.” A hammock was strung between trees next to the hot tub and I was tempted to sleep in either for some peace and quiet. Despite heavy eyelids and a hangover each morning, I still managed to get my miles in to keep “The Streak” alive before our daily tee time. 

There were two I.U. fans, one for Purdue, and the fourth betting on the Hoosiers to blow their 15-point halftime lead. We were in two cars acting like the four stooges, our GPS systems sending us to two separate Gecko Restaurants before finally hooking up in front of the same T.V. This was even while all of us were still relatively sober since two were involved in serious match-play all afternoon. I was simply comic relief, with the end result being sore muscles and a chiropractor adjustment that I had wisely scheduled in advance for the way home on Monday. 

Our farewell Sunday-night dinner after golf was at Bonefish Grill, because most of the island locals were closed. We had earlier met a fifth LIN TV associate to break bread (toast) at Another Broken Egg, a Dick Vitale breakfast haunt. It was unlikely that we would see him at breakfast where he often makes an appearance since “Dicky-V” was honored at halftime of the IU-PU game. He resides in Sarasota, near the Legends course, designed by Arnold Palmer, that we played. Arnie would have been horrified at how I tore up his beautiful creation but pleased that at least three of us were good golfers, enjoying competitive match play.