I recently re-established my golf handicap this season. The process has always been a flaky one for me. Nevertheless, a handful of scores later, I acquired a number that is supposed to be the average amount I shoot over par in a given 18-hole round. As I logged into my state golf association website, I was able to view all the rules and by-laws regarding the establishment of said handicap. In big letters read, “A SCORE IS NOT ELIGIBLE IF THE PLAYER PLAYS WITH NON-REGULATION CLUBS OR BALLS.”

That’s the warning that gets the top billing?

THAT’s what the association is worried about?

That I might pull a Rodney Dangerfield from Caddyshack and nail a 30-footer for birdie using an Albert Einstein-designed putter?

How about the fact that a person can enter whatever they want for a score with zero oversight? Maybe that might be the bigger loophole? Try this the next time you’re at the course: gaze past the underage girls operating the beer carts, the disgruntled suspicious dude picking up the range balls (my first job), into the club house, between the dipshits letting us all know how great Tiger is every time he’s shown on the big screen, and you just might notice a very large elephant that no one else sees…or at least they pretend not to. And now, instead of handing in a scorecard signed by several people to another human in the clubhouse (like in the ol’ days), a person can now enter their score at a kiosk….by their lonesome.

Imagine this: as thousands of people enter their numbers after a round, a select few stumble across the notion that they can be whatever handicap they want. It’s like the problem you might get if you left a group of 4-year olds unattended in a room with a big clear jar of Oreos in the middle. Sooner or later…

And if they can be whatever handicap they want, why not inflate that number so that when they play in local tournaments (basically the only reason to have a handicap) they have a better chance of winning prize money? I couldn’t help but wonder that as I gazed at the leader board at a tournament I just played in. “59” read one of the “net” scores. For you non-golfers, a “net” score is the score obtained by taking the player’s actual score and subtracting their handicap. Again, generally that number should be about even par (say 72 or so). So, shooting a 59 is basically playing 13 strokes below your average. 13 strokes. When was the last time Tiger Woods, a 0 handicap from what I hear, shot a 59? Phil Mickelson? This dude basically, got out bed, pissed excellence that particular morning, threw on a faded pair of navy dockers, hopped into his ‘91 Volkswagon Rabbit, and proceeded to play better (relatively) than every professional golfer in the world.

Granted he’s not playing on Augusta National. And, maybe he’s just a “gamer,” a golfer savant, who never got his shot at the big time? Yeah that’s it, he’s a quiet, low-key dude who prefers Blue Ribbon, co-ed softball, the 9-5 shift at Lloyd Lumber, and weekend tourneys at the local municipal over the hassle of the PGA. Then again, if that’s so, why is he a freakin’ 19-handicap? Or just maybe, er…uh…I don’t know how to say this USGA…but maybe he’s a dirtball cheater? Maybe that number I paid 50 bucks for isn’t based on reality.

But hey, I’ll live with it. I’ll keep entering my legit scores while this dude rounds up to the nearest zero, or double-zero, as the case may be. And he can go on and use his winnings to buy that alligator head cover that he’s had his eyes on. All that I ask is that he doesn’t smile when he picks up that gift certificate. That he doesn’t gloat or try to shake my hand. That he doesn’t kick back in the clubhouse and tell us about how lucky he got when he holed those 3 putts in a row for birdie. How he never missed a fairway…and he never does that! That he just takes his money, gets back in the Rabbit, and rides quietly into the sunset. At least extend us all that still abide truthfully by the handicap system that courtesy.

H. R.

While I would never want total amnesia, one benefit, however, would be a chance to revisit all the routine things we do and see every day and to pick out all the stuff that doesn’t make any sense. Take a basketball game, for instance…

I’m pretty sure the first thing I would question is who in the hell are these “cheerleaders” in the goofy school-colored uniforms that don’t resemble anything a female on this planet would ever wear (at least in this millennium)?

How about the dudes grabbing their butts as they hoist them over their heads?…I guess I can partially make sense of that.

Moving on, is it accurate to call someone a “cheer leader” when the majority of the time they’re being totally ignored while cheering goes on all around them? Dare I say, the cheerleaders sometimes appear guilty of being the most oblivious people in the stadium to the very thing that everyone else paid money to see. Shouldn’t they be the most excited? It seems like a person’s knowledge and fanaticism about a team should be part of the whole try-out process. Then you’d have some cheerleading. At the least, it’d be authentic.

And what’s with the leg kicks? When was the last time a leg kick got me psyched up about a game? Or pom-poms? Or a pyramid formation? As if I’m just sitting in my chair numbly watching a team play and then, suddenly, “POW” a leg kick from a cheerleader hits me like a bolt of lightning and I realize how intense overtime really IS…“Thank goodness the team designated people to lead the cheering or I would have been lost,” I would think to my relieved self…

I’m not saying this is a good thing, but it seems our society has moved beyond the whole cheerleading era, right about the time we hung up our letterman jackets for good, and gave up the cheers that started with “We’ve got spirit, yes we do…” And yet they’re still there, throwing themselves into the air, back-handspringing across the floor, igniting us with those feminine arm-extension fist pumps.

The mascots I can see. They’re original, over-the-top and goofy looking, kids get their pictures taken with them, they get into fights with other mascots, they’re funny on Sportscenter. Even horrible mascots, like the Cornell “Big Red” bear I witnessed this year at the NCAA basketball tourney, a mascot that petered out midway through most cheers and leaned on the scorer’s table, never raised her/his arms above her waist, was totally disconnected from what the cheerleaders were doing, entertained the shizzle out of me. I loved that freakin’ bear!

But the cheerleaders…why? Is it just our collective nostalgia, our desire to hold on to an innocent remnant of the past? Is it Title IX (i.e. preventing the schools’ elimination of men’s lacrosse?). Or is it we just haven’t been paying attention for so long it’s become like the clutter in our garage, useless as it is, it wouldn’t be the same without it.

And there is that wholesomeness, I guess; that Leave It To Beaver/apple pie, or in the case of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, bourbon flavor to it all. It’s uniquely American and, to that extent, I’ll accept it. Plus, without lacrosse, what would all the athletes do that aren’t good enough to play real sports?

H.R.

What stops an old guy from putting on his Fruit of the Looms in a gym locker room? Too much my friends, far too much. How many times do I have to walk into my local fitness club and witness senior porn?

Putting on their socks…in the nude.

Shaving…nude.

Checking phone messages…nuderama.

Deodorant…nuder.

Going for an additional head and groin towel-off…Old McNudald.

Big arm stretch and waist twist…Bachman-Nuder Overdrive.

I leave my workouts burdened with questions:

How many things can a person who averages a dinnertime of 4:58PM do before concealing his aged jewels?

And, more intriguing, does the underwear delay occur gradually over time, with the boundaries of normalcy and common sense being pushed further toward, and then beyond, the limit with each passing decade? And, most disturbing, will it (or is it) happening to me?

Perhaps these questions should be asked by all of us men, as we blow out the candles with each passing year. “How IS your urge for blatant nudity… in a humid room surrounded by dudes?” – that question alone should be sufficient. In fact, I would argue that the standard “age markers” such as wrinkles, lack of muscle tone, gray hair, no hair, ear hair, and how close our testicles are to the toilet water while seated are all irrelevant for gauging our true age next to the aforementioned question.

When I get up there in age I may drive slow, wear outdated clothing/dark socks, complain a little too much, but I ain’t going out like that. I’m going to step out of that steamy shower in a slick motherf’n velvet Adidas lounge-wear sippin’ a White Russian. And I’ll say, to the 1st youngster who sees me, after a brief nod to my well-concealed penis, “You wish, bitch.”

H.R.

Joining “Riding the Pine” triggered some memories of a few glorious days of yore and, as sort of an [early] homage to this site, I thought I’d share them:

I’m talking about those days of ‘squeaking it out’ at tryouts amidst that nostalgic smell of sweat, bleacher varnish, and stale Pepsi.

Of sharing the court with the drill team at AM practice and the thrill of “going skins” and showing them just how much a 125-lb frame can stir the soul.

I’m talking about those of us who spend more time quietly planning our seating arrangement during time-outs than squeezing in to pow-wow over the manic scribbles of a coach’s ink-board.

Of perfecting, over countless 3rd quarters, the exact moment to tap a fellow benchwarmer who happened to be looking the wrong direction to falsely alert him his time in the limelight had come (his last name was Earnest, ironically enough), only to yank him back just as he got to the assistant coach and prevent any further humiliation…why we stopped him, to this day, I don’t know.

And I’m talking about that unique feeling of elation to be out there, on the court, the game already long since ended, going through the motions with my fellow 3rd stringers. Did anyone bother to cheer for us? As a matter of fact, yes. Though not cheers of victory so much as the cheers a rodeo clown or bearded lady might receive. Ah yes, that amazing feeling of ‘trying not to look stupid.’ If that ain’t the top of the mountain…?

And of practicing amid shouts of “Hoopty Roll-ahh” – the rallying cry invented by us benchwarmers used whenever we lit it up during scrimmage…

Now those days are gone. All those benchwarmers of my youth have grown up. But I can still spot them. The internet blogger; the guy at the local bar; the random dude sitting in your buddy’s living room; your buddy. That unique, well-timed, je ne sais quoi insight. An insight that comes from being on both sides of the equation: off the game floor but in the locker room.

Some of us benchwarmers have gone a step further and have even given up “being cool” for the sake of adamantly (and astutely) cheering on a team, willing to follow them to hell and back. In their defense I say, ‘What’s so great about being cool anyway?’ Life’s too short to not inject a little emotion (e.g. in the form of a loud, passive-aggressive argument with a stranger) every now and then. We threw our hats in the ring long ago, and they got thrown back at us. I say, ‘Let the sparks fly.’

Who made being cool, cool in the first place?…Starters, that’s who. You see, when you get your name called during starting line-ups, your soul dies. Look at Larry Bird – did you ever see him rant on the Pacer side-lines? Lanny Wilkins? I rest my case.

Sports need us “Riding the Pine”-ers, the true interpreters of the games. We’re humbled expertise and focused emotion put together. We may not be the ball, but we’re the pump that puts the air in the ball. We’re the snaps in the 80’s ripaway warm-up pants.

Hoopty Rolla benchwarmers…keep on keeping on.

The Ducks find themselves at the bottom of the Pac-10 standings looking up at Oregon State, a team that set a record last season by losing all 18 of its Pac-10 games. A feat the Ducks don’t want to match. Michelle Obama’s other brother is not walking through that door.

What’s the problem? Leadership. The Ewoks have it and the Ducks don’t.

If you’re going to attack a 50 foot tall tank with giant lasers and thick armor you need a guy drawing up plays that you can believe in. Ewok chief Chirpa breaks it down like this, “Wrowrack? sreptich brealjak brmj Wrowrack. Fewgral nomlack nrtecth.” Which translates to something close to “Playoffs? Don’t talk to me about the fucking playoffs. Those muthafucking things are huge and terrifying. They have shells and breath fire. All I’ve got is a sharp stick. I told those guys to tie a log to a rope, but it’ll never work.” At the end of the day Chirpa is still a better leader, with better ideas on how to beat a matchup zone, than Ernie Kent.

Although “Head Coach” Ernie Kent doesn’t seem too worried, “I thought we would have more (victories) underneath our belt,” said Kent, in his 12th season. “But at the same time, teams are gonna come at their own pace. My job is to make sure they come…” Spoken like a man truly unconcerned about a $900 contract buyout at a school who spends $200 million on arenas like Stanford accepts ugly girls.

John McEnroe: “Nine-tenths of the girls in California are good-looking. The other 10th go to Stanford.”

Zinger.

“I don’t see any reason why he wouldn’t be (back),” athletic director Pat Kilkenny said Wednesday while sitting at his Gourmet Club, an exclusive organization that hosts endangered-species feasts. The privilege of eating the last of a species goes for a mere $1 million per plate.*

Sure, its a young team. Six scholarship freshmen are on the roster, Dunigan and guard Garrett Sim (9.2 ppg) have been regulars in the starting lineup. Guard Matthew Humphrey (3.6 ppg) has started four games and forward Josh Crittle (2.4 ppg 2.9 rpg) has been Dunigan’s backup at the post. Also, forward Drew Wiley and guard Teondre Williams have seen limited playing time while a crack team of grad students in the UO Department of Etymology researches what “Teondre” means.

We can talk all day about the problems with this team. The important question is; how to fix it.

Our answer; tie a rope across the court in Maples Pavillion. When the Stanford team trips on it and falls to the court, we need to hit those guys with everything we have. Rocks, sticks, logs, Wookies. Everything. Its the only way to hold them off long enough to get the shield down.

Or, we can lobby the NCAA to restrict membership to 26 schools and only allow short, clean-cut white guys to play. It worked for the 1939 National Champions Oregon Tall Firs.

* (Ed. Note:  Freshman Reference.)