“Four!”

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ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

The 2nd Hole Was Murder!!

Long par 4
Dog leg left
Lush green fairway
Long steep hill
Mountain capped by an area for putting.

The little boy was only ten
Nickname: Metty
Tiger of a tyke
Sixty-five pounds
Soaking wet
A four-foot runt.

Dad’s golf bag weighed thirty-one pounds
Stood three feet tall.

Lugging the golf bag up the 2nd hole
Murder by iron and leather.

Barely lift it
Sling it forward
Dump it down

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Dad said the bag built character
The small whippersnapper swore quietly
Older brother Chip had taught him the words
The older brother had schlepped the bag up the 2nd hole too
Now the torch was passed.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

All day
6,262 yards
The little nipper humped Dad’s golf bag around the golf course
Week after week
Month after month
For two years.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Sweat dripped into eyes
Muscles roared with pain.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Soon, Dad’s male golf tradition was passed
Younger brother Bart
Another runt.

Bart renamed the 2nd hole
“The Bastard”.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Meanwhile, the shaveling Metty took up other sports
He retired
Other sports are part of his life
Remembers times with Dad
He now plays golf
Character was built.

I saw this old, heavy, sagging leather golf bag in Buenos Aires. It tweaked memories of the great times I had on the 2nd hole, at the Owasco Country Club in Auburn, New York, as I caddied for my Dad.

“Mallet Memories”

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ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

Polo match sounds, sights and smells grip my senses.

The huge vista of the polo field unfolds before my eyes. Green turf closely mowed.

Bright white wooden tables, chairs and tents stream along the sidelines.

Beautiful rich women abound. Floppy brimmed hats everywhere.

A young brunette, kicks off her black spikes. Sits. She crosses her long smooth tanned legs under a tight silky black skirt that rises well above mid thigh. The whift of intoxicating perfume wafts in the air.

Hustling tall trim men wearing creased cream slacks and snug blue blazers hug around. Right arms bent holding glass stems.

Pop! Pop! Corks fly. Champagne bubbles.

Smiling. Chatting. Hugging. Kissing.

Powerful polo ponies thunder high-speed down the polo field. Hooves flying. Dirt divots hang in mid air.

Aggressive and skillful testosterone laden macho men grip the animal’s reins.

Colorful hard wooden mallets wildly swing against the royal blue sky. Thwack!

Fast passes rip a white ball down the field. Smack! Winning goal. Chukker ends.

Pumped egos dismount from sweat stained saddles.

Nothing like the Sport of Kings in Buenos Aires.