Press!

6/23/1995

I was in trouble early.  And I knew it.  I had journeyed to Nashville to play golf with my good friends Wynn Jackson and James Stroud.  I use the word “friends” advisedly.  When you’re deep in the heart of Dixie and playing golf for cash money, your friends are more apt to chop you up than your enemies.  Down here, everyone carries a razor.

Our other two playing companions were Dirt and Herky. Now the first rule of golf is:  “Never play for money against strangers with nicknames.”  I never gave it a thought.  I was in Nashville to have a good time.  Besides, I was with friends.

I drove the first ball of the morning right down the center of the fairway.  I was posing like TV Tommy when I heard Dirt say, “Damn, boy, that’s stouter than a bay mule.”

I reach for my wallet, but it was too late. If I hadn’t known it already…I’d been had.

I told Stroud I wanted to play for an ad in the Country Network and he said that was fine and, of course, we would press on the fly.

Press on the fly?  I had never heard this one, but I didn’t want to sound too ignorant so I agreed.  I figured I would find out what it meant soon enough.  I figured right.

I was feeling pretty good about the drive, but the second shot left a lot to be desired.  Short and left.  I had a bad case of the pull hooks and I know I’d have to hunker down or I would be on the way to the cash machine in a hurry.  As the ball spun toward a lake that my partner had “forgotten” to tell me about, Stroud said, “Press.”

“You can’t press on the first hole,” I protested as my ball headed for splash-down.

Stroud smiled, “Press on the fly.  Anytime your opponent’s ball is in the air, you can press.  It doubles the bet.”

I bogeyed the first two holes and the Nashville contingency was grinnin’ like mules eatin’ briars.  Herky got on his cellular phone and a couple of holes later, two more people had driven out to join us.  Evidently the news was traveling fast.  There was a “suspect” in from Hollywood with a pocketful of cash and a shaky game.

I was introduced to Booger and Juice.  Since Booger had the first finger of his left hand buried in his nose halfway to his cerebellum, I knew how he got his nickname.  Juice I wasn’t sure about.

“Gerry’s in all the usual games,” Stroud said.  “He especially likes to press on the fly.”

Booger and Juice couldn’t have been happier.

Around hole number seven, the sun finally broke through the humidity and it started to really heat up.  Dirt allowed how he was “sweatin’ like a hillbilly at a spellin’ bee.”

I pulled another one dead left off the tee.

“Press,” everybody said.

I was struggling and they were loving it.  And the truth was, so was I.  It was a beautiful day.  I was playing golf. I was in the South.  Hell, I was home.

Juice had stuck a wad of chewing tobacco the size of a softball into his left cheek a while back and I now knew where he got his nickname. Along with the chewing habit, Juice also had a rather large stomach.  When he spit his ruminations, most of it got on the front of his shirt.

Wonderful.

Juice explained his colorful golf shirts.  If you get a stain on your shirt, there is a guy who paints the shirt, incorporating the stain into the design.

The painter must do a helluva business in Nashville.

By the time we made it to the 10^th tee, I was down $1,200.  I figured I had these boys just where I wanted them.  A double-shot of Jack Daniels at the turn had solved the hook.  The boys fell all over themselves when I doubled the bet.

Fools.  They forgot I was born in Mississippi.

About four holes into the back side, they were quiet.  Herky was mumbling to Dirt, Juice and Booger were arguing about what club to hit and Stroud had cancelled his business with Wynn for inviting me.

I kept yelling, “Press!”

By the time we got to 18, it was dead even.  I teed it up and quacked it dead left in the tall weeds by the edge of a small creek.  Nobody even whispered the “P” word.  I’d been playing so well, they didn’t want to take a chance.

I waded into the weeds, searching for my ball.

“Watch out for them cottonmouths,” Booger grinned.  “They’ll sting you if they get a chance.”

I was ankle-deep in branch water, searching for the lost Titlist, when I saw the snake cutting through the water like a speedboat, mouth gaping, heading right for my ball.

Without thinking, I swung the 4-iron.  There was a mighty splash and the snake flew out of the creek, straight toward Stroud.  It was the only shot I didn’t hook all day.

“Press!” Booger hollered

Stroud stood rooted in his tracks, eyes as wide as the moccasin’s mouth.  The snake wrapped around his neck, then slid down inside the back of his shirt.

He did a quick two-step, spun into a stomp then fell into a sand trap and broke into a full Watusi.  He was on his back, legs and arms flailing, screaming for all he was worth.

“Help me, somebody help me,” he wailed.  “The snake bit me!  I’m gonna die…I’m gonna die!”

Dirt, who had witnessed the entire episode, ran over.  “Stop acting like a baby, Jimmy James,” he snapped.  “You ain’t gonna die.  I’ll just suck out the poison.  Where’d you get bit?”

“On my ass,” James cried.

Dirt shook his head.  “Boy, you’re gonna die.”  He walked slowly back to the cart.

Stroud didn’t die.  The snake was dead before it left my club.  When it slid down James’ back, he freaked out and jumped around so much, the money-clip in his back pocket slipped off the big wad of cash he was carrying around and pinched him on the butt.

When it was all said and done, no money changed hands.  There was a big argument about whether or not I should be assessed a stroke because I played the snake out of a hazard.  It was decided that I wouldn’t be penalized since Stroud wasn’t disqualified for hitting my ball.  That was when he beat the lifeless snake after it slid out of his pants.

The moral of this story?  If you ever go to Nashville to play golf with anyone in the “music bidness,” take a fishing pole.

There are a lot of barracudas down there.