I’ll Take Bear and Wheel the Field
“I think I’m starting to get the hang of this.” What first attracted me to the golf life were the nicknames. Pottsn-Pans, Stiff-arm, Pete the Fireman, Chollie Binoculars, Jimmy Cigars, Fatman, Stetson, Plucker, Sparrow, Wa-wa, Jack Scats, Moon Man, Trader Joe— they came spilling out of the clubhouse every morning ready for action with faces and body types like Danny DeVito and Joe Pesci. “Clubhouse” is probably overstating the shell of a concrete building at our municipal course that more resembled a London target after the Blitz. We played gin rummy upstairs, pitched quarters on the porch, threw the ball for dollars on the putting green, and negotiated nine-hole matches on the first tee. “I’ll take Bear and wheel the field,” I’d announce amid catcalls and insults. After 18 we went round…