I’m playing this online golf game and I sink an extremely difficult eighteen-foot putt over a huge break for a birdie. My opponent has about a seven-foot putt to tie me. The slope is almost impossible to navigate, so what happens?
The machine says, “player took a gimme.”
Kiss my ass.
When I play golf with my buddies, there is no such thing as a “gimme.”
I don’t give a damn if it’s a one foot putt with NO slope, your drunk ass is putting the ball.
I know.
I’ve seen missed one foot putts.
Speaking of breaks, I worked for the better part of the year 1979 in every pool hall in Las Vegas on learning to break eight and nine ball racks. I had some great teachers including one slick New Jersey guy who had been a world champion nine-ball player. His wife was also a world champion shooter.
And she was a babe.
How about broken bones?
Both legs. Both feet. At least half my toes and fingers. Both ankles. Left kneecap destroyed. Three ribs. Left clavicle. Both hands. Left wrist. Fractured skull.
Yep.
It’s hard to imagine what professional athletes go through physically.
Breaks were something others got when I was a chef. I literally had two speeds: balls out and off. Shutting it down at the end of a busy night/week was not as easy as it sounds; I was always working out new dishes, new treatments, and new plate presentations and combinations.
Oh, I might jump off the line for ten seconds and duck into the walk-in cooler, but that was pretty much it until the last plate went out of the kitchen. I made sure my staff always got breaks, because they had to withstand my direction and instruction for as long as they were in my kitchen.
Not an easy thing to do, I understand, but at the end of the night in the back of the house, I put on my chef coat, replete with my medals and ribbons, and walked out front to accept the applause and adulation of a most appreciative dining room. On occasion, much to the horror of the owner, I would parade my entire line staff AND the food expediter out to take a bow in front of the fancy clientele with their silver and crystal appointments.
Make no mistake about it; I never did.
Yes, it was my picture and name on the menu, and I was the one who got a TV show out of the gig, but without my dishwasher, there was no Chateau, no Sauce Bearnaise, there was squat.
In hindsight, I was pretty much of an asshole to work for, but if you could put up with me and my antics, I would, in return, impart a very valuable and marketable skill set which could be used for a lifetime.
After all this time, I still miss the rush of leading a team of hotshots into battle, armed with tongs and a sharp Henckels chef knife.
Stay well.
