I would end up working at the club until I was nearly 25 years old. I had started when I was 18 and by the time it came for me to wrap up my tenure, I was more than ready to leave. As I laid out in the last installment of the Chronicles, I was a bit of a mess, and a change of pace and scenery was desperately needed. My new boss, Spicoli, was an exceedingly nice guy. He was a good player and generally well-liked by the membership and by the golf staff. He and I would talk from time to time about the club and the year that he ended up leaving which wasn’t too long after he arrived, I genuinely felt lousy. It was another emotional gut punch from the club. We had some good new assistants, and we had some nice interns, but the transient nature of the business dictated that we essentially had a revolving door policy when it came to who was in charge. Irish was a good guy. He gave it to us straight and treated the bag staff like human beings. Red, or Greasy, was another decent guy. Although he owes me $50 from 2007, I still think he’s a good egg. I do not plan on seeing that money ever again. However, Greasy, if you’re reading this, drop me a message and I’ll be happy to send you my Venmo. The problem with having good new guys at the club was, and I knew from experience, that becoming friends with them meant that eventually that friendship would have to come to an end. Hayseed is the perfect example of this. When he eventually moved on to greener pastures, we hung out a few times after but what was once a two or three day a week hang out became an, “I’ll text you soon” sort of situation. Frankly, the job wasn’t as fun anymore. It wasn’t because of the change in assistants or the Bird or the interns. It was because I was getting older and with each passing day my stake in the game grew larger and larger. It was a hand I knew I was destined to lose if I didn’t get myself ship shape tout de suite.

Things at the club were getting somewhat edgy for me as well. I remember one season Hacksaw, a die-hard Red Sox fan, and I, a die-hard Yankee fan, had a bet to see which team would win the season series. The loser would owe the winner $100 bucks and would have to wear a pink hat and shirt combo bearing the opposite team’s logo. I won that year and poor Hacksaw had to don a pink Yankee hat and shirt. As a Boston fan, he died a little inside that day. However, he kept dodging me on the money. Not a big deal but I would bust his chops about it regularly. One day, while I was on the first tee well after demolition and construction had begun on the clubhouse, I got on one of the radios we used to talk to each other. Each department had its own frequency. I jumped on the grounds crew frequency and asked for my money. After a little back and forth with Hacksaw, the superintendent who we shall call Humorless Doofus, jumped on to remind me, not Hacksaw but only me, that this was a “business only” radio frequency. To which I instantly responded, “the guy owes me money, this is business.” Snarky, but not over the top. From there on out, HD treated me like I had egged his house after dropping his daughter off late each and every time he saw me. So, I let it be known that I thought he was a total chump. He made piles more money than I did, was a family man and was a higher up at a well-established country club. I had no business putting myself on his level let alone giving him a hard time on the radio. I was just some punk kid trying to get through the day. That being said, I respect a guy who does things face to face and with a firm handshake. Not a walky-talky big shot. For that reason, HD retains his “chump” status in my book. I was also running afoul of the Bird at this point. For whatever reason, he wasn’t a big fan of me. And frankly, I probably gave him plenty of reasons, but at the same time he was not without his flaws. He once had a party at his house for the pro-shop staff. Including the new shop girl. This sums up the second Bird’s way. Well-meaning but ultimately clueless. Maybe don’t invite a teenage shop girl to your home a couple years after the guy who previously had your job got canned for being too friendly with a teenage shop girl. It was touted as a “golf staff” party. My guys, namely the bagroom staff, and myself (afternoon starter) were left off of the invitation list. I told Irish that I thought that was a bush-league move. Were we not an integral part of the staff? He agreed but what was he supposed to do about it? We had a very gung-ho assistant pro that I will simply refer to as Fettucine Alfredo who basically told me that yes, we were indeed important, but not really the “golf staff.” Ok. I then went on to vociferously rail against the division between the two groups in the same department and that was the beginning of the Bird’s ire towards me. If we weren’t the golf staff, perhaps the Bird and his chickadees wouldn’t mind hauling bags, cleaning clubs and spraying carts from time to time. Some of them actually did in an attempt to help us out, but it was a rarity. The Bird once told Spicoli to fire me for the grave sin of wearing sunglasses to work. I worked outside, mind you. Spicoli basically told him to cool it and a tenuous peace existed between the two of us from there on out. It was clear to all that he didn’t like me, and I felt the same towards him. All of these little factors began to gnaw away at me more and more. Whereas before, I had wanted to leave because I felt it was time to leave, now I wanted to leave because other folks wanted me to leave.

Around this time, I began chatting with one of the members who was and is to this day, one of the most intelligent people I have ever known. He was in his late sixties I’m guessing, small in frame with a perfect, tightly trimmed moustache. He wore black glasses and a perpetual expression of seriousness. He also had a tremendously dry sense of humor and a thick Boston accent which made the funny things he said even funnier. He was also the psychology department chair at Fairfield University. When he would come up, he would head over to where I was to check in and we would shoot the breeze. I would make him laugh with inside anecdotes about the club and he would respond by telling me how full of shit he thought almost 90% of the membership was. He would also tell me how he would shoot down, as he called them, “arrogant bastards” in his classes. He was a scream and I truly hope he is still alive and well. For whatever reason, this gentleman took a shining to me and seeing him and his family, was always one of the highlights of my week. Fairfield University is a very well-respected institution of higher education. I don’t believe it falls under the umbrella title of “mini-ivy” but it is in a class of schools that is considered to be towards the upper end of the first tier. The idea of taking classes at Fairfield or even being accepted never crossed my mind. There was no way that Fairfield would even take a whiff of my application after I had done so poorly at its cross-town rival. One day, my father and I were talking about my future. The conversations about what may happen down the line kept getting more and more grim. It was clear to him and to all that knew me that a change was needed. I was starting to get the, “are you ever going to finish school?” questions from not only my family, but also my friends. All of them had graduated by this point and there I was, floating in educational limbo. During the course of the conversation with my father I mentioned how I had struck up a relationship with The Professor and mused that maybe I ought to ask him for his advice. I figured the advice would be community college, associate degree and then take it from there. To be clear, there is nothing wrong with community colleges or associate degrees. However, in order to facilitate the career that I had always wanted, I needed at least a bachelor’s degree. My Father thought about it for a moment and then suggested I ask The Professor if there was a way that I could perhaps take some classes at Fairfield. It seemed like a long shot but at that point I was really getting desperate. So, I mustered up the courage to ask The Professor about his school the next time I ran into him.

The Professor was somewhat aware of what had happened to me at my previous school. I never went so far as to give him the gory details, but I did mention how I had F’d up royally and how I deeply regretted it. He would usually sigh and tell me how it was a shame that I never finished school but that that was life. When he came up one weekend to play, I decided to make my move and ask for some advice. He was happy to give it. Mid-way through our conversation, I blurted out, “would you be willing to write me a letter of recommendation… to Fairfield?” Now, I knew this guy, but I didn’t know this guy, if that makes any sense. He could have easily said, “no, I am sorry I just don’t know you well enough and I don’t feel comfortable.” That would have been a perfectly reasonable response to my request. After a moment he looked at me and said, “be happy to.” I thanked him whole-heartedly and he went off to begin his round. I was thrilled at the prospect, but nothing was certain. When he finished his round, I thanked him again and he assured me that he would get the letter to me ASAP. I went home and told my parents how I had not only asked The Professor for his advice, but I had also asked for a recommendation letter and that he had said yes. They were happy for me, but frankly by then, they had been down the “this is going to be great!” road with me a number of times and all roads to that point seemed to lead back to square one. They were reserved with their excitement. I, for the first time in a while, felt actual confidence that something was finally going to go right for me. It also came with a sense of profound responsibility. If I was by some miracle going to go to school again, I could not do what I had done previously. I simply would not allow it. A few days later I was sitting on the first tee in my golf cart which acted as my desk while the demo and construction took place in the background. The Professor come up to play and stopped to check in as normal. He had an off-white envelope in his hand. We greeted each other and then he told me that he had my letter. He handed me the envelope. It was made of expensive stock and had Fairfield University emblazoned across the top left corner. As he handed it to me, he looked me square in the eye and said, in his thick Boston accent; “here it is. I just got you into school. Now don’t fuck it up or you’ll make me look like an asshole.” And he smiled.

I was enrolled in a single class that Fall. It was an autobiography class and without being too hyperbolic, I absolutely loved every single second of it. I believe I was enrolled in only one class at first as both Fairfield and my family, who was generous enough to pay for the class, looked at me with, “let’s just see how it goes first before we go full bore” sets of eyes. I crushed the class and finished with a 100 average. The following semester, I was fully enrolled. I was technically only a sophomore at the time, so I had a very long road ahead of me. I worked my keister off my entire time there. I was absolutely petrified of backsliding into my old habits and that fear kept me honest. I made Dean’s list. I made lasting relationships with my professors. I walked around with my head in the clouds on that campus. I bought school gear. I bought car stickers. Eventually, I bought a Fairfield University Alumni license plate holder when I graduated two years later.

For the rest of my time at the club, The Professor never paid for a single round of golf. It got to the point where he thanked me for the favor that I was doing him, but pointed out that his lack of paying for golf had put him on the club radar. As a full-member, he was expected to play a certain number of rounds per season in order to maintain his full privilege status. The club tracked rounds of golf by tracking green fees. So, I changed tacks and began to charge him for each round. Regardless of whether or not he brought family, guests, took carts or played 9 or 18 holes, I charged him for one pull-cart for 9 holes. $15 dollars. Seemed more than enough to me. The club has one more truly positive memory that sticks out in my mind. One of the young-mom aged members, let’s call her The Leopard, used to be very kind towards all of us. Her husband was a sweetheart, her kids were sweethearts, and she was a sweetheart. Just a very nice family. I hope they are all well. The first day of my first class at Fairfield I had a quick shift at the club. I was slated to leave early to go to school and I remember being on the fence about it. I know, I know, I know. I was a complete mess at the time, remember. I don’t know why I was allowing the old me to creep back in, but there he was in all his decrepit glory. The Leopard heard me talking to some of the guys about not wanting to go and she interjected with, “no, you have to go to school.” I spun around and saw her there, glaring at me. Her normally friendly face was stone-serious. She repeated, “you have to go to school, you can’t work here for the rest of your life.” She did not wait for me to respond, she simply turned and headed towards her waiting golf cart. She was right. I went to school.

The year I started at Fairfield; I ended my time at the club. In retrospect, considering the gift of charity which I received from The Professor, my club career was the most consequential and beneficial job of my young life. The club had nothing to do with my spiral into loserdom, but it quite literally had a lot to do with my pulling myself out of the hole. Had I not gotten that letter, it is hard to say what would have happened with my professional and personal life. Because of my time at Fairfield and my degree, I am doing the job that I have wanted to do since I was a teenager. Again, none of this could have come to pass without my attending Fairfield. Attending Fairfield would not have happened had I not known The Professor. I would have never met The Professor without my little job at the club. I said goodbye to what had been a big part of my life for years at that point. I said goodbye to some friends, and I bid adieu to the Bird who was probably more than happy to see me go. No goodbye party, no fare-thee-well from anyone. I simply let them know I wouldn’t be returning when they called me the next March to drum me back into service. That, as they say, was that.

I emailed The Professor to let him know that I would not be returning but that I would see him around campus. I also thanked him again. “No need for thanks, see you around the U” was the response I got. I never did see him again. I ran into the Bird once a few years later and it was a pleasant enough encounter. I wish him no ill-will and hope he and his family are fine. I lost contact with almost all the rest of the folks I worked with. Skinny ended up moving abroad and getting pinched for basically running a drug lab. He was nothing if not consistent. The Cardinal and I are still very close friends. Spicoli? No idea but if he is not doing well, then the world truly is a heartless place. Hayseed is fine. He and I talk very, very rarely and I wish that wasn’t the case but alas, it is. The Quiet Man ended up doing some very important work for the government and the last time I spoke to him was when he called asking if he could use me as a character reference. I said yes. When a security agency called me to run the check on him, I spoke in glowing terms. I left out the rampant drug use. We haven’t spoken in probably twelve years. C $ is doing well, I believe. He is a solid guy and I wish him nothing but the best. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Weasel was in prison in another country for something comically awful, but I have heard rumor that he is still in the northeast and still doing “his thing”. Which is actually sort of unsettling. The first Bird, well, no one has heard from him in a long time, and I think that’s probably a good thing. To the rest of the guys, and there are quite literally too many to name, I say; hope you’re well, boys.

A lot of other stories, memories and incidents have been popping into my mind since I started writing these Chronicles. Most of them, had I added them, would have done nothing to make the story more interesting or more fun to read. I guess I will just keep those for myself. I think one of the ultimate ironies, is that we are completely unaware of the magnitude of different moments and situations in our lives while we are living through them. The irony comes in when we realize that those were the times where we were the most emotionally, physically or spiritually desperate for meaning and incidental magnitude. I learned a lot of things at the club, and I forgot a lot as well. Now, looking back at it all, I am resolved to spend more time analyzing the importance of the moment. Frankly, the best life is a life filled with inconsequential moments. That simply isn’t the case for most of us. Hindsight always being 20-20, I remember more than anything, the misery and depression I felt in those days. Sure, I numbed them with alcohol but like any stinging wound, nothing ever completely takes away the pain. I think that is a good thing. Too numb equals complacency. I am glad that I was pissed off enough to not be happy at the time. Nothing would have changed without it. I hated the club then. I resented most of the people I worked with as they were all making moves when I was happy to be stuck in neutral. Now, 20 plus years later, I love every person I worked with. All of them. And I hope the club exists for a thousand years. Life is funny sometimes, ya know?