McMaster – Part 2 – The Townhall
From time-to-time, we’ll be featuring friends, acquaintances, guests, who we’ve invited to share their thoughts on golf. Though we do not necessarily endorse their opinions, we do tolerate them.
Sup. D.P. McMaster, III checking in for Round 2. 6’4”, 230 lbs, swinging that extra, extra, extra stiff shaft. Ding, ding, ding.
We had our cute little townhall meeting out at the old C.C. recently. A chance for the club riff-raff to hear their golf boards’ proposal on some sweetass changes that need to be made around the course…
(Pretty much how it went. Some total dweeb throwing things and shouting at a badass)
As usual I showed up five minutes late. Long story short, I had somebody in the office trying to close a deal and the guy starts talking about his last trip to Vegas. He stayed at Planet Hollywood (???) and starts telling stories I knew were made up. I put my custom Gucci loafers on the desk and reminisced about The Streak at the Wynn. Still can’t believe they didn’t escort me out of there for counting cards, but next thing I know, bingo-bango-bongo, I’m up big, got my host confirming a $50k marker (technically it was in my Dad’s name, but so what) for my next trip, and a hot chick with fake bombs bringing me a box with the Gucci’s. Still not sure how they got my shoe size, but I didn’t turn them down.
Anyway…I hustle into the 19th hole and get one of the chongos to pour a few fingers of single barrel in my Olympic Club tumbler before heading to the ballroom for the townhall. Stroll in, take a seat behind my placard on the stage, and holy shit if there aren’t 300+ people in there. Mood was tense, too. My Dad, the President, is addressing the crowd and there wasn’t a peep from the peanut gallery.
Here’s the deal. Our greens are old. Yeah, they’re fantastic and everyone knows it, but they’ve been there for 20 years and the drought isn’t showing any signs of letting up. You’ve got to be savvy in situations like this. Think outside the box. Be creative, not reactionary. That’s business sense. If it means tearing up the best greens for 500 miles and starting over, so be it.
So Pops is sort of friends with a guy, who is business partners with a guy, who owns an architectural firm that works in conjunction with a golf designer from time-to-time. I won’t say who, don’t want to ruffle any feathers, but we’re assured the work is top notch.
The board takes three bids from these national firms. The other two I’d never heard of, but we decided to go with the quality outfit that we knew about. You want quality? Why would you ever take the lowest bid? Doesn’t make business sense. They want to close the course from October-August (give or take), replace all 18 greens, and make some small aesthetic changes to a couple holes. $5.3 million. Chump change. We just have to assess every member $8,000. No sweat, right?
(Keep this on the d.l. Here’s the best part. We just added 108 new members. Gave them a special and everything. Half initiation ($10,000) + half dues for 5 years. That was supposed to pay for this little project but Pops friends, friends guy “under-estimated” the cost of the work by like $2.5 million. The truth is, I hate these new members. 108’ers I call them. They need to sell separate shirts in the pro shop that have a patch with the number 108 on it, but I don’t think I’m getting far with that request. Not sure why. Not like we’re gonna gas them. Anyway, this is perfect. We saved them $10,000 up front, they join, then we nail them for $8,000 a couple months later, then close the course for a year. Those suckers will quit and it’s like we got $1.8M for nothing).
So Pops gets done with his spiel and hands the mic over to a proxy from the architectural firm. He does a little powerpoint and sits down. Then it got wild. 108’ers shouting about how devious the plan was. Old men complaining about losing their last year of good golf before they croak. It’s totally ludicrous. I tune out and start checking stock prices on my Blackberry when someone directs a question at me. Asks me what I have to say. Where I’m going to play while the course is closed. Big mistake.
I told him, “Listen here, Guy. I’m a member at five courses in this state. Close the C.C. for a year and I’ll pick one of the five out of a hat every weekend, fire up the jet, and never miss a beat.”
Kaboom, right? Don’t call me out, bro. I play with fire.
So this guy starts ranting about the by-laws, questioning the way the board is elected, and I’m all like, bro, have you even read the by-laws? Elections? What are you talking about? The board handpicks people to replace outgoing members. End of story.
Not gonna lie, I kind of lost my cool when that guy approached the stage and started pointing his finger at me. I asked what he was going to do about it, but that just made it worse. A couple of the board members held me back and escorted me off the stage and into the 19th hole. I grabbed a Louixs from the humidor and thank God it calmed my nerves. I would’ve beat that man, Dr. Something or Another, silly.
Sooooo, long story short, the peasants at our club have no business sense. No moxie. The proposal got voted down on a 3:1 ratio. I tried to unseal the voting record to make a blacklist but got denied. Oh well. Bears and bulls, you know what I mean. Sometimes the assholes ruin it for everyone. We’ll get the last laugh when the greens die out and these idiots are playing at the muni, getting stuck behind a five-some of retards in jean shorts and mock turtle necks. Or worse.
Next up: The Club Championship. Until then, seriously if you even carry a hybrid in your bag, I’m not going to play with you.