I think this is reason to ask: Is orange the new black or was it, and 50 the new 40 (nodding at you, boss), is September, for those of us who live in golfdom, the new July? The survey says yes, or this reporter, anyway.
On Labor Day, at 5 pm, my wife and I were on an ocean beach in my native Long Island. The savages of the season gathered ‘around the stand, 15 or more, necklaces of beads ‘around the neck, Mardi Gras style. They blew their whistles collectively, a musical chorus and a distinct note I had never heard before, and made a group of madmen in the gentle, warm surf on the modest high-tide waves. The rest of us on the beach took a break from our books, castles, refreshments and recreations, stood and applauded in gratitude for these tanned and essential seasonal workers, certified by the Red Cross and ready to do what AI cannot: pull a child out of a riptide. They called it a day, a weekend – and a season.
An hour or so like two later, I took hot water from the sun in an outdoor shower on a deck near the lifeguard station, in the dunes, with a view of the ocean and the beach parking lot. The guards were gathered on the same deck, beers in hand, dusk and their school years to come. And that’s where I put my foot down. Had to do it, folks.
No. Good vibes and intentions and all the rest, and with respect: This particular summer, this hot summer of the 26th, cannot end with a semi-arbitrary group whistle.
The summer was too hot, at least here on the Amtrak Northeast. So hot that it killed a rite of summer, Joy o’ Golf. I have never played fewer rounds than 18 holes in one summer in my life. But eventually I realized something: September counts, everything. Now’s a good time to break out Lou Reed’s “September Song,” if you’re so inclined.
These golden days, I would like to spend with you.
The New Yorkerweekly mag with a 24-7 website, had a series this summer called Summer songs. Good times and tunes. Some ads in the series and I guess, by implication, also YouTube: “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk, “Something to Love” by Jason Isbell, “I Gotta Feeling” by Black Eyed Peas. From the last of these:
Fill my cup!
Mazel tov!
The Beach Boys’ anthem, “All Summer Long,” which played over the end credits of “American Graffiti,” did not make the New Yorker list Not even Sheryl Crow’s hits, also located near the Pacific Coast Highway, “All I Wanna Do.” Well, you can’t have it all. No list can have everything. They all hit it it’s a catchphrase, at least ’round these parts (Philadelphia), but not a literal truth. A third will come out eventually. Who would want it all, and how boring would life be if you had it? The goal here is more modest. We’re looking for an extra month of summer, really. That’s not asking too much, is it?
I don’t mean September 21 or what the “Farmers’ Almanac” can tell you when we officially close the door this summer on the 26th. I mean just squeezing a few more weeks here before the rule of the leaf moves, the frost delays hot on its feet. I realize that this little tribute to an extended season is a little easier once the kids are out of the house (but still on your cell phone plan, because it’s forevaas best I can tell). When your kids are in school, your seasons are their seasons.
I’m going to share with you when this ode to an extended summer began for me. It was indeed the day at first the savages of Sagg Main whistle their season group. The Walker Cup – dateline Lahinch, Ireland – was on TV. On the second day, the Sunday of this two-day title fight, was spectacular. Then come the ladies, also in Europe but a sea or two away, playing a can’t breathe the Solheim Cup. Now, on the bridge here, comes the third success in this list of September convocations, the Cup of Presidents at the old Medina (with a new look), on the outskirts of Chicago. (If you need a hotel room, don’t stay in the city center. It’s too far. If you need a restaurant recommendation and you can find your way to Jean Van de Velde, ask him. The French learned more about Chicago restaurants in a long week than most visitors to Chicago learn in a dozen trips. Jean’s teaching in Mexico, without shoes and beards, Chicago. Like Fred (Couple) he once said, “If Chicago had the weather, it would be scary.” Like, it is what you do good. La Jolla Beach, California, well. In any case, this Presidents’ Cup is likely to be reduced to a Sunday afternoon match because that’s how these things stand in this extended summer of 26.
I’m out. The afternoon is approaching, with a plan for a flurry of more games before closing the summer on the 26th. ours planning. Course conditions now? You probably know the answer. Mint. Menta! Smooth greens, very green grass, cut the game dirty and faster (less practice swings, play as it is on the green, more while we are young as a philosophy of golf and life). The best conditions of the year, here in the Northeast, anyway.
Meanwhile, two songs of the summer are not on the list, and probably too on the nose for it.
First, the Beach Boys, as noted earlier:
Miniature golf and Hondas in the mountains.
When we rode that horse, we had some emotions.
Every once in a while, we hear our song.
We had fun all summer.
Second, Mrs. Crow, from the top and long ago, but, like a summer song, one with legs that will last foreva: :
Hit it.
This is not a nightclub.
It’s not even a country club.
This is LA
