First off, I talk about climbing too much, to the point that it strains relationships, alienates my family, and annoys readers who grow weary of the lingo bombs. One thing I've tried to avoid for patrickpharo.blogspot.com is ending up with a blog exclusively devoted to climbing. More than likely, I've failed. For this reason, I'm psyched when people send in suggestions for topics. I need some kind of push in a new direction. Otherwise, I end up rehashing tales of gravity defying crimps, high steps, and hunchbackedness.
So without further ado, I present my thoughts on Henry Swayne's chart toppers.
Francophobes call it Rochambeau. Homeless men ask, when invited into a friendly game, "what about crack rock?" Uber-nerds have come up with an entirely-too-complex mutation involving the standard rock, paper, and scissors, but also including a lizard, spock fingers, water, and the once in a lifetime use of fire. Once in a lifetime? I prefer the standard game play that allows for unlimited rocks, papers, or scissors thrown. Although...the next time I battle a random hobo when walking down 42nd Street, I'm tossing Spock just for fun.
I'm going to toss my outstretched hand firmly into the Pro-RPS camp. It's one of those perfect games. Zero set up required (although someone will inevitably "shoot" too early. For Christ's sake, it's one, two, three, SHOOT!). It isn't some Monopoly marathon that goes on well into the night, long after you've had it with your sister extorting your last nickle from his hotel on Marvin Gardens, gleefully taunting you until you have a nervous meltdown and chase her into the kitchen with balled fists, ironically called "rocks". RPS is, at most, a best of five scenario that can be shelved before things get tedious. Strangers know what's up, even men with nappy beards and 14 teeth. It's international, or at least beloved amongst the Parisians. Only mancala comes close to RPS' appeal.
Ricky Schrichabok taught me how to play mancala when we were sitting on the back porch of his family's house. Ricky grew up just down the street from me in Wheat Ridge, but as opposed to my very suburban American upbringing, Ricky shared a modest split level ranch with an uncle, aunt, a multitude of cousins, a grandmother, and the stifling smell of boiling octopus. The whole Schrichabok family made their way from Laos sometime in the early 80's, landing in Colorado. Even as a 10 year old, I'd tower over his entire family while Ricky and I would play video games or soccer at his house.
When we'd get tired of NBA '91 on the Nintendo, Ricky would always have a new distraction. Sometimes, we'd read the Laotian comics that meant nothing to me, but would send him into convuslions of laughter. I never knew talking ducks and green lobsters could be so funny. Other times, we'd head upstairs to the kitchen, and his doting grandmother would feed us snacks. I tried to be polite, but would always leave feeling like I'd just been fed a tire bathed in napalm. One of the other diversions Ricky came up with was a game he'd learned as a little kid in Asia. We'd draw the board on the cement with chalk, and move piles of rocks around in accordance with a very few set of rules. Voila, mancala.
When we were in Grandma Schrichabok's kitchen, we never, ever ate bacon and avocado. That, my friendly voeyuers, is an international tragedy. I think that if Laos was the land of animal and plant fat, the Ricky's family would have stayed put. Instead, they never developed a taste for it. Growing up in America, I was actually fed bacon as an infant at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of hydrogenated oil, high fructose corn syrup, and McDonalds. Growing up in the American West, I was actually fed avocado in the form of guacamole by the Hispanic nurses at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of tacos al carbon, huevos rancheros, and enchiladas patzcuaros at the insanely good eateries around Denver and Boulder. All I can say is, dig in!
Eat until you're crushed, and then come back for one more piece of cremated pork or tostada covered in green paste that tastes like gold. Because, if photos of John Daly are to be trusted, you don't have to be particularly fit to be a good hack.
Here appears a man who has won two of the four most prestigious tournaments in the world, The British Open and PGA Championship. But you know what he hasn't won? The Masters, and it's on next week. This tournament is always in April, always at Augusta, and always signals that Spring has sprung. If I'm on the course comparing myself to Tiger, it will also remind me that my swing has been stung by lack of practice and a dearth of natural talent, but I've always got my Mantoloking Open Open trophy to fall back on. It's no green jacket, butI did get to drink Dunkin Donut coffee on the 9th and final hole. Gotta start somewhere.
While we're here, I really should take the chance to tell you my one and only personal, albeit second hand, John Daly story. As always, anything ridiculous in my life involves my buddy Hans. He's my only friend who has starred in a movie, lived the 17 year old boy's dream by sleeping with a 30 year old on a Mexican beach, and given a strange child "the heeby jeebies." The only sad thing is that these were three separate incidents.
Hans was a wild man in high school. I credit this largely to the fact that his parents, upon Hans' graduation from WRHS, up and retired in Chang Mai, Thailand. They basically left him a house and assumed he was responsible enough to care for it. If a measure of success is not burning it to the the ground, then it is, in fact, possible to judge him so. If, on the other hand, a man is judged a failure when they get blind drunk and, while trying to sneak into the community pool that's been closed for the night, fall onto a wrought iron fence and leave a gaping slice in their calf, Hans catastrophically lost that battle.
Sadly, his health insurance had yet to kick in, so Hans needed a way to pay for the 24 staples that went into his leg during his field trip to the ER. He and I worked at a local country club as caddies, and we set the summer alight carrying bags for wealthy men, none of whom would ever win the Mantoloking Open Open. I swallowed my pride and allowed them to plod around their local course, unknowingly in the presence of golfing greatness.
Colorado used to host a PGA tournament called The International, and aside from the modified Stableford scoring system that turned the game nearly on its head, the most exciting aspect for us was the Pro-Am. Hans and I would, as local caddies, be invited to carry for some of the local businessmen who'd paid a king's ransom to, again, walk in the presence of golfing royalty. This time, though, they at least recognized the majesty, as the PGA professionals, the very men who would compete for the hundreds of thousands of dollars in prize money, would play as a member of the group.
Hans and I drove down to the course and waited for our group assignments. As you'd expect, I was so lucky as to have drawn a group that would play with Brandt Snedeker. I know, baller, right!!! Oh wait, you've never heard of him. I hadn't either. Hans, however was chosen to carry in the group that would feature two time major winner John Daly. Some guys have all the luck! I would include Daly in that group of lucky ones, except at the time, he was coming off a divorce and a stint in rehab for some serious alcoholism. Hey, he didn win at St. Andrews, though.
During the round, Hans managed two great feats. He's an overly gregarious sort, and while he was headed to one of the refreshment tents dotting the course, managed to ask John if he'd like a beer. Fresh from Betty Ford, John's will was still strong, and he managed to shake off the offer. But funnier and more awkward still, Hans was later bent down on a green, reading a putt for his golfer, when Daly walked behind our favorite caddie and asked "what the hell happened to you leg?" Hans, teeming with embarrassment from his last drinking faux pas, didn't want to divulge the truth. Instead, he replied that he'd, "Ummm....got it in a knife fight with a midget."
"You're a weird fucking kid, Hans."
Daly might have been an alcoholic accused of beating his wife, but he nailed that call on the 15th green.
So that, my friends, is my reaction to Hank's list of things he's excited about, either for the moment or for all time. I beg you, what are your favorite things? Shoot me an email at patrick.pharo@gmail.com, leave a comment, or write me a letter. I don't care how you do it, just give me something to write about that isn't rock climbing. Left to my own devices, I'd bore you to tears.
