The Perfect Father's Day
8:00 AM-I wake up to the sound of birds chirping and the smell of breakfast. The sun is shining for the first time in months. It rained last night, but just enough so that I don’t have to water the lawn. I look out the window and find that I actually have a lawn, not a crabgrass farm. And the lawn has somehow mowed itself.
As I head for the kitchen, I realize that for once I’m not hungover. My well-dressed, perfectly mannered kids are quietly sitting at the kitchen table; the TV is not tuned to “Jimmy Neutron” at maximum volume. My lovely wife has breakfast ready for me. She’s dressed like Kate Beckinsale in “Underworld”…no, too kinky…um, she’s wearing the white leather dress Monica Bellucci wore in “Matrix Reloaded“…no, something more wholesome…let’s go for Natalie Wood in “West Side Story.” That’ll do.
My adorable spouse greets me with a good morning kiss, pours me coffee and hands me breakfast: bacon strips sandwiched between two sausage patties. With cheese. As I sit down to eat, the kids hug me and with a cheerful “Good morning, Father dear” and hand me two Father’s Day cards. I see they made the cards themselves, so already I’ve gypped the Hallmark corporation out of about eight bucks.
I turn on NESN’s SportsDesk to find that Hazel Mae has been permanently replaced by Lisa Guerrero. Lisa’s top story is that the Red Sox won again last night and increased their lead over the second place Baltimore Orioles to seven games. The second story is about ex-Yankee manager Joe Torre, who resigned in disgrace yesterday when his team fell into fourth place.
8:30 AM-My Beloved surprises me with my Father’s Day present: A prime tee time at Old Barnstable Fairgrounds on the Cape. Moments later a car horn honks in the driveway. It’s the rest of my foursome with their clubs in the back of the car, ready to roll. On the way out the door, I see the Sunday Globe on the front steps. The headline reads “Bin Laden Surrenders With Tearful Apology”
9:00 AM-Traffic to the Cape is backed up a half a mile. While were stuck in it, some jerk-off passes us in the breakdown lane. As we come around the bend to the Sagamore rotary, we see a Statie writing the guy a ticket.
9:30 AM-We arrive at the course. The weather is Chamber of Commerce conditions, with a stiff wind at our backs on the first tee. My second shot is right at the pin, but flies to the back of the green because I’m killing the ball today. I start clubbing down because I’m really hitting it like the big boys.
11:15 AM-At the turn, I’m 3-under par. The beer cart girl hits on me. She looks like Kate from “Lost,” but I turn her down. “Sorry to disappoint you, honey” I say, but she’s disappointed. As we play on, the wind is at our backs no matter which direction we’re heading. I’m hitting every fairway. Every approach shot is flying at the pin like I’m throwing lawn darts. On every putt, the hole looks as big as a sewer hole.
1:45 PM-I finish with a 5-under par 67. As the gallery that formed around me on the back nine applauds, I tip my cap and head to the bar.
1:50 PM-The final round of the US Open is on. The leader board is filled with only the interesting, colorful golfers. Tiger, of course. Phil. Ernie. Maybe Padraig Harrington and a few of the other guys from the UK who chain smoke and drink too much. All the slow, boring, bloodless guys like Vijay or Retief Goosen are long since gone.
2:00 PM-We take our beers out to the deck so we can have cigars. Good ones. Then we break out the cards; dealer’s choice. I mostly go for Five Card Draw, but there’s a few games of Seven Card, Cross with the Kitty, Guts, and Texas Hold ‘Em. No matter what we play, I can’t lose. I’m drawing to inside straights and hitting. If I’ve got trips, everyone stays in with two of a kind. Every time I’ve got a great hand, the pot is huge. Every time I don’t have much, everyone folds.
2:45 PM-The TV shows the highlight of Roger Clemens getting pulled in the first inning for the second straight start. I make out the words “Disabled List.”
5:30 PM-Someone briefly suggests we go to Zachary’s, the only strip club on the Cape (otherwise known as “The Mashpee Center for the Performing Arts”) but we all decide to take a pass. It’s Father’s Day after all; we should leave that trip for some other warped fantasy.
6:00 PM-During the golf coverage, a scroll across the bottom of the screen reads “Major League Baseball releases results of drug tests: Barry Bonds positive for steroids. Jason Giambi for Human Growth Hormone. Albert Pujols proves to be a cyborg.”
6:05 PM-Someone interesting wins the Open in dramatic fashion. We decide it would be best to head back to our loved ones.
6:10 PM-We pass a gas station where they’re changing the sign to “$1.95 per gallon.” On the car stereo we catch a news story about how satirical bi-weekly free sports papers with hot models on the cover can improve your sex life and help you live longer. Then we find a commercial-free Springsteen marathon.
7:05 PM-Back home. My neighbors house and their obnoxious poodles have been replaced by a corn field. Out of the corn steps my dad. I tell him I’m sorry for the rotten thing I said to him when I was 9 years-old. He says it’s long since been forgiven and asks me if I want to have a catch. I say yes.
8:05 PM-Red Sox vs. Atlanta Braves is on. MLB declares the interleague play thing is officially boring and will end this season. Braves fans try to start the Tomahawk Chop/War Cry, but instead all 55,000 in unison say “Who’re we kidding?! This chant was played out ten years ago, and we stole it from Florida State!!!” They promise en masse never to do it again.
8:30 PM-Their homework all done, my perfect angels go off to bed without an argument, and gently read themselves into blissful slumber.
8:31 PM-The doorbell rings. It’s Jessica Alba. My beautiful wife greets her warmly. [This part edited out by the author.]
11:45 PM-As Jessica leaves, she turns, bites her lower lip and thanks us for a night she’ll never forget. My Sweet Irish Rose tells Alba she’s welcome back any time, kisses me goodnight and heads off to bed.
11:59 PM-Check the TV to find that the Red Sox won big on a Curt Schilling no-hitter. I missed it, but I have it DVR‘d. So I decide I’ll bang in sick to work tomorrow and watch it in the morning