Myrtle Beach Manifesto

Myrtle Beach Manifesto

Bojangles boxes piled up in scattershot formation everywhere. Last night four carnivores slouched at the rectangular white dinner table and chewed through mounds of chicken breasts, mashed potatoes and gravy, and dirty rice. They left the bones on the table unattended and bare to the world.

Whit had just woken up from his three-hour siesta interrupted a few times for him and head to place online bets on the March Madness games.

Indifferent to who won, they only cared about the teams they bet on beating the spread. A new way of looking at sports, through the lens of financial gains or losses and risk management.

While all this happened Wolfford took us through the tales of all the girls who were infatuated with him in high school. Have to admit, it was an impressive list.

“Why did they all have a thing for you, Wolfford?” Sportface asked, genuinely curious to hear the answer but more interested in how Wolfford would field the question.

“They dug me, Sportface, because I was ruggedly handsome, a nice guy, and they thought they could trust me,” said Wolfford.

“Why did they trust you?” asked Sportface.

“I have no idea,” said Wolfford.

Then Wolfford Casanova went out on the balcony to have a smoke from 48 stories above sea level. Sportface’s probing Q and A made him want to clear his mind.

“Head, why do you think they all loved Wolfford?”

“That’s a great mystery,” said Head. “Hell if I know, Sportface.”

There was Sue, Ci Ci, Chris, Nancy..oh who cares? That was all 40 some years ago.

“Nancy was a good kisser,” Wolfford said from the balcony, knowing it would make us all even more jealous. Looking into the vast Atlantic Ocean, he seemed to be lost in thoughts of how his life would have turned out had he stayed with Nancy the kisser. His mind was roaming as deep as the ocean.

For Sportface, the unsettling reality sunk in Wolfford was a gigolo in high school. From Holy Cross to Visitation to Walter Johnson to Immaculata and beyond, the girls flocked to Wolfford like Sportface to fast food drive-thru.

“Did any of them see your high school stretch marks on your fat stomach?” asked Sportface. “Didn’t any one of them have any concern that you were the first high school dude to be so fat you got stretch marks?”

“No Chuck,” said Wolfford. “None of them minded at all.”

None of this seemed fair. A second-string JV running back, cut by the freshman hoops team by Steve Grant, still had all the girls chasing him. Some things can’t be explained with empirical data or airtight logic.

“What about you, Sportface?” Wolfford asked. “Who did you take the high school proms?”

“Senior year I took some girl named Ann who threw up in my car all night because she drank too much,” said Sportface. “That was special. I remember thinking to myself then that I would write a blog about that experience 40 years later, nearing old age, from a skyscraper in Myrtle Beach with bald-headed Whit, Head, and Wolfford regaling us of his high school glory days. Sure enough, that’s how it all played out.”

Of all that happened this weekend, it’s not any one incident that stands out. It’s one image: the bald done of Whit. No one has a cooler-looking bald head than Whit. It’s like a work of art that will one day be in the Natural Museum of History. It’s a classic bald head, one from yesteryear, like the one your dads and uncles sported around when you were a kid.

“Why don’t you write about my bald head?” suggested Whit. “Or maybe your golf swing. Man, I heard you weren’t very good at golf. But seriously, you were once an athlete and it’s unbelievable how bad you are at golf. It’s actually sad.”

At the 11th hole, a par 3, Sportface plopped his first tee shot in the water. Grabbing another ball thinking he would use his Mulligan to yank one over the drink onto the green, he got stopped.

“Put that ball back in your pocket,” said Whit. “You’re gonna take your next shop from the drop area. I need to manage our team score to win the golf gambling going on.”

On the back nine, Whit wearied like a soldier on his last mile walking away from the battlefield. He had been playing golf and enjoying pleasures of the flesh for 72 straight hours.

On 18 he shanked one into the trees on the right.

“Hope it doesn’t spit out,” he said. “I don’t want to take another swing. Too much golf, too much Sportface. I’m done.”

Sportface takes all this in at 5:11 on a Sunday morning, searching for what it all means. Is there a message this weekend we could share with the Sammy Sportface Baby Boomer Brotherhood?

The answer is yes. All these years later, with three guys Sportface has known since middle school, he realized that this was a weekend golf getaway with three of the most easy-going people you would ever want to spend a few days with.

They mess with you. You mess with them. It’s all easy. It’s non-stop laughs. Not like everyday life when everybody’s so serious and watching what they say.

We’ve known each other for over 40 years. That’s a long time. We know each others’ families, brothers and sisters, the neighborhoods they grew up in, the schools they went to, the careers they’ve had. In high school, we ran around to parties together and watched the girls flock to Wolfford.

We’ve got all sorts of rich context on each others’ lives.

There’s no hiding from each other. There’s no embarrassment.

There’s only this: mutual respect, admiration, and laughter.

Author Profile

Sammy Sportface
Sammy Sportface
Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:

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