Outgrowing my trousers, the sequel

There has been a major change in my life.

My previously stated trouser problem has now been laid almost completely to rest. I am the proud owner of about a half-dozen pairs of work pants of the proper size, and for my birthday, Carrie bought me three pairs of jeans. It’s not quite like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders, but more like a tight, uncomfortable feeling has been removed from around my waist.

The addition of my new pants to my wardrobe led to a major purging of most of the pairs of pants in my closet that I had been squeezing myself into. Sadly, even the Motion-flex pants didn’t make the cut. Even though they still fit reasonably well at the waistline, I came to see the error my ways in wearing cuffed pants that look unnervingly like highwaters. The other day, I wore the other pair of pants, also cuffed, that I bought at Marshal’s at the same time as the Motion-flex pants, and I felt a little bit too much like I should have been sporting them at the local rest home. The ultimate lesson that I have learned from this experience is that I am not allowed to buy pants that are on sale at Marshal’s, especially if they are cuffed and pleated, until I am 82.

So all is going pretty well on the trouser front, with one or two small exceptions. One of the pairs of jeans Carrie bought me were at my new waist size, but were some sort of classic-narrow style that fit just a bit too snug for a size I have only recently made my peace with. I told Carrie it will take a fair amount of therapy before I’m ready to jump up another size in the pants battle.

There also was some question on Easter as to whether or not there was some pant-waist rollover going on. I adamantly fought this charge, although I spent much of the holiday checking my belt line to make sure everything was going straight across.

But these are minor quibbles. For the most part, it’s nice to be able to breathe easy again.

Fore!

My high school athletic career was filled with many thrilling highlights. As dedicated readers of Endangered Coffee may remember, I even scored a touchdown during a football game. Of course, it was during a game where we were behind by 30 points, and my team only won one game all year, but still, a touchdown is a touchdown.

Of course, with the sporting highs (or high, at least) came many, many lows. I think my overall record at as a high school athlete was something like 16 wins and 84 losses. Yup, a .160 winning percentage leaves room for a lot of bad athletic performances, both for the teams and for me individually.

When it comes to picking the lowest of the low, however, there really isn’t much competition. Yes, somehow, I earned a varsity letter in golf my sophomore year. I am not too proud to admit that the only likely reason I lettered was because the coach was a good friend of my dad’s. Oh yeah, and the rest of the team was pretty bad, too.

Still, I can lay claim to being a varsity golfer even though there was an entire match where I didn’t even manage to hit the ball in the air. Granted, it was at a par 3 golf course, but still, every single tee shot for nine holes amounted to little more than really, really long putts. About the only advantage this playing style had was that it prevented me from lapsing into my normal game of losing lots of balls. During my “varsity” year of golf, any tee shot (or fairway shot, for that matter) that was anywhere near being true and straight was a cause for celebration.




Most of my teammates were fairly accepting of my erratic game, mostly because they were also in no danger of becoming the next Jack Nicklaus. The typical match against another school usually consisted of the two guys from the other team spending a lot of time standing in the middle of the fairway waiting to take their second shots while one Middleboro golfer headed into the woods and the other spent some quality time poking around the mud at the edge of a water hazard. I’m sure many of our opponents were convinced they were playing a school for “special” golfers.

But the single greatest (and by greatest, I really mean most idiotic) moment of my golfing, of, indeed, my entire athletic career, happened on the first tee of a home match against Duxbury. Now the Duxbury golfers, being from Duxbury and all, were probably teeing off at the country club since the time they were in diapers. First Duxbury golfer tees off, hits it about 200 yards fairly straight down the fairway. Next up, first Middleboro golfer, hits the ball and manages to keep it in play. Second Duxbury golfer, 225 yards, little to the left, but still a far better shot than I could ever hit with people watching. Then it’s my turn. Tee the ball up, whiff, no contact. That was far from the first time I’d ever done that, so I take it in stride.

Second swing. Contact!

The ball is in the air! at a total 90-degree line to the right, heading straight for assembled BMWs and Mercedes in the Poquoy Brook parking lot. Fortunately, the ball hits the ground and not one of the cars. Unfortunately, golf balls bounce and it nicks one of the Mercedes. I have at once hit one of the worst golf shots in the history of the sport and damaged an expensive foreign automobile. The Duxbury golfers find this very amusing.

Needless to stay, we lost the match.