Lee Geiger

Blue, 57…Blue, 57…OMAHA! OMAHA! 

Peyton Manning, Denver Broncos quarterback, calling an audible at the line of scrimmage.

A monthly calendar hangs on a wall in my home office. It’s titled “Scotland 2020,” and it features drool-inducing pictures from a dozen Scottish golf courses. It serves as my AARP adaptation of Playboy magazine. This month features a luscious photo of the 5^th green at Carnoustie Golf Club, along with a titillating caption underneath that proclaims, “The very mention of Carnoustie sets the pulse racing in the hearts of even the strongest because they know what lies in wait on this flat, uncompromising Angus links.”

E tu, Miss May?

Highlighted diagonally in blue capital letters on May 15 is one word—SCOTLAND!!! The three exclamation points says it all.

So does the horizontal black Sharpie now scrawled through it like a dagger in the heart.

I was supposed to depart for Edinburgh this afternoon. Five p.m., to be exact. An overnight, 15-hour red-eye excursion transporting this aging soul to eight nights and eight rounds of golf heaven. Joining me would be seven of the greatest band of golf brothers ever to concede a three-foot putt. As the self-designated commissioner, I had painstakingly organized this junket, cognizant of every microscopic detail, from where we’d stay, to where we’d play, to where we’d eat, to where we’d drink. I had every aspect of this golfing safari nailed down tighter than my pants on Thanksgiving. I even knew what whiskey we’d order on the last call of the last bar on the last night.

Our first stop was the fabled town of St. Andrews, considered by any hacker with a Titleist in his pocket to be golf’s version of Ground Zero. Home for the next four nights would be the Hotel du Vin, located an easy sand wedge from the first tee of The Old Course and a thirty-foot putt for birdie from the nearest pub.

For any golfer worth his scorecard, The Old Course is considered to be the Holy Grail, and having your picture taken atop the iconic Swilcan Bridge on the finishing hole is akin to scaling Mt. Everest. Despite the Old Course being described as uglier than Phyllis Diller, and less challenging than coloring inside the lines of Donald Trump’s presidential daily briefing, anyone who is serious about golf lives to make the pilgrimage to these eighteen holes of hallowed ground, known to golfers worldwide as Mecca. After forty years of playing this crazy game, I will have finally achieved total consciousness. (kudos to “Caddyshack”)

After playing the Castle Course, Carnoustie and Kingsbarns, and consuming enough fish ‘n chips to clog an artery the size of the Lincoln Tunnel, our shuttle bus would transport the Group of Eight to a tiny speck on the map called North Berwick, a quaint village whose sole purpose on Earth is to quench the thirst of vacationing golf hacks.

The stately Marine Hotel would be home for the next three nights, with rounds scheduled at North Berwick, Gullane, and that famous citadel of hard-core haughtiness, Muirfield, also known as the venerable home of “The Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers.” To say Muirfield is sort-of-stuffy is to say three-week-old popcorn is sort-of-stale. Guests are expected to be on their best behavior whilst they frolic and play, and after their swift and efficient round are to don a sportscoat, tie, and spit-polished shoes (minus the golf spikes) for lunch. I gave their website a thorough once over, and no where did I see a requirement for clean underwear or socks. Thank goodness for small favors.

Our last night was saved for a memorable, mother-of-all-pub-crawls through historic Edinburgh. My plan was too stay up all night and snooze the whole way back to the states. Did I say memorable? I must have misspoken.

Flip the script to 2020. Upon hearing in January about the initial outbreak in the U.S., a prophetic member of our crew said, “This brings Scotland into play.” I honestly thought he was nuts. No way we’re not going to Scotland, I thought. The likelihood of that would be akin to Hell freezing over. Or finding toilet paper.

When I called our tour operator in early March to inquire about our remaining balace, a lovely young lady with a soft Scottish accent assured me there was nothing to worry about, that only a few cases had been reported in London. Nothing to see or worry about here.

I called a week later to inquire further, and was told that despite my concerns, our deposits were due the following week as stated in the contract. Bully!

The next call was when the fun started. This time I spoke to the tour owner, who I could hear sweating over the phone. The contagion was indeed getting worse, he said, but all the hotels and courses were going full steam ahead and were expecting payments in full. With a desperate quiver in his voice, he granted us a two-week extension, but both of us knew what the ultimate outcome was going to be.

Common sense ultimately prevailed, and the trip in its entirety has been lifted from May 2020 to May 2021. Our initial deposits, made in 2019, are holding our places in line. Our airline, Aer Lingus, has promised us a credit voucher for the entire cost of our trip. I’m still waiting for it to land in my mailbox. God willing, both the airline and the tour operator will still be in business next year.

2020 won’t end soon enough.