All I Know She Sang A Little While And Then Flew On

Last week, We had our buddy, Phil doing a little painting and he showed up with a 24 year old kid as a helper. Tall skinny dude. Turns out he plays a little golf so of course, we get to talking and set up a game for later in the day.

Well, the kid, Ricki Borell, just happens to be New Zealand's number one amateur with a handicap of -4. That means he usually shoots 68.

We played that afternoon and he was hitting the ball 300 yards straight down the middle, making 20 ft. putts for birdies and shot a dismal 72 to my 90. We arranged to play the following day and were joined by another guy from London, who calls himself Birdie Ben. Naturally, I call him Bogey Ben.

Ben and I were to get lots of strokes and we played the kid, 2 against one.

Here in NZ, it is Spring. Persephone has left her dark domain of Hades and returned to the Earth to adorn the flowers with the myriad colors in her paintbox. All over the country, little lambs are prancing and bleating after the ewes and ducklings are swimming close by their moms in lily padded ponds. Mornings, in the trees, we hear the chirping of hungry baby birds demanding a meal before flight lessons.

As we were walking down the fairway on the 9th hole, Ricki noticed a tiny bird that had apparently fallen from the nest and was struggling along the ground, mouth wide open, seeking nourishment.

We figured that Mother Nature had dealt the little guy a bad hand and he would not make it for more than a few hours.

Some would have walked on. Some would have placed it in the bushes and wished it luck. Some may have pounded the life out of the bird with their Taylor Made R7 driver to hasten the eventual certainty of death.

Ricki decided he wanted to take it home and give it a chance at life. A bird in the hand is worth....

Ben and I figured it would die either way, but all the same, I donated my possum hat to serve as a faux nest and we tucked the little guy into my golf bag.

Within 10 minutes, we discovered it was gone, must have jumped out. Riki ran back and actually found it. We figured it was hungry or thirsty and wondered how to feed it.

The bird seemed to say, "This is my neighborhood. You and your friends should show me some respect. You should let me wet my beak a little."

Ricki then sipped on his water bottle and transferred the liquid into the chick's gullet. Ben donated a small bit of his muesli bar, but then we decided it might choke the little guy and had to use a stick to get it out.

Ricki played the rest of the round carrying my hat between swings. He made 3 birdies before he was done. But Ben and I still managed to emerge with a victory.

After the game, we went into the clubhouse for a snack. My hat, filled with bird and poop was on the table. The club pro said hello to Ricki and slammed a tournament registration form inadvertently on the hat nearly crushing our little pal.

That was not funny.

In the car, after more nourishment, the bird was flapping it's wings and practically singing show tunes. We were congratulating ourselves for saving a life.

I dropped Ricki off at his house and he returned my hat, which had an amazing amount of bird shit within.

When I called the next day for a report, I was told the bird died.

Sleep in the stars. Don't you cry. Dry your eyes on the wind.