As 2013 A.D. ended as devastatingly as it began, I reviewed the year in my life thus far. I am in the process of accomplishing my goals: I will be graduating with my Doctorate in Podiatric Medicine in May 2014, the KeyPAP flourishes brightly as ever, and overall I am happy with my life and the direction that it is in. However, as I perused the annals of my individual 2013 history, I came to a part in my life that I was extremely dissatisfied, and, frankly, thoroughly disgusted with.
The paunch.
In its noun form, it means “a large and protruding belly; a potbelly.” Or also, in nautical terms, “a thick mat that prevents chafing.” I believe the first is more appropriate.
"This turtleneck is so good at being thick and the prevention of chafing. I get Bonair's every time I put it on!"
I let myself go. I became lazy, unenthused, and bored with exercising. In 2013, I viewed working out not as a goal to continually better myself, but as an obstacle that lay between my studying, eating, and facebooking. Luckily, two things changed my thoughts:
#1 – Consistent harassment from the Founding Fathers of the KeyPAP.
Harassment not in the sense of, “I’m going to file charges against you for harassing me and saying mean things and I am not MAN enough to handle it.” But the good kind. The kind that stirs in your loins, lights a fire from deep within, and looks to expel all of the terrible things inside of you in order to make yourself the best possible human. Dr. Funk, Smits, the First Ladies, and lastly, The One Known as Beebles (TOKaB, for short) all constantly harassed me, and rightly so. I was still muscular, but shapeless. I had a midsection of Play-Doh®. I felt as doughy as an uncooked stromboli. I needed the abuse, I thrived off the abuse, and I turned it from a negative to a positive.
#2 – Smits MANLY performance as the first ever KeyPAP 2013 Strongman Performance of the Year.
We all saw the videos, heard the grunts of pain and agony, but reveled in his strength and mastering of the perilous weights. He achieved victory as only a man of the KeyPAP can: through a skin-tight, nearly bulge-showing, wrestling singlet. Smits was a man of action, and I wanted it back.
I yearned for the sound of iron. I missed the feel of the cold, never wiped-down, probably loaded with tetanus and MRSA, steel on my hands. I pined as I would get ready to shower, seeing the abomination that I had become. “If I don’t think I look good, surely the opposite sex thinks I’m revolting,” thoughts ran through my head. I needed to change.
I began to eat healthier and less. I also began running to the gym from my Philadelphia house. And when at the gym, I worked out like the old days of college - like a MAN. No more of this, “I think I’m going to do 3x20 bench press of 135 lbs.” crap. I began to bulk back up, like only a meatball can.
I am still in the process of changing my lifestyle and body, but I am fully committed. 2014 will be the year that the paunch is defeated. Even as I sit here now, my muscles call out from within to be burned. As the great Arnold once eloquently stated:
I will leave you all with 2 inspirational quotes that I use daily, while in the process of Purging the Paunch™.
“Be strong and of a good courage. Act for the best, hope for the best, and take what comes . . . If death ends all, we cannot meet death better.” – James Fitzjames Stephen
"What should I do at the gym today?" I shamefully asked myself since I had no plan of attack for the day. It’s true, I have a workout routine over the last few months that is as shameful as it has been in at least 10 years. This unplanned schedule is a breeding ground for future paunch, self-loathing and unachieved goals. I realized this as I sat in my living room, fatly watching ESPN2 cover the three stories of the week. In that moment I felt a surge in my belly, not in my ample adipose tissue hanging over the taut elastic of my pajamas, but deep inside where a man’s spirit lies. I was compelled; I walked outside into the unusually warm December weather and looked out from my second story balcony to the highest point of my surroundings. The surge said to me, "Today you will climb." It was not up for debate, it was a command issued from the depths of my soul. The Trail
I set out toward my mountain along a trail that I was very familiar with, the sights and sounds of soccer moms and their puffball dogs were commonplace on this path. I had never ventured off of this trail before. It was well marked, it was level, it was safe.
When I arrived at the base of the mountain where I planned to begin my assault on the summit I discovered, much to my chagrin, that its base was completely surrounded by houses. To continue on my journey I would have to trespass, in broad daylight, in a community that lands on the extreme right of political issues. The risk was not a small one but it was one I was willing to take. I daringly broke trail and stepped into a yard boasting a truck whose lift kit surely cost more than the machine. I strode through the residential back yard dodging dog dumplings like landmines the whole way. I gazed at the house all the while picturing a man, with more first names than teeth, bursting from it waving his second amendment rights in my general direction. At the end of the yard I clambered over the stone wall that marked its end and began my accent.
The Ascent
I looked out into the terrain that I would soon be traveling on. The ground was still wet with droplets from the morning dew. A thin refreshing layer of fog hung low on the dead trees and rocks that formed the mountains floor. The lay of the land was not intimidating, in fact the mountain itself seemed at first glance no more than a large hill. As I began to walk up the gradual incline I could feel my heart starting to beat a little more quickly, I could feel the cool December air satisfyingly stroking my face as I pushed through the woods. Something primal was stirred inside of me, a thought that this would be what the world looked like if humans had never left their grotesque mark on the planet. I remained enamored with this thought, hardly able to comprehend it in my own mind, or why it weighed so heavily on it in the first place. I thought about the fact that I could have easily passed this time by sitting on my couch barely moving except to gorge my face with salty foods, a practice I am no stranger to. But I had made the right choice. This, I decided, was where I belonged. My pace quickened, even breaking into a childlike run at times, the kind of run where you just move your body through space and time out of pure excitement. It was a kind of run, I thought, that is not commonplace in the morose land of adult decorum. I wove my way in and out of the heavily wooded mountainside, walking on logs, climbing on top of large rocks. I could start to see the mountain rising at a greater slope and all at once the trees cleared and I saw what remained of my climb.
Summit
I peered through the remainder of the trees trying to get a good look at the climb ahead. I had anticipated a gentle grade that would lead me to a relatively easy summit. Gentle grade this was not; this was a sharply inclining grade that culminated in a 90 degree wall of intimidating rock as craggy as a cancerous prostate. I began to climb the steepening mountainside, each step harder than the last. My lungs burned white hot and pleaded for a rest, I could feel my legs filling with lactic acid as they begged for reprieve. I had gone into a trance; I could feel the summit beckoning me. I finally paused, out of breath, when I arrived at the rock face that guarded the summit.
The stone rose beastly from the ground without warning like some sort of sinister push pop. The wall was 12 feet high if it was a foot, and I had to form a plan of attack. There were several somewhat easy routs over the wall but I was maddened by the climb. If I may borrow from the great alpinist and author Jon “5 star” Krakauer,
“Climbing was a magnificent activity, I firmly believed, not in spite of the inherent perils, but precisely because of them.”
With those words in mind I took the most difficult rout I could handle. I started up the face of the rock wall, the rocks were cold and much more slippery than I anticipated. They were moss covered and it occurred to me that I may be the only person in a very long time to have been here. I neared the top clumsily and my foot slipped from its hold. I could feel my heart drop as I lost my balance. Luckily I regained my footing, but not before I sent a dead stump hurtling down the mountain falling meters to a rocky demise that reduced it to unsanitized toothpicks. My mind did not hesitate to make the connection that this could very well have been my fate. I climbed to the top and expected to be standing triumphant over citizens of Shavertown. To my surprise there was another climb that culminated in yet another wall of earth that was taller and more intimidating than the first. I began to climb the second rock wall, the craggy moss laden demon that stood in my way toward the summit. Midway up the wall I grabbed a small branch to hoist myself when - SNAP - the tree gave way. My feet slid down the mossy slope of rock they were perched on toward the nothingness that marked the rocks end. I was going down. I reached blindly in the area of the broken branch and caught a root with my left hand saving me from tumbling down the mountain. I stood there badly shaken. My mind felt clouded, perhaps the beginning of hypoxia. I had, after all, climbed hundreds of feet above sea level to perch myself on this precarious ledge. I was woefully underprepared for this moment. I was wearing a long t-shirt, jeans and boots. I had no carabiners, no ropes, and I was smack dab in the middle of a 12 hour fast. The brashness of my preparation, or lack thereof was staggering to me in that moment. I had never climbed anything before, and I was attempting to solo climb this rocky whore of a mountain without safety gear, without food, or water, and not enough clothing to make a bivouac until I regained my strength. The climb back down the mountain was too treacherous, the rock wall I was on was too slippery and I would have to descend a second rock wall after it. The thought of slipping on the wet leaves, as I approached the ledge of the lower rock wall, and hurtling over it was sickening to me. I would have to climb up the mountain and find an easier way down. In that moment I thought of my wife, the beautiful first First Lady of the KeyPAP. What would she think if I lost my footing? The only people who knew I was out here at all were hundreds if not thousands of miles away from here and would not know where to look in the first place. I could not place that burden upon her shoulders. No, it is in her that I found the strength and determination to move on. I struggled mightily to the top of the second wall battling my own limbs which trembled with fear.
On the top, the mountain smiled mockingly at me with a third rock wall. There were trees twisting from the side of the wall, reaching towards the heavens, as if they were daring me to continue. I realized that it was not up to me - in the end, the mountain would decide my fate. I thought then that it might not be so bad to be seated on my couch vegitizing in front of the TV. I shook the thought off and stormed toward the third rock wall, my blood boiling at the mockery of the mountain. If the mountain wanted me, it was going to have to fucking take me. I tore at the third wall tossing loose rocks by the wayside, climbing with great fervor and strength. I was moving but it was as if my body was moving for me, I was just along for the ride. In minutes I stood atop the nameless mountain. The mountain, fittingly, did not reward me with a spectacular view, those heaven bound trees did all that they could to obscure it.
Descent
I was able to find an easy way down the mountain. Once my descent began I noticed that I was absolutely drenched in sweat. At several hundred feet above sea level this could have proven treacherous if the weather turned. Luckily I was graced with clear skies the whole way down. I stepped out of the woods on a road labeled Carverton. I knew where I was, back to safety, and decided that I would stay there for a long while. As I began the walk back to my apartment I looked ahead of me, away from the mountain that had spared me. I walked around the bend of the road and saw through the clearing another mountain appear, dominating the horizon, looming over me something sinister, and I felt my spirit stir once again.
Recently every single member of the Keystone Professional Association of Pennsylvania came down with recurring bouts of Acute Onset Bonair's Disease, or Bonair's for short. What are the signs of this devastating illness and what can you do to prevent it? You've come to the right place to learn, ye olde loyal readers.
Background
Bonair's is defined as the involuntary engorging of the penile tissue. It is sometimes unrelated to sexual stimulation. For example, one may find upon waking up that he has a raging boner.
Pathophysiology
Erection is the result of smooth-muscle relaxation and increased arterial flow causing engorgement and rigidity. See image below:
"Awww SHIT, I got Bonair's again!"
Epidemiology
Frequency of Bonair's is three to five times a night during REM sleep, upon wakening, and throughout the day whenever a man is exposed to titillating visual or psychological stimuli. It typically persists from puberty until death.
On average 99.9% of males on Earth are victims of Bonair's. Eunuchs and diabetics comprise the 0.1% of the unafflicted male population.
Bonair's is painful at onset, but has an almost nonexistent mortality/morbidity rate. One notable exception is that one sex scene in Golden Eye where Xenia Onatopp squeezes the life out of that guy with a beard while trying to administer the antidote. More on that later . . .
Bonair's afflicts unsuspecting males all over Earth, regardless of race and age (provided the male has already reached puberty).
There are two common causes of Bonair's. The first is a reflex erection caused by a full bladder because of nerve stimulation in the spinal cord, which is most common upon wakening. The second is also a reflex erection, but it is caused by physical or psychological stimulation increasing blow flow to spongy tissues in the penis. Consequently the blood engorged penis becomes grossly erect.
History
Patients with Bonair's report recurring unwelcome erections. Bonair's usually manifests itself in an episodic manner. The physical stimuli may change over time, but the symptoms remain the same throughout one's life. For example, a man may have had bouts of Bonair's while looking at his father's hidden Playboy magazines in his teenage years, while courting a co-ed during a college party in his early twenties, and while watching Brazilian fart porn during his 30s and 40s.
Physical
Inspection: obvious raging erection is a key physical finding in the examination process. Flesh need not be fully exposed to the medical professional for accurate detection.
Palpation: a rigid erection will be felt upon stroking the organ.
Differential Diagnoses
Phone in pocket with protruding antenna.
Lab Tests
Blood work.
Porphobilinogen (PBG) measurement.
Nocturnal Penile Tumescence (NPT) Test - a device around the penis during sleep that detects changes in girth and relays the information to a computer for later analysis.
Erection Self Test (EST) - 1 cent stamps are bought in a roll. A string of several of these stamps are wrapped around the mid shaft of the penis. They are moistened and allowed to form a continuous ring around this portion of the penis. Intermittently, the man checks to see if the strip of stamps is broken. If so, this indicates that the shaft of the penis has swelled and hardened at some point. If the stamps remain unbroken, no erection has occurred.
Imaging
Dopplar Ultra Sonography to view blood flow through the penile shaft.
Penile Radiograph. See X-ray below:
Treatment
"Do you have Bonair's? Let me help you with that."
Alternative Care
Take a piss
Hire a prostitute
Use a fleshlight
Choke the chicken
Insert your member between two soft couch cushions
Insert your member into a warm apple pie
Insert your member into an attractive willing female companion's orifice
Insert your member into the orifice of an unattractive willing female with at least one redeeming quality
Medication
High quantities of alcohol
Trojan Extended Pleasure condoms
Cold weather
Swimming pool
Other dudes
Ugly bitches
Complications
When an erection lasts for longer than four hours the blood trapped in the penis is deprived of oxygen which can begin to damage or destroy penile tissue leading to disfigurement.
Public shaming and embarassment. To prevent detection in public, a man riddled with Bonair's would be wise to secure his shaft in the "headlock" position.
Blue balls.
Prognosis
The prognosis depends on the duration of symptoms, the patients age, and the underlying pathology. The time to treatment is the SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT FACTOR affecting the outcome of Bonair's. Education is the best way to avoid undesirable outcomes. Females especially should become familiar with the symptoms so that they may immediately apply the antidote upon detection of Bonair's.
Prevention
Current technologies have not evolved fast enough to prevent this pandemic. Men must learn to recognize Bonair's when they have it and women must have the know-how to administer the antidote at any given time.
Cast in the shadows of other more important life events, the 2014 Penn Tower Classic Qualifier was an illustrious tournament that did not receive the news coverage that it deserved. A homecoming of sorts, the KeyPAP clan returned to the illustrious Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to face off with the rest of the KeyPAP Tour for the right to compete in 2014's version of the most grueling tournament ever conceived - the Penn Tower Classic. There were no crowds or reporters for this round of golf, but the talent level on display for the KeyPAP Tour's Penn Tower Classic Qualifier was evident yet again.
With three months for the competitors to recoup their mental faculties after the hellacious 2013 Penn Tower Classic, Beebles, Dr. Funk, Smits, and Fez took to the 4 star Toftrees Golf Club in State College, Pennslvania in hopes of continuing their dominance as the top foursome on the KeyPAP Tour. The right to compete in the 2014 version of the Penn Tower Classic was up for the taking and no one wanted to let their chance at getting their name engraved on the PTC championship trophy slip away.
Fez came to the Qualifier with a chip on his shoulder after finishing last in this summer's Penn Tower Classic. He took an early lead at #1 and stood atop the leaderboard for most of the day. However, his actions at the previous KeyPAP meeting where he fell asleep during 2013 KeyPAP Band of the Year Big Feast's performance for the ages, he incurred a vicious punishment: he would be subject to unlimited heckling from all other competitors while playing the final hole. This punishment proved to be fatal as Dr. Funk unnerved Fez during each shot on #18.
While Fez took great strides to prove his worth on the KeyPAP Tour after a last place finish at the 2013 PTC, another competitor's stock plummeted.
It is well known that Drake started from the bottom now he here. In polar opposite fashion, Beebles fell from his vulnerable position atop the KeyPAP Tour to the depths of complete and utter despair at this year's Qualifier. He started the day in fourth place behind Fez, Dr. Funk, and Smits and stayed there for the remainder of the day without even threatening for a third place finish. In fact, the 2013 El Campeon barely qualified for the 2014 Penn Tower Classic! Three straight shots into the pond off the tee at #9 sealed his fate before he even got to the turn. But be on the lookout for a rebound next summer at the 2014 PTC: predators are most dangerous when wounded, and this cat sure doesn't like the taste of defeat.
Smits played much the same in the Qualifier as he did in at the 2013 PTC. Inconsistent with an impressive birdie and several pars but also holes in excess of triple bogey. But he stayed in the hunt long enough to take the lead at #17. After hitting his best tee shot of the day to start #18 and the green jacket a few strokes away, however, he became more jittery than a junebug in a hen house. He sailed his second shot over the green and onto the unforgiving mulch. Several unsuccessful chip shots later he finally managed to get the ball onto the green, but by then it was too late to salvage his grasp on the lead.
Despite being down two strokes heading onto the tee at #18 and hooking his tee shot into the woods, Dr. Funk took a drop ball and placed a tremendous iron shot on the green for his third stroke while Smits faltered in the mulch. With a crisp 2-putt he stood alone atop the leaderboard for the only time that day. But he managed to do it at the only time that mattered: the end.
With no one there to fully chronicle the five hours of elite athleticism and mental strain which took place at the PTCQ, we are only left with pictures. Fear not, dear reader; though you won't be able to relive the experience of this event like you did the 2013 PTC, the pictures are as striking, graceful, and savage as a mountain lion.
Smits, Beebles, and Dr. Funk fuel themselves with Old Forge pizza and Busch Light prior to traveling to the PTCQ.
Fez ropes one onto the center of the fairway at #2.
An immaculate display of pure strength by Dr. Funk. Notice the whip he creates in the shaft of his driver just before impact.
Beebles makes up for his sliced iron shot with a beautiful pitch onto the center of the green.
With unbreakable concentration, Fez lines up his putt.
Smits almost gets a hole-in-one at #3. He went on to sink the birdie putt.
Despite being in questionable physical condition for this Qualifier, Fez led the tournament for most of the day. Here we see his paunch in full display while waiting for the green to clear.
Smits coils back just before striking this tee shot at the dogleg left #5.
In this sequence, Beebles lines up and hits a lengthy putt. Mere inches from a birdie against all odds, all he can do is laugh at how close he came.
Smits with a picture perfect follow through on this narrow tee shot through the woods.
Dr. Funk tees off at the picturesque #8.
Beebles crushes this tee shot into the night sky.
Beebles falters off the tee at #9. Three times in a row he put his tee shot into the pond before he managed to put stroke number 7 across and onto the fairway. He tries to laugh it off, but his body language confirmed that he was really crying on the inside.
Dr. Funk with an immaculate iron shot on #18. This shot put him on the green and allowed him to overtake Smits on the last hole for the green jacket and #1 ranking on the KeyPAP Tour.
Remarks made by Barilla Pasta chairman, Guido Barilla, in a recent interview with an Italian radio station have received a lot of attention on the interwebz over the last few days. Unfortunately the full interview is only available in Italian, therefore my information has come solely from American and British news outlets instead of the real source. All of these news outlets have slightly different translations of Barilla's comments, but the general message is quite clear. For those not familiar with the story, here is Smits' Official Abridged Summary:
Barilla does radio interview to promote his products
Interviewer asks if he would put a gay couple in his commercials
Barilla says no, he believes in the traditional family
Equality Italia, a civil rights group, calls for a boycott of Barilla products, and notoriously liberal news outlets, such as Huffington Post and The Guardian among many others, label Guido Barilla anti-gay and a bigot.
"Herr Smits, surely you won't use this news story to shove your political opinions down our throats on such a reputable website. You yourself have been known to despise such debates on account of people only becoming more entrenched and unwavering in their original beliefs."
Why, thank you, most trusting of hypothetical KeyPAP readers - you are correct.
The fact that there is backlash over Barilla's comments at all is what I find most disturbing. What this story boils down to is human rights focus groups and liberal media outlets who strive to spread the message of tolerance and equality for all people, are attempting to eliminate Guido Barilla's source of income because, ironically, they do not tolerate his worldview concerning gay families. The viewpoint is question is utterly irrelevant. Equality Italia has not called for a discussion or that he step away from his position as chairman. No, they are coming after his bread, his ability to provide for himself and his family. If you don't agree with our agenda then you must be destroyed.
What's most dangerous about stories like this is that they're covered up under the noble guise of human rights. But make no mistake, this kind of mentality allowed to permeate a democracy is unmistakeably poisonous. A minority focus group which has the power to crush anyone who doesn't agree with their views is called an oligarchy. I don't think that's what the Founding Fathers had in mind.
Sadly, rather than defending his opinion and his right to have one, he issued an apology a few days after the interview in the wake of the international backlash. Rather than holding true to his core beliefs, he caved and made a desperate, pathetic apology.
This story has also been an extremely convenient distraction for the United States government. While the sheep wail away on social networks and lesser blogs than the KeyPAP's about whether or not Barilla's comments were anti-gay and an expression of outrageous bigotry, the politicians in the U.S. federal government breathe a collective sigh of relief as less attention is being paid to the shutdown. They love it when we bicker over inconsequential shit like Barilla's comments. Real issues such as your premium potentially quadrupling under the new health care law, a declining stock market, and the broken world economy are swept under the rug while they literally collect their paychecks without working.
Do not stand for focus groups who try to stand on moral high ground while simultaneously attempting to destroy an innocent man because his worldview does not conform to their agenda. As a KeyPAP man, I sincerely value the freedom Americans should have to form their own opinions based on how they see the world. May shame be brought all oppressors.
A few weeks ago, all of the voting and non-voting members of the KeyPAP traveled to State College, Pennsylvania for Smits' bachelor party. It was here that they spent their most critically formative years between the ages of 18 and 22. It was here that the individuals of the KeyPAP initially forged their relationships. And so it was here that they all gathered for one more night of belligerence, debauchery, and Canyon pizza. So much masculinity was witnessed that day: weightlifting, chopping wood, riding quads, archery, mass consumption of Busch Light, and a visit to the End Zone - Central Pennsylvania's premier strip club. But all of those activities have taken a backburner to the one event which overwhelmingly captivated the KeyPAP clan. In the following story, Dr. Funk describes the unexpected highlight of the night . . .
It was August 24th, 2013 and I was making my first re-entry to Penn State night life in four years along with four other members of the KeyPAP. Up to this point in the night our entertainment had been mostly based on several well placed Busch Lights. It was still very early, but if I was being honest with myself I would have to admit I was starting to feel like I was fighting an uphill battle against disappointment. Only 4 years removed from my final year at Penn State I felt that we would again blend seamlessly with the crowd, but, alas, I was mistaken. I could chalk it up to the fact that we were slightly overdressed for the occasion boasting several full suits and one tuxedo, but I feel the disconnect was based on more than aesthetics alone. I think that when we reminisce on our past we tend to look back on a romanticized version of reality that often gives us a preference for our generation over another. Even with this in mind I couldn’t help but think I walked back into a cheapened version of the world I once was a part of.
We walked into Bar Bleu at around 7:00 that night. There were many people there but no one looked as if they were having a genuinely good time. It seemed as if the overabundant energy that lies native in the heart of the youthful had been suffocated by the instant gratification of Tinder and denim hotpants. I still had some hope left in me, a dreamer as I tend to be, that if we weren’t going to get any substance out of this experience we would surely dive head first into a raucous crowd in the downstairs dance area.
Wrong yet again.
We walked downstairs into a sea of people binge drinking to house music with their faces buried into their phones. There came a moment in the night when one member of our group ordered a water and nearly fell asleep at the table (this, as it turns out, is a story for another day).
I can’t say that I was excited when I saw a band setting up on stage. I had my dancing shoes on and I couldn’t bear the thought of having my eardrums blown out by 15 shit Nickleback covers in a row. But I gave them a chance. What followed is the reason I’m typing this at my computer right now.
The band known as Big Feast started out slow, they didn’t come out with guns blazing, they eased the crowd into it like only real artists can. A zephyr of blues and funk delicately mingled with rock and roll floated through the musty bar air and sidled its way into my cochleae with a smoothness my ears had never before experienced. I found my spirit roused from the sleep it was put into by the impersonal setting we were in. No more was I concerned with my surroundings as I was hypnotized by the sounds filling the air. My dancing shoes ached to satisfy the purpose for which they were put on as they tapped unconsciously to the music. I was compelled by the funk, summoned by the satiny smooth vocals to go out to the dance floor alone. The truest form of dancing is the kind where the music controls the dancer and bends him or her to the will of the song. I gave in, I the marionette controlled on high by the puppeteers named Big Feast.
And what a dance it was. The drummer controlled my feet, coaxing out wild movements and footwork never brandished in public before. The bass player while working in solitude behind the scenes produced rhythms that coursed through my veins in a whirlwind of funk-filled hip gyrations. I would not describe the guitar solos as “face melting” since I would consider this an insult. The guitar playing was not the all too familiar cacophony produced by mindlessly racing up and down a pre-determined scale, but a symphony of perfectly placed notes that played on the emotions with a delicate touch that squired the spirit of the listener through a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows. The vocals floated on top light and airy as a cloud upon Happy Valley, and were just as capable of delivering thunderous devastation when the moment was right.
I give you this analysis as my feeble attempt to describe the music of that night, but to describe the music in its separate components is an abortion. It is the same as describing the way a cake tastes by describing the eggs, milk, and sugar separately. When the cake is made its ingredients no longer exist, only the final product. This indescribable sound infected me with a dancing disease and once I set it free the disease went airborne. The discouraged group of young, suppressed students got up and savaged the dance floor! They spilled their drinks, relinquished self-consciousness, and danced for no ulterior motive other than to dance. The euphoria that filled the room bordered on a collective manic episode.
That night Big Feast changed the course of our evening and etched an unforgettable memory in our minds. For that the KeyPAP would like to honor them with the incredibly distinguished honor of being the 2013 KeyPAP Band of the Year, the first artist to receive this coveted award. It is not necessarily an annual award; it will only be presented in years where a band strikes us worthy enough to carry our stamp of approval. Congratulations to Big Feast.
Beebles, Funk, and Smits continued their strong play through the front nine. Beebles managed to overtake Funk on the leaderboard at one point, only to watch Funk snatch it back at the turn. Smits stayed within 2 strokes of the leader.
The battle between the three athletes in contention raged on as the PTC moved to the back nine. Smits got his first taste of the lead at the 12th hole, but Beebles and Funk stayed right on his tail. As if the drama of the PTC wasn't prevalent enough already, Beebles, Funk, and Smits found themselves in a three-way tie for the lead heading into the 15th hole. The 15th was a short 132 yard par-3, an easy pitch for men the likes of the KeyPAP clan. But a pond that sat in front of the green loomed heavily in the minds of the athletes. Funk took a particularly long time eying up his target across the pond. He changed his mind several times about which club to use and kept speaking of the water bazard as the critical factor in his decision. The crowd could sense that he was rattled.
Funk's swing was a graceful as ever, but immediately a look of panic came over his face after he made contact with the ball. Over and over he repeated the phrase, "O no!" escalating from a whisper to a bellicose scream, but words don't have the power to change a golf ball's trajectory mid-flight. The crowd watched in terror as the ball plunged into the pond five yards from the far edge of the shore. Several frogs scattered away from the area as Funk looked on at the ripples in the pond emanating further and further from the scene of the crime. With only four holes remaining and Beebles and Smits not willing to give an inch, Funk became the PTC's second victim to fall out of contention. Fez tried to comfort his fellow martyr, but Funk didn't even have the capacity to hear words at this low point.
Beebles and Smits remained tied heading over the 16th hole. Only three holes remained in regulation. Would the first annual Penn Tower Classic require a playoff to determine an outright champion? Would one of them hole an impossible iron shot and take the lead with and eagle? Or would yet another man crack under the pressure, leaving the last man standing as champion?
The 16th was short downhill par-4 with the Jackie Robinson Parkway running along the right side. The first 20 yards in front of the teebox was crowded by trees, but then opened up to an ultra-wide fairway down below. Beebles stepped to the tee first and roped a straight shot down the hill. Smits stepped up to the tee next feeling like Beebles' drive left a lot of distance on the table. His aim was to outdrive Beebles and lay up for an easy chip onto the green for his second shot. Smits approached his ball, set up straight at the flag and swung.
VVVOOOOOOMMMM
The ball leapt off the clubface and immediately curled to the right and out onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. He pulled out a second ball from his pocket and proceeded to hit another drive without take a practice swing.
VVVOOOOOOMMMM
Smits' second drive attempt followed the exact same path as the first. Once again he set up for a drive and once again the ball tore off onto the highway. As a fitting sumbol of the PTC's third and final bombout, the last drive landed with a crash onto an unsuspecting citizen's windshield sending a spider web of cracks across the entire window pane. The startled driver weaved the back and forth on the highway in the midst of an involuntary panic attack. Luckily, he was able to regain control of his car in time to avoid a fatal collision.
A few spectators began to weep. More drama had unfolded in front of their eyes in a matter of four hours than entire year's worth of Lifetime original television programming. But this wasn't fiction; it was all too real. How much can the human soul bear to see before it becomes overwhelmed? For some, Smits' triumvirate of hooked shots onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway was the final straw.
And so Beebles took a commanding lead without having to even swing his club. All he had to do now was hold it together for three more holes and the PTC Championship would be his. Funk made a valiant comeback with a birdie on 17, but Beebles' steady play kept him in the lead.
Beebles' triumphant victory march on 18 will remain etched in the minds of all who witnessed the 2013 PTC. The three who had knocked themselves out of contention struck up a conversation now that they were alleviated from the PTC pressure, but Beebles did not partake. He remained quiet, calm, and focused as he hit his first putt to within 8 feet of the hole. As he waited for the others to putt, he stared daggers into the cup, simulating in his mind the final stroke which would secure his championship victory. Slightly downhill with a break from left to right, he needed to aim 3 inches left of the cup. Just as he had done all day, Beebles walked up to his ball and made his vision a reality and ended the 2013 Penn Tower Classic.
When the ball sank in the hole he simply stood on the green and took in the atmosphere. The crowd roared their emphatic approval and began to chant his name. With supreme class he doffed his cap to the crowd and embraced his KeyPAP competitors with a firm handshake. Physically beaten down and emotional scarred from watching Fez, Funk, and Smits eliminate themselves from contention, he had no energy left to celebrate.
The physical and mental strength, endurance, and intensity put on display by all four competitors was nothing short of remarkable given the magnitude of the PTC combined with the events which unfolded the night before. What these men did with no gas in the tank, no wood on the fire, no coal in the chamber will live on for time immemorial. The 2013 Penn Tower Classic perfectly defined both KeyPAP and America.
Four alarms simultaneously shrieked as the clock tolled 7:30am. Drunk, delirious, and cotton-mouthed, Beebles, Fez, Funk, and Smits arose from the floor with the swiftness of a zombie. Try as they might, there was no more delaying the inevitable - the Penn Tower Classic was scheduled to commence in less than an hour.
Fez and Funk collected themselves in time to dash across the street for a quick breakfast sandwich. Smits and Beebles pillaged what was left of the chocolate chip cookies and pop tarts. Everyone drank a cup of coffee hoping for the caffeine to jolt them awake, but the effects were negligible. It is one thing for the body to repair itself after a night of binge drinking, but when combined with the mental stress caused by a looming, grueling athletic competition, no morning remedy will succeed.
Food and coffee consumed, the KeyPAP clan hastily dressed themselves and walked outside toward Fez's car. The sun shone bright that morning, blitzing their dulled senses with tenacity of an NFL linebacker. Smits put his forearm in front of his baggy eyes to allow them time to adjust to the sudden stimulus.
They hoisted their golf bags into the trunk and off they drove down Queens Boulevard toward Forest Park Golf Course. No words were spoken on the ride.
As Fez pulled his Lexus into the parking lot, the KeyPAP clan was greeted by tumultuous applause. A large crowd was expected, but nothing near this magnitude. Cars filled every available parking space, many having to park on the shoulder of the surrounding local roads. One space remained at the front, however, reserved for the Penn Tower Classic competitors.
They climbed out of the car, put on their golf shoes and walked briskly to the first tee. The grounds crew had worked tirelessly all morning to bring the playing conditions up to a level suitable for the KeyPAP Tour's flagship event. Their work was superb - the tee box on the 1st hole was cut tightly with not a single divot in sight. A few droplets of dew clung to the tips of perfectly trimmed blades of grass.
Beebles was the first to tee off. He slowly made his way to the first tee, set his ball then stepped back a few paces for three deliberate practice swings. Two words repeated themselves incessantly in Beebles' mind: solid contact. Twenty years of experience had ingrained the correct pattern of movements into his musculoskeletal system in preparation for this moment. Now all he had to do was execute. Repeating this phrase was the cue which allowed Beebles to get his brain out of the way and let his body do the work.
Beebles took one deep breath and walked up to the left of his ball with the stealth of a lion closing in on an unsuspecting gazelle. An eerie silence engulfed Forest Park as the crowd came to a hush for the first shot of the day. Only the distant whirring of traffic and the songs of birds could be heard. In this perfect moment, Beebles drew his driver back and swung forth on his ball with the might of Thor, Norse God of Thunder. The ball took off over the tree shadows and carried over the fairway. Its path stayed true and after a few seconds the ball landed and rolled onward, coming to a stop 300 yards from the tee in the middle of the fairway.
The crowd let out a deafening roar as Beebles reached down to retrieve his broken tee. They had come expecting to see elite talent on display and Beebles had satisfied their appetite. Little did they know that the next four hours would be a whirlwind of emotional toil and physical atrophy.
In similar fashion Funk, Fez, and Smits teed off. The four men traversed the first hole with grace and class while the crowd marveled at their abilities. When all four balls took their turn rattling into the bottom of the cup, Funk had taken the early lead.
For the next three holes the PTC competitors snaked their way through the crowd as they hit their shots. All four competitors came out at the top of their game physically, jockeying for position while Funk clung to his narrow advantage.
The first dramatic even of the tournament occurred at the 5th hole. After sinking a beautiful putt on the par-4 4th, Fez was set to tee off first at the 5th hole, a dangerous dog-leg right with a dense collection of trees encroaching on the right side of a narrow fairway. Fez set himself to tee off just as he'd done thousands of times before. But as he reached the peak of his backswing, a squirrel scurried across the teebox not ten feet in front of his ball. The crowd cried out in collective shock as Fez, concentration lost only for a split-second in time, grazed the ball with the bottom of his driver. The ball was pounded straight into the ground and only managed to bounce forward far enough to clear the ladies' tees.
Fez stood dumbfounded on the teebox searching for answers that could explain what had just occurred. He'd spent hundreds of hours on the driving range with mis-hit golf balls crossing his path and loud ball retriever vehicles driving in front of his line, among a plethora of other distractions. How could this squirrel cause him to lose control when he needed it most?
The three other competitors teed off with their balls in much better position. Shaken, Fez walked up to his ball for his second shot. The ball had landed deep in the thick, lush rough and he would need an absolutely perfect shot to get back onto the fairway. But he could not evoke from his broken down body the necessary precision to accomplish this daunting task. Instead the ball popped up and landed in the bunker at the edge of the woods 50 yards away.
Fez raised his face to the heavens and let out a howl reminiscent of a lone, wounded wolf trapped deep in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. "Not again!" he exclaimed.
Confidence fully abdicated, Fez walked to the bunker for his third shot which he could only push a few yards further into the sand. Smits looked away, vowing not to dwell on Fez's struggles while he took his second shot from the fairway. All of the athletes were affected by this meltdown. It reminded them what was possible if they failed to put every ounce of testicular fortitude into their efforts that day. When the strokes had been tallied Fez was charged with a dreadful 11.
In the days that followed, Fez's performance on the 5th hole was succinctly coined "The Collapse." He went on to tally a second consecutive 11 on the 6th hole, all but eliminating him from the tournament from that point forward.
After the successful interview of Dr. David Funk, official news correspondent, Ian Ding, was granted unprecendented access to another co-founder and co-president of KeyPAP, Mr. Louis DiFez. In this rare opportunity in getting to know Mr. DiFez, Ian Ding discussed the 2013 Penn Tower Classic (PTC), his life, and what the KeyPAP means to him. As I walked to meet Mr. DiFez on a scorching mid-summer at his downtown Philadelphia apartment, an air of nervousness overcame me. I was waiting to meet with one of the valiant competitors in this year’s PTC. I take the obnoxiously slow elevator to his 8th floor corner penthouse, which overlooks Center City Philadelphia. He greets me with a smile, a firm handshake, and a strong gaze from his dark-chocolate brown eyes. But behind his pleasantries, I sense a fragility, a somberness, which can only be caused by the exhausting course of events that is the PTC. It is two days since the tournament, and from his all-black attire, he is clearly still in mourning. This is what he had to say . . .
Ian Ding: Mr. DiFez, it certainly is a pleasure to meet with you today. Louis DiFez: No problem, Ian, the pleasure is mine. And please, call me Fez.
Ding: Alright Fez, to begin, the first annual Penn Tower Classic has come and passed in grandiose style. I know you were very vocal about your performance that day. Can you give us what you were thinking going into the day, your expectations, and what you hoped for the championship? Fez: Well, to start, I just want to congratulate my fellow competitors for a job a well done. I especially want to congratulate Beebles on his victory; I know he grinded and the last few holes were difficult for him, but he scratched and clawed his way to a win. For me, going into the PTC is preparing for the unthinkable, the unbearable, and the unknown. Our ritual on the evening before left every competitor on an even playing field, with only our skills left to shine on the course . . .
Ding: I’m sorry, but let me interrupt you for a second. What exactly happened the night before the championship? Fez:[laughs] Well, I don’t want to give away exactly what occurred, but I will say that we definitely all went into Sunday with the same physical burden.
Ding:[chuckles] I guess it will remain a mystery. So please, continue. Fez: Right, so my thought process was to remain calm, to trust my instincts, and to know that even if I made mistakes, most likely my competition would make mistakes as well. That is all easier said than done. I also figured that the course would be playing firm and fast. And boy, did it ever. The greens were lightening quick and undulated with the best of them: Augusta, Royal Melbourne, Oakmont. The team at Forest Park did a great job to make our life difficult.
Ding: Please tell us what happened before the dreaded, the infamous, “The Collapse.” Fez: The images are scarred into my memory, the memories are burned into my thoughts; I replay the holes over and over in my head. Through three holes, I was in second place and feeling confident, dare I say overconfident. Gamesmanship is all part of golf, so trash talk was flowing like the wines of Rome as we walked to the fourth hole, which was a par 5. One part of my game that I have recently been putting a lot of work into is my driver, however, it betrayed me that day. I took a 2-stroke penalty off the tee and that rattled me. I followed up with a couple chunky shots. I got to the green on my 8th shot, and was in the hole at 11. I was devastated, frustrated, and extremely rattled going into the fifth hole. The 5th was a dog-leg right par 4. I sliced my drive into the woods, and then put what would be my 3rd shot short of a right fairway bunker. I chunked my next shot into said bunker, and then spent my next two or three shots getting out of that bunker. Again, when it was over, I put up an 11 again. Can you believe that? [chuckles] Back-to-back 11s! I knew, at that point, that I was out of the competition, but I tried to stay hungry. I made a few pars, and a nice birdie at the 7th hole. But I was mentally checked-out at that time and knew that it was over for me.
Ding: Well, most certainly you finished with class and dignity. And I can also say that you put a reasonable round considering the agony that you endured in the PTC. Fez: I believe that is one of man’s greatest qualities: the ability to endure; to get up for more after being knocked down. A great man once said, “To live is to suffer, but to survive, that’s to find meaning in the suffering.” I certainly found meaning in my suffering that day, it caused me to work a little more seriously on my game. Oh, and that great man I spoke of, it was DMX.
Ding: Any final thoughts for the upcoming Penn Tower Classic Qualifier? Fez: Dr. [David] Funk and I were actually mutually discussing this at the 2013 PTC. I felt overweight and out of shape. I am in the process of getting back into shape and losing weight. I would like to go into the PTCQ down about 15-20 lbs. I have also been working heavily on my game: reworking my swing and getting back to the basics. I feel that, in the end, I will shine at the PTCQ. Things won’t be perfect, they never are, but I will focus and do the best that I can.
Ding: Riveting, just riveting. So, being the only member of KeyPAP who does not yet have a graduate degree, what are your plans for future? Fez: Again, it’s an honor and privilege to be in a group of such distinguished and accomplished gentlemen. I will be a doctor soon, and I plan on being the best doctor I can be, while still retaining my roots and knowing where I came from and how hard I worked to get here.
Ding: Well, Fez, it’s been a wonderful time. Thank you again for your time, and good luck in the Penn Tower Classic Qualifier. Fez: You’re welcome, Ian, it’s been my pleasure.
Fez's black Lexus hurdled along I-80 as New York City's majestic skyline slowly came into focus through the front windshield. Beebles was laying back in the passenger seat for a nap and Funk was reading a book in the back. The sun slowly settled into the western horizon, only half of it visible in the rearview mirror. Night time was fast approaching. Traffic slowed as the three men approached the George Washington Bridge.
Bebbles decided to sit up as he realized bumper-to-bumper traffic was not conducive to sleep. Fez, seeing that Beebles had risen from his slumber, cranked up the volume on the car stereo.
Bandz a make her dance Bandz a make her dance These chicks clappin' And they ain't using hands
Fez was rapping along with Juicy J and it wasn't long before Beebles and Funk joined in on the fun. The car buzzed with energy.
2 Chainz, four bracelets Let me see that ass clap, standing ovation If yo girl don't swallow kids, man that ho basic
As the three got louder and started moving to the music, the car started to shake back and forth on the bridge, drawing inquisitive looks from adjacent travelers. But Fez, Beebles, and Funk were in a world of their own and didn't have a care in the world as to what anyone else thought of their antics. They were a mere 16 hours away from the start of the most challenging athletic endeavor they had ever faced: the 2013 Penn Tower Classic.
As Fez, Beebles, and Funk made their way across the GWB, Smits was finishing up work in his office several blocks south of them on 34th Street. The day had been a long and grueling one for the structural engineer. He had been summoned to the field in the morning to help with construction inspection at the World Trade Center site, then returned to the office in the afternoon where he was assigned the task of completing urgent calculations for his project manager. Stressed, hungry, and eager for the night's coming festivities he stormed out the front door and weaved his way through the pedestrian traffic, rejecting two requests for spare change on the way down to the subway station. When the Queens-bound E train finally arrived he sat down in the air conditioned car, laid his head back against the window and closed his eyes. Flashes of narrow fairways and tightly cut greens were interspersed with images of women dancing in clothes which showed off ample cleavage.
As the subway slowed to a stop at the 67th Avenue station, Smits darted out the door and up the stairs to his apartment. He quickly got undressed, showered, and got ready for the arrival of the three other KeyPAP co-founders and co-presidents. Smits was elected to serve as host for the first PTC. The reputation of KeyPAP put a lot of pressure on him to provide stellar hosting services. He was determined to live up to these lofty expectations.
At 7:00pm Fez, Beebles, and Funk arrived, 2 Chainz still blasting through the car stereo as they parallel parked along 67th Road. Smits walked out on the street to greet everyone.
Smits "Gentlemen, good to see you again. How long did it take you guys to get here?"
Fez "Only like an hour and 69 minutes."
They brought their luggage up to apartment 6N, finally getting a chance to kick back and relax. Each member of this foursome bad been a top notch and well respected member of the academic community at The Pennsylvania State University four years prior. Due to each of their separate vigorous pursuits of a graduate education they had seldom found the time or money required to have a post-graduate rendezvous. But now that Beebles, Funk, and Smits had professional degrees to their names, life had slowed down enough for this raucous crew to be reunited.
They wasted no time breaking into Smits' liquor cabinet. They threw back several shots of Absolut Pears, the official alcoholic beverage of KeyPAP, before making their way to the first bar of the night on Austin Street. They ordered a round of cocktails and beer after being seated by the petite Asian waitress. Fez almost immediately acquired a target of the opposite sex a few feet away. He quickly threw back the last of his drink and made his way to the bar for the first approach of the night.
Fez "Did you come here tonight to meet your dream man?"
Girl "[smiling] Maybe. Let me know if you see him."
Fez "Let me help you out. He's about 5'-7" Italian and used to be a cheerleader in college."
Girl "Wait, you were a cheerleader in college? I'm sorry, but that's a deal breaker for me."
She turned away and walked back to her group of friends before Fez even had a chance to explain. He had shed blood, sweat and tears, suffered broken bones and even a mild concussion for that gig, and this broad wasn't even going to give him the light of day. Such is the state of the present day American dating scene.
The drink orders started to come more rapidly after the dejected Fez returned to the table. The foursome engrossed themselves in vigorous discussions. Topics included alternate universes, popular music, vertical bacon smiles, new sexual positions, and athletics. Before they knew it the clock was tolling 11:00pm.
Originally, the KeyPAP co-founders and co-presidents had planned to spend the night at local bars in Queens for a few drinks and light conversation in order to rest for the PTC the next morning. But the Manhattan nightlife became too much of a temptation to supress. Once they got within a short subway ride from the city, they were drawn into the bright lights like an asteroid which wanders into Earth's gravitational pull.
The men took the R train into Manhattan, arriving just before midnight. They walked out onto the 34th Street sidewalk, gazing up at the skyscrapers which loomed over mid-town.
Beebles "The night is still young; let's drink!"
Smits "Where do you guys want to go? I only know a few places."
Funk "My friend is working at Libation tonight. Let me see if he can get us in."
Funk fired off a text to his contact as the men strolled down Broadway, taking in the sights: buildings squeezed one right next to another, hipsters propped up against dingy buildings taking smoke breaks, thin women in tight clubwear. They were filled with excitement.
A minute later Funk's text message was answered.
Funk "He said we're in. Let's go there now."
Twenty minutes later, despite not meeting the club's dress code, the co-founders and co-presidents of KeyPAP were granted access to the front doors of Libation. Through a missing link in the chain of communication, the bouncer had not been warned of their arrival by Funk's inside contact. But the men gave off such a strong aura of professionalism and confidence that he couldn't justify turning them away - shorts or not.
Once inside they were whisked upstairs to the VIP floor which overlooked the masses of full-paying customers. The dance floor below reeked of sexual awkwardness and desperation. They were grateful to have their own bar service upstairs, as well as the power to grant select females access to this coveted area of the club.
As the club began to fill up, Fez, eager to rebound from his first approach of the night, was the first to take advantage of this privilege. While Smits, Beebles, and Funk were reminiscing about old times, Fez quietly tip-toed down the stairs and made his way over to a pair of blondes at the far end of the floor. He pulled out his iPhone which had a picture of his young nephew on the lock screen.
Fez "Hey, can I ask you a question? Is it creepy for me to have this picture on my phone?"
Blonde 1 "That all depends. Do you know that kid?"
Fez "Yes, I know him. He's my nephew."
Blonde 1 "I think that's okay then."
Blonde 2 smiled and nodded in agreement. Since his departure from the VIP floor was sudden and unannounced, Smits, Beebles, and Funk took a minute to realize where Fez had gone and what he was out to do. Once they spotted him and his prey on the first floor they hastily moved over to the edge of the balcony to see if Fez could make this approach a success.
After observing his fellow clansman for a few minutes, Beebles decided it was time for him to take action. His loins ached for a dish of hot china, and much to his delight he was able to acquire a target in the form of a petite Korean broad. Off he went to the first floor to try to meet the needs which his boner placed on him. The two elder clansmen remained on the VIP floor sipping their cocktails while watching their brethren battle it out below. Talk was light between the two men; each had something weighing heavily on the mind, but didn't dare speak of it. KeyPAP is a respectful organization and one of the pillars of their relationships was the proper respect for competition. Funk and Smits would be slugging it out on the greens in just a few hours. There was nothing to be gained by either man in a discussion of the impending Penn Tower Classic.
The hours went by at a snail's pace compared to the number of drinks consumed. Smits and Funk made a steady stream of cocktail orders while discussing married life while Beebles and Fez tried to close on their prey by inviting them upstairs for VIP club service and titillating conversation. At 3:00am, an hour before closing time, both Fez and Beebles made their way back to Smits' and Funk's table exhausted from their efforts, but with nothing to show. In the game of slaying pussy the peaks and valleys are extreme with virtually no middle ground. On the eve of the 2013 Penn Tower Classic it was just not meant to be. Maybe the PTC weighed too heavily on their subconscious minds, maybe the women were legitimately not attract to the them. At this point only pure, cumbersome conjecture can be offered.
Smits hailed a cab in the street just outside Libation's front doors. Beebles slurred out one more "The night is still young!" chant, but it was clear his heart wasn't truly in it. At almost 4:00am the men arrived back at Smits' apartment and literally collapsed onto the floor a mere four and a half hours out from tee-off.
Today, KeyPAP's official news correspondent, Ian Ding, sat down with Dr. David Funk, co-founder and co-President of KeyPAP. They talked about life, defeat, redemption, and the Penn Tower Classic. Dr. Funk recently suffered a heartbreaking 2-stroke loss in the already infamous 2013 Penn Tower Classic (PTC). This is what he had to say . . .
Ian Ding: Hello Dr. Funk, How are you doing today? Dr. Funk: I’m doing fine thank you. You can call me Dave, after all I’m basically just like everyone else [winks].
Ding:[laughs] Well then, let’s get started. I want to get right to it and ask you about the PTC. What was it like going out there and mixing it up with Pennsylvania’s finest professionals? Funk: I’m going to be honest with you. I was not too worried going into the match. The KeyPAP pre-match rituals were friendly and unassuming. Little did I know what was about to ensue that day. We went out there and immediately after the first tee I knew that this was going to be a fight that would take everything that I had. Let me talk first about the mind games the PTC can play on a man. With its now famous no stroke limit per hole, every shot set the stage for a potential meltdown. I saw one of those meltdowns first hand early in the competition and frankly, it was tough to watch. It was a shame, he didn’t have a chance with the pressure of the PTC on his shoulders. After all he was the only player in the top four that had yet to finish grad school; to be involved with this group before graduating is an amazing accomplishment in its own right, but to expect that he could handle the trials and tribulations of the entire PTC was a bit much to ask. I mean he was just a kid. No matter, with two 11-stroke holes in a row he was essentially out of the competition before it started.
"I mean, he was just a kid."
Ding: That must have taken a little of the pressure off of you, going from three competitors to two. Funk: You would think that wouldn’t you? Watching that poor kid melt down like that just piled on the pressure for all of us. We knew that each bad shot we hit could be the hole that put us out of contention; we had just seen it happen. As we came down the stretch the pressure mounted. We saw grown men teeing off with low irons on par 4’s, petrified that they would be the PTC’s next victim. Then the second meltdown came. Completely unexpected, one of the most fundamental and conservative players on the KeyPAP Tour put three straight tee shots onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. Only two remained.
Ding:(on the edge of my seat at this point) I can actually feel your nerves at this point. I mean, I know the outcome but I still can’t help but feel nervous for you. Funk: Ah, this demonstrates how difficult it is to explain the scoundrel that is the PTC. At this point both of our nerves were shot. You can’t have that kind of stress on the mind for four hours and still process information on a meaningful level. We were zombies. My final challenger was saying things like, “Do you think that we are the most handsome foursome on the golf course today?” This is not normal conversation while in the teeth of battle. Finally I pulled out the rattler [this is the name Dave gave his 7 iron because of the loose material that rattles inside when it is held upside down] and put my tee shot in the water on a late round par 3 which ended my day and gave the PTC trophy to its rightful owner.
Ding: That is as thrilling a sports story as I have ever had narrated to me. How did it feel after it was all said and done? Funk: I think that when I see the trophy presented at the presentation ceremony it will be the most difficult thing I will ever have to watch. To be so close . . . I imagine this moment in my mind and it is almost unbearable, the real thing will hurt exponentially.
Ding: To what do you attribute your bitter defeat? Funk: There is a threefold answer to that question: pride, fatigue, and mental exhaustion.
Ding: Do you think that next year your experience will pay off and give you a better chance to win? Funk: Listen, you don’t get to be a member of the KeyPAP by resting on your laurels. You work for it. I plan to send a message to the rest of the tour at the KeyPAP qualifier this August.
"My body betrayed me."
Ding: How do you plan to do this? Funk: The mental exhaustion is unavoidable in a tournament of this caliber. So I will address my other two downfalls. I’m going to be completely honest with you. My body betrayed me. I was in the lead for nearly all of the front nine. When the back nine came around and I no longer had all of my mental faculties available to me I had to rely on my body which was as doughy and unprepared for an event of this magnitude as it has ever been. I plan to come into the PTCQ 15-20 pounds lighter and when my mind shuts down and relies on the motor patterns engrained into my body from the last 26 years, my body will be able to produce at its highest potential. As for pride, I will be competing with a new set of clubs this time around. The new set I will be using is only slightly newer and less dead than my last but it is a full set with no rattlers. I convinced myself that I knew my clubs and that they were good enough. Then my beloved rattler sat one right next to Davey Jones and I was out of the competition. The last and most important aspect of my training is that I will play as little golf as possible in the next month leading up to the PTCQ. One month of practice will mean nothing at this point. As I have said many times before you cannot use your mind during the second half of these matches. So developing new strategies and techniques would only compound the problems associated with the tour. I will be relying completely on my primal golf instincts.
Ding: Well Dave, our time is up for today and I must say, the pleasure was all mine. I wish you all the best in the upcoming PTCQ. Funk: Thank you for having me, the re-telling of the story is humbling and it can only contribute to the spiritual growth one needs to call themselves a champion.
