So I had a dream the other night. Normally I don’t remember my dreams. I took enough psychology to know that that is probably not a good sign, but that’s just the way it is. Which makes it all the more remarkable that I remembered this particular dream so vividly. Perhaps it was related to the fact that I wasn’t sleeping in my own bed, or it could have been the extra glass of gewurztraminer I had at dinner, or it could just be the case that this dream was simply far more interesting that anything that happens in my real life.
I hesitate sharing this dream with my loyal readers. With the exception of two-hour slide shows of Aunt Phyllis’s grandchildren, there is perhaps nothing as annoying as hearing about someone else’s dreams. I am taking the bet that this is just so bizarre that you’ll power through just to see how it ends.
It starts off on a golf course, where I am playing in a foursome, although I can’t recall if they are my usual partners or just some guys. At about the 9th hole on this very lovely course, I tee off and when I get to my ball, I decide to take a nap before hitting my second shot. I climb up on a hill to the side of the fairway, and plop down in the grass.
I wake up some indeterminate time later, and start wandering up to the green, oblivious to the approach shots raining down upon me, in order to catch up with my playing partners. As I get to the green, I realize that it is occupied by another foursome, and that my group has already moved on to the next hole.
I amble over the next tee box, and my partners invite me to hit my drive. I realize that I don’t have my clubs with me, so I excuse myself to go find them. For some reason, they are now in the parking lot, which is, oddly, adjacent to the tee box.
I go over to the where my clubs are, but instead of a golf bag, they have morphed into a mountain bike. Not only has it been transfigured, but this mountain bike, which is tied up to a large SUV, has a Denver boot on it. I find this perplexing. Mind you, although I am apparently nonplussed by the transformation of my golf clubs into a mountain bike, the fact that the bike was parked illegally is getting me all hot and bothered.
Now things start getting bizarre. It turns out that as I am trying to extricate the bike from the boot, Reggie Jackson walks over to me and starts yelling. I had, it seems, indeed parked my bike on his car and he was obviously not pleased. Neither was I, because this was Reggie circa mid 1980s.
I somehow manage to escape from Reggie, and take my mountain bike back over the tee box. I take out my driver and get set to tee off. The only problem is that the tee box is now a parquet floor, not dissimilar from that in the old Garden. While quite fetching, this made it quite difficult to place my tee.
As it turns out, there were some convenient rivet holes in the parquet floor into which I could place the tee. Unfortunately, they were quite deep, so that the ball rested just millimeters above the floor. I tried a couple of drives, but it was impossible to hit the ball accurately. So one of my partners produced what can only be described as a tee extender, which attached to the embedded tee. The only problem was the that the extender was alive, and so the ball would move in unpredictable patterns, rendering my subsequent tee shots even more out of bounds than before.
It was at this point that I woke up.
As I said before, I generally don’t remember my dreams and despite my professional status as a trained “brain guy”, I am no expert in dream analysis. I fervently hope that my loyal readers will help me out here, and provide their insights. I will only point out a few things that might be helpful with your diagnosis. There are fearsome images in this dream that are obvious to even the untrained eye: Reggie Jackson is second only to Bucky F***ing Dent in Red Sox Nation’s pantheon of villains. And believe me when I tell you that there are few things in this world scarier than me with a driver in my hand and the ball on the tee.
So have it, dear reader. I await your insights full of hope and with more than a little trepidation.
