LaBamba continues to traverse the globe and recently checked into the Lizard Lounge in Seoul South Korea.

Alright, Tomcat faithful, Chevy here, stepping in for Stevo this week, mainly because he’s still muttering about “logistical oversights” and “unforeseen tournament attendance.” We just got back from what was supposed to be the golf trip of a lifetime: The Open Championship at Royal Portrush. Think pristine fairways, the roar of the crowd, and us, the Windsor Tomcats, showing those pros a thing or two.

So, the plan was flawless, right? Stevo, Hatchie, Big Easy, and yours truly, along with our incredible wives/girlfriends – Tamster, Sporty Spice, Sweet Feet, and Sugar Mama – were heading to Northern Ireland. The ladies were going to enjoy some “cultural immersion” (read: shopping and not watching us shank balls), while we’d casually stroll onto the hallowed grounds of Royal Portrush, clubs in hand, ready to channel our inner McIlroy.

We rolled up to Royal Portrush, all swagger and dreams of perfectly struck irons. The sun was shining, the air smelled of freshly cut grass, and… chaos. Not the pristine fairways we’d envisioned, but barriers, crowds, and enough security to guard a small nation’s gold reserves.

“Excuse me, mate,” Stevo puffed to a rather stoic security guard, “we’re here for our tee time. Stevo, Hatchie, Big Easy, Chevy. The Windsor Tomcats, you know?”

The guard just stared, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Sir, this is The Open Championship. You might have noticed the thousands of spectators and professional golfers.”

My jaw, along with the dreams of a green jacket, hit the tarmac. Hatchie, bless his usually sharp mind, chimed in, “So, what, we can’t just… pop on for a quick eighteen?”

The security guard actually snorted. Sporty Spice, ever the pragmatist, chimed in, “You mean to tell me you guys dragged us all the way to Northern Ireland during the biggest golf tournament of the year, expecting to just play Royal Portrush?”

Silence. The kind of silence usually followed by the sound of male egos deflating. Big Easy, ever the optimist, cleared his throat. “Well, darling, we did assume they’d have, you know, a few spare slots. For discerning gentlemen such as ourselves.”

Sweet Feet, bless her patience, just shook her head. “You guys are unbelievable.”

Tamster, Stevo’s rock, just gave him that look. You know the one. The “I told you so, but I’m too polite to say it out loud” look.

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The Unplanned Detour to Royal Forty-Seven

So, with our tails tucked firmly between our legs, and the distant roar of the crowd a cruel reminder of our folly, we huddled. The dream of Royal Portrush was dead. But a Tomcat never gives up! We had a backup plan. A contingency. A course “down the road.”

That’s how we found ourselves at Royal Forty-Seven. Now, don’t get me wrong, it was… a golf course. It had grass. It had holes. It even had a rather enthusiastic groundskeeper who greeted us with a smile and a slightly chipped scorecard. The pro shop was more of a “shed with some forgotten clubs,” and the “clubhouse” seemed to double as someone’s backyard storage unit.

The ladies, to their credit, were troopers. Tamster even managed to find some humor in the “rustic” charm of it all. Sporty Spice, ever competitive, declared the putting greens “character building.” Sweet Feet just focused on her swing, probably trying to block out the sounds of Big Easy complaining about the lack of a beverage cart. And Sugar Mama? She just kept saying, “Well, at least the air is fresh.”

We didn’t set any course records. Unless “most golf balls lost in one round” counts. Hatchie somehow managed to hit a tree on a wide-open fairway, Big Easy mistook a squirrel for his caddy, and I spent more time looking for my ball than actually hitting it. As for Stevo? Let’s just say his short game was, shall we say, “a work in progress.”

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The Real Victory

But you know what? As the sun set over Royal Forty-Seven (a truly majestic sight, even if it was just over a farmer’s field), with our wives laughing and the air filled with the scent of… well, certainly not championship golf, we realized something. It wasn’t Royal Portrush, and we definitely weren’t pros. But we were together, we were laughing, and we were still the Windsor Tomcats.

So, next time you see us, don’t ask about our Open experience. Ask about the time we conquered Royal Forty-Seven. It’s a much funnier story. And trust me, the ladies will back me up on that one.

Until next time, keep those swings smooth, and always double-check the tournament schedule!

Chevy out.

We hope all Tomcats and families are enjoying summer holidays and vacations. Rocky and his family are traveling through France and Italy, but Rocky, in order to make the vacation expenses a write-off, is there on “strict Tomcat business.” Rocky is said to be recruiting talent in those countries. While one might say, “why would you go to France and Italy for talent…there’s no hockey players there,” let us remind you previous Tomcat management toured through the Greek islands years ago and came across Sunny, Soupy and Shack. “Look at those gems that were found in a non-traditional hockey part of the world,” said former Tomcat President, Stevo. Rocky is hoping to catch the same luck in France and Italy. Besides, Italy is where Bullwinkle was discovered!

Have a great summer. Send Rocky any pictures to share of vacations and interesting locations where Tomcat swag is being worn.

September is not too far off!

Tomcats Forever!