So, you may know that Donald Trump and I are not on speaking terms these days. He has taken far too much of my mental energy and way too much of my time, as his carnival moves from town to town. But this story is not about him, or maybe it is.
I have been scheduled to play Ferry Point golf course for several weeks now. More accurately it is known as the Trump Golf Links in Ferry Point, New York. It is reported that New York City paid $127 million to build this public course at the southeastern shoreline of the Bronx. And leased it to Mr. Trump, allegedly for nothing, nada, for 5 years in exchange for his promise to build a $10 million clubhouse.
Public in concept, but with prices to play that make most every resident anywhere in the vicinity of the course as likely to end up there as I am to vote for Mr. Trump in 2016. So, when the decision was made to throw some of my money into the Trump Golf Links coffers, I had a moment of personal crisis. But only a moment, for as most golfers will attest, moral scruples are no match for an interesting layout.
There has been some discussion with my wife and children about the inconsistency of my total disdain for anything that Mr. Trump touches and my heading off to the first tee with thoughts not of maligned immigrants or disgusted women, not of the vulgar comments directed at Senator McCain nor of the circus that is Donald Trump, but only with concerns as to how severely the wind would effect my tee shot.
And my family was not the only one who found handing any money over to any enterprise associated with Mr. Trump indefensible. Among the foursome, we had collectively suffered many significant hits to our psyche from those who professed to love us.
It has been a dry summer with many spectacular days. Throughout the season, I can recall only two occasions in which the weather forced me to cancel plans to play eighteen. When, you may ask, were these? The first time, and then the second that I was scheduled to head to the southeastern shoreline of the Bronx.
Tomorrow was to have been the charm. The forecast is for beautiful sunny skies and warm temperatures, with a zero per cent chance of precipitation. Trump and Nussbaum, together at last.
To prepare myself and my game, this morning I headed to a local course. My swing was mostly intact and all went smoothly. That is, until I went to pick up the golf ball on the seventh green.
I had back surgery a number of years ago and have studiously avoided doing the necessary exercises to protect it ever since. Almost miraculously, it has given me little pain, literally or figuratively, in several years. Until I bent over to pick up that ball.
And so, I will not be on the southeastern shoreline of the Bronx tomorrow. Three strikes, and I am definitely out and Mr. Trump and his $9 billion or whatever other fictional number he may attach himself to, will not be supplemented by my greens fee. God, in his infinite wisdom, has decreed that this particular left of left liberal may not abandon everything he believes in for the sake of one round at Ferry Point.
But, if Mr. Trump should drop out of the race anytime soon, I hope God reconsiders.
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