Diliberto: "That wasn't fun."
Moskowitz: "We can have fun on some of them if we rush through most of them."
6. Grand Prix Challenge
, 1:03 p.m.
Moskowitz is standing by a moored schooner near the 7th hole, his attention waning. He's winning, but he's tired. "No, I'm not tired," he says. He laughs hard, but his face is a little tight with fatigue. "I'm exhausted!"
Moskowitz has the unmistakable minigolf blankness that occurs when one game begins to blend with the next. He's trying to remember just what he did when, during this long, long day.
His orange ball rolls through a hollow and down a tunnel, then lazily winds down a path and into the cup. "I'm sure I've played this hole before," he says.
7, 8. Fantasy Golf
, 1:58 p.m.
Is this what golfers fantasize about? Holes in tepees? Holes watched over by pigs in overalls? Holes concealed by frogs in love seats under golf umbrellas?
On the giraffe hole my ball rims the cup, bounds around the green, skips over the brick bumper, glances off a gum-ball machine and rolls noisily across a Dairy Queen parking lot. We play both the front and back courses, aptly named the Front and the Back. Diliberto takes the Front, Moskowitz takes the Back. At lunch, I take the Check.
Moskowitz has begun timing everything—course time, hole time, travel time, even rest-stop time. Now, in the restaurant, he's clocking our waitress. "She's taking forever to bring the check," he fumes. "We could have played three courses!" Ahead by 22 strokes, Moskowitz is starting to crack.