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The winner of the last two outings, No-Sag Bob from Ferndale, never got untracked. He shot a 49 and 46 and, with his 20 handicap, ended up at 75. (In the earlier tournaments, his raw scores had been 94 and 87.)
Songwriter, whose tunes I soon hope to hear over my local airwaves, blew up on the back nine and finished with an 86 gross and a creditable 76 after handicap.
Toyota Bob, a bit beery-eyed at the end, hammered out a 98, but the highest raw score of the day belonged to someone named Bob Jones, who shot a 115. Nobody kidded him about it.
Later Toyota Bob and I drove to the Detroit airport, through the tan smog and the look-alike hamburger joints. Along the way he explained the difference between top-of-the-line Toyotas and the cut-rate numbers.
"What's this one?" I asked him as he turned it back into the rental agency at the airport.
"Damn near top of the line," boasted Toyota Bob.
"Good for you," I said. "Keeping up with the Joneses, eh?"
He turned on me with a grim look—the same one I've often used to impale jokesters.
"Them's fightin' words," he said. Then his Jonesian face relaxed. "But I'll consider the source."