Our plan for the day had us driving east to Stirling, not for golf, but to watch the local Highland Games.
We’d been to Games in Perth back in 2016 and that day proved as memorable as any day spent on the links.
I think I’ve always harbored some deeply held aspiration to become a Highland Games Champion in a field event. These dreams of glory stemmed from my early childhood fascination with the title character in a Scottish movie from the 1950’s.
We grew up in the burbs of New York City, a place I thought was the center of the universe, and there was a movie channel of sorts on one of the local non-network broadcast TV stations. Million Dollar 
Movie played on WOR-TV channel 9. A main programming thrust was to play a chosen movie all week long, often several times a day. I know my life long fascination to cinema stems from my addiction to Million Dollar Movie.
One of my recurring favorites was the 1955 film titled WEE GEORDIE. Geordie is a nickname for George. Little George was just that – a little fellow with aspirations of competing in the Highland Games and ultimately the Olympics, for the glory of his homeland.
My childhood ambition had been buried deep in my subconscious mind for nearly 60 years. Yet it was sparked into the here and now when we arrived at the Stirling Highland Games to find that the organizers were soliciting ordinary folks to try their hand at these manly competitions.
Jeff was as eager as I but there was a hitch.
The head man registering would be champions, Duncan McTavish, was adamant about a competitive must have.
“ Ye can nae partake in the games with trousers, laddie. A proper kilt is required. Real men wear kilts.”
Well, there were an awful lot of real men walking the grounds as nearly every other gent was sporting some fashion of tartan skirt. All we had to do was find a couple of mates with physiques similar to ours and make a swap.
I finally convinced a fellow to lend me his kilt. In exchange I’d give him my exquisitely embroidered Tee-shirt bearing the most timely political message of the age- F**k Trump.
The terms of Jeff’s deal weren’t entirely clear to me but I’ve come to learn that it involved squiring the spinster daughter of the grandfather he traded with. What a man will do for sport.
Kilts secured, off to the training grounds we went.
Old man McTavish was my tutor. I could understand about every third word he said, his Scot’s burr was so pronounced. I was lucky to decipher that many but I’d had some previous practice doing so listening to my sainted grandfather, Poppy Skinner. The English language can wax musical on the tongue of a Scotsman.
Regardless of my linguistic challenge with McTavish, it was easy to understand his intent by way of his wild gesticulations, contorted facial expressions and the stream of spittle spewing from his lips. No mask for McTavish.
The hammer throw competition went off before the caber toss, so I was able to root my little brother on. That throw of his wasn’t that bad- no serious injuries occurred.
Next up, Caber Toss. All of Mad McTavish’s instruction whirled about my feverish head.
“ Deep knee bend, laddie.”
“ Keep a straight back, you dolt.”
“Caress the caber, don’t strangle it.”
“Start steady, then gather pace, then explode like an overcooked haggis!”
All this fervent advice went right out of my meager brain as I took my position on the field.
The wind began to whip and whirl, a cooling breeze I didn’t really need.
A man wearing a kilt on a windy day is a daring man indeed.
I stood there in the altogether because a kilt wearing man bears nothing below that pleated garment other than that which the good lord endowed him.
The caber was up – the wind was up- and in a spasm intended to maintain my modesty, I hurled that pole as if a branding iron and been planted on my hindquarters.
That’s all it took- a triumph of technique!
The gathered masses erupted, they swept me up on Scottish shoulders as scores of pipers played me on to the trophy presentation.
Later that evening, after our sunset round at the Jubilee course, Jeff and I toasted our good fortune while recalling the incredible events of the day.
What feats await in the coming week? I can only dream.
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