THE facts: The Ralph Myhre's 10th-hole flag is upright, but the cart near it has tipped over its apples. wise CRACKS: You have to give 'em props for propping it up. That's harder to do than it looks. Photo by Jeff Patterson
It turns out I was born during an earthquake. This was in Romania. Not the hospital, the earthquake. To tell you the truth, though, I don’t remember that earth-shattering day too well. I couldn’t tell you what I had for breakfast. Or, for that matter, what I did the night before. I guess I’ll have to take my parents’ word for it. Words for it—there’s a story, and I don’t know German. There were two Germanys back in 1986, and there were to be two new Pattersons that August. Labor Day weekend, and my mom is in labor. A labor of love, I hope. But not to belabor the point, there are complications. Big word. Given the circumstances. The baby girl just won't come out. Something’s wrong, but the understudy nurse, who under-studied for every exam at Johns Hopkins, doesn’t know what. Time is running out. Mom is full of doubt. Turns out it's all because of some lout. I had been clenching Ellen’s wrist the whole time—holding on for dear life with all eight pounds, seven ounces. “You were about the size of a bag of carrots,” my mom would say, every time she strolled us down the produce isle. I only wish that after my first breath of air, I could have paused and said, “ . . . What’s up Doc?”
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