To see a complete list of the 2010 NorthBay biz Readers’ Poll winners, click here. You can also read the stories for each company by clicking on their corresponding links.
Mark Twain once defined golf as “a good walk, spoiled.” His having scribbled those immortal words makes me admire Twain all the more, because he wrote them and never actually laid eyes on me swinging a club. I was making this point with Norm Rosinski, publisher of NorthBay biz and an inveterate golfer.
He was heading to Santa Rosa Golf and Country Club to “evaluate the facilities” for the annual Best Of the North Bay gala, an event so elegant and panache-filled it makes the Oscars look like an episode of “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?” On one chosen evening, the best and the brightest from Sonoma, Napa and Marin all show up to break bread, sip wine and celebrate businesses voted the winners of the coveted “bizy” award.
The bizies were Norm’s cover. The reality was, he wanted to get in 18 holes, and he was clearly desperate to fill out the foursome. (This was the only possible explanation for his trolling for my companionship—he needed partners in crime.)
Aware of Norm’s Chicago Southside roots and his disdain for anything that appeared to make sense at first glance, I teed off with my best stuff. “Normally, I’d jump at the chance to take the afternoon off and knock the ball around, but the cover story for the Best Of issue needs polish. As it turns out, it isn’t enough to do a personal tasting of Honig Sauvignon Blanc versus Hanna. I also notice you nixed my story idea of getting 90-minute massages at Kenwood Inn and Solage. Personally, I think our readers would love a little compare and contrast, you know how that goes big guy,” I said, doing everything but slapping him on the back and winking.
“You’re rubbing me the wrong way now,” he responded in a voice that left little doubt he’d seen through the “duty calls” angle. “You can work on the story later, time to play a little golf.”
Seconds away from a clean getaway, I downshifted. “Norm, look at me. I’ll never get past the front gate.” It wasn’t that I looked like something off the “Caddyshack” set, but I wasn’t exactly membership material, either. When I pull up to a private club, inevitably the gentleman charged with keeping the riffraff out politely says something like, “Seriously sir, I think you took a wrong turn someplace. What can I do to head you in the right direction?”
Seated behind his desk, Norm was now using a tee to manscape the grooves in his irons, “Knock it off, these are nice people. Nobody’s going to question you. Besides, you’ll be with us.” He was on his feet, pulling the cover off one of his woods.
“Us?”
“Joni, John, you and I are teeing off in 45 minutes. You have your bag in the car? I’ll drive.”
This was not a good idea. My dad once explained that the good sense gene seemed to have skipped me (he blamed it on my mom), and I knew from experience the competition-with-your-boss thing was a mistake. I was once pink slipped from a daily newspaper after playing basketball with the publisher. He’d tried to take me to the hoop and I’d rejected his shot while shouting, “Are ya kidding me?”
And though I had absolutely no golf skills at all, occasionally, like all pitiful duffers, I would hit a miracle shot, the result being instead of giving the game up, I was hooked for another year. I was concerned that my one shot would fall at exactly the wrong moment and my mouth would do the rest.
So it was with a mix of trepidation, self loathing and bravado I stood on the first tee. We’d taken the nickel tour and the club was gorgeous. The staff could not have been nicer and, as we advanced to the tee box, no one from security had uttered that magic phrase “Sir, could you come with me?”
Norm teed off and hit a drive so straight you could have hung laundry on it. It wasn’t making anybody think Tiger Woods, but I would have paid $5 for it. COO John Dennis was up next, and he got off the tee in style, working the ball left to right, ending up square in the middle of the fairway with a clear approach to the green. Now it was my shot. I took a couple casual swings, trying to remember the basics. Left arm stiff, head quiet, weight shift from front leg, hips rotating, slight pause at top of swing, hands driving down and through the ball, club head picking up speed striking ball with hands finishing high!
I hooked the ball so badly it might have come back and hit me had it stayed in the air long enough. I was off to a nice start.
Joni, Norm’s better half and the magazine’s VP of sales, followed with a tee shot right down the middle. This was to become a nauseating pattern. I would hit a comical tee shot, and she would hit a shot that might not be long off the tee, but it was never 10 feet in either direction. She’d even brought along her own cheering section. I glanced in her cart and spied a very small dog peeking out of a bag. As it turned out, it was Amica, a year-old Papillion that seemed to cheer at all of Joni’s shots and snicker every time I swung a club. And while I found it mildly annoying that all three of my fellow players clearly could play this game, I took genuine offense at Amica, a hound the size of a throw pillow, heckling me.
On the front nine, I provided fodder for both Norm and John. The former took full advantage of the fact I was flailing away. Once, when I was in a deep bunker, he began singing a Beach Boys tune. On the other hand, John walked that fine line between amusement and embarrassment. As we shared a cart, he occasionally offered a tip while trying to temper his remarks. Once, after I’d hit a putt that traveled by the cup a good four feet, he asked, “You’re not on steroids, are you?”
The Marshall even took a poke at my game. One hole borders a pasture. After I hooked my drive way into the field, he drove up. “The cows have asked me to take your driver away,” he said.
After the round, we retreated to the veranda, which meant both golfers and cows were safe from my errant shots. We ordered libations and appetizers and, almost immediately, a spirited debate broke out. “The best thing about the bizies is the fact that the business community honors its own,” Joni offered.
John shook his head, “The highlight every year is how excited people get about the awards.”
“That’s nice,” I agreed. “But the wines and food are really amazing.”
Norm laughed. “None of you know what you’re talking about,” he said. “The best thing about the bizies is how gorgeous Joni looks.”
He’s right, of course…but what a brown nose.
After that, there were several toasts. Norm lifted a glass to all of the bizy winners. Joni toasted all of the readers who took the time to vote. And John offered a toast to an improved economy that will allow North Bay businesses to thrive and grow. I told them they could drink to anything they wanted to, I was drinking to the fact our round was over.
Bill Meagher is a contributing editor at NorthBay biz and writes the Only in Marin column. While he’s terrible off the tee, his irons aren’t any better. Although several cows were frightened and one was truly embarrassed by Bill’s game, no animals were actually harmed.
