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lobelia321Title: The Golfing Spirit
Author: Lobelia;![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lobelia321
Pairing: John Sheppard / Nick Faldo
Fandoms: Stargate Atlantis / Golf
Spoilers: Very, very mild and totally not plot-related SGA, series 3, episode 8, "McKay and Mrs Miller"
Inspired by: The toothbrush scene (see pic at the end of the fic)
Warning: One rps character. Two orig characters.
Who are these people? Pics at the end of the fic.
Rating: 15 (US: R)
Length: c.700 words
Insanity indicator: Possibly quite high. *g*
Feedback: How I love it.
The Golfing Spirit
by Lobelia
BBC, Radio Five Live
"Yes, he's choosing the number two putting iron. A wise choice, don't you think, Mick?"
"Well, Bert, I don't know. It looks like a straightforward putt, seven, eight yards perhaps? But the break on the slope here is quite severe and a number of other players have got caught out on that. And then, if you make a mistake, you land in the bunker just behind the flag."
"And here he goes, doing the full Faldo fidget once again. Haven't seen that in a while, have we?"
"No, Bert. I must say it's nice to see Nick back in full form after so many years off the leader board at Opens. Do you think it's because he's been paired with that newcomer, John Sheppard?"
"The American? There has certainly been some chemistry there on the green today, don't you think, Mick?"
"Absolutely, Bert. I mean, this is the second day they're going round together and they're even wearing matching shirts, ha ha!"
"Here he goes. Beautiful shot. Beautiful."
"Well, that puts Nick Faldo in third place for today, and that's his fourth birdie of the day."
"On the ninth, too, Mick. Nobody else has managed to birdie the ninth so far."
The tenth
It's good I scrubbed all my clubs last night.
It's important to do my own scrubbing.
Not a thing to leave to caddies.
Nick's clubs look pretty scrubbed.
So do his shoes, in fact.
Wonder if he gets a new pair per tournament.
I like the saddle shoes myself.
Must get some for next time round.
Only four more days, and vacation is over.
Back to the P-Galaxy on Thursday.
'd be nice to take a trophy back.
Whoa, Nick, watch out.
When you crouch down like that, your pants are really, really tight.
I like baggier pants myself.
Like Tiger.
Tiger's got cool pants.
Oh, is it my go now?
West wind
A west wind ruffled the scrub of the rough. Wisps of sand blew across the bunkers at the eleventh hole. Faldo and Sheppard teed off at the top of the driving range, fingering their irons, hefting their rubber grips, adjusting their gloves and squinting knowingly into the distance, like navy salts.
Twelve and counting
John's gloves bobbed up and down, hanging out of his rear pocket like a bunch of unruly kelp.
Coming up the fairway, followed by caddies, crowd and paparazzi, Nick reached out and tucked the gloves back in.
John turned and gave him a quick smile, unreadable under his fried-egg-shaped sunglasses.
Nick frowned at the grain of the grass. A bead of sweat collected above the collar of his vermilion shirt.
It's good to be tidy
John sat on his bed, in his quarters, on Atlantis. He held a toothbrush in one hand, and his lob wedge, specially calibrated to a very high loft, in the other. A line showed at the side of his mouth as he scrubbed carefully along the edges. Crumbs of soil were still embedded in the sliver-thin grooves. Terran soil, salt of Earth. He licked a finger and wiped the last motes away with his saliva. He held the club up to the light. His face shone back at him from the clubface.
He inserted the wedge back into its bag and withdrew the 7 iron. He wiped its shaft with a cotton handkerchief, then set back to scrubbing. He smoothed his palm over the curve of its blade.
Almost involuntarily, he opened his mouth and licked the cool metal head. Involuntarily, his eyes fell shut.
He remembered:
Hot. Sweat. Fast. Hidden. Locker. Shower. Trophy. Falling, hitting, bruising. Bruising bare foot. Cursing. "Faster, faster." "What..." No stopping now. Still wearing his gloves. Gripping, clutching. Bruising. The clang of metal. The sound of frotting.
Nine. Ten. Eleven.
Twelve, oh.
No, got to keep. Got to keep going. All the way to the end. All the fair way.
Putting, driving, wedging, shafting. A hole in one. A hole with two.
Nothing. Nothing like golf.
"Now, now, now, now."
The Atlantean illumination hummed. Outside, rains lashed the dolphin-less oceans. John stacked the last putter away, slowly. Put his toothbrush in his mouth, slowly. Rubbed his dick, slowly, slowly.
Epilogue (added a day later in response totansu's comments, *g*)
***
The end.
All original parts © Lobelia. 13 September 2006. c.700 words.
John Sheppard polishing his golf club with a toothbrush. SGA screencap, 3.08, 'McKay and Mrs Miller'.
Nick Faldo, doing the Faldo fidget:
Author: Lobelia;
lobelia321Pairing: John Sheppard / Nick Faldo
Fandoms: Stargate Atlantis / Golf
Spoilers: Very, very mild and totally not plot-related SGA, series 3, episode 8, "McKay and Mrs Miller"
Inspired by: The toothbrush scene (see pic at the end of the fic)
Warning: One rps character. Two orig characters.
Who are these people? Pics at the end of the fic.
Rating: 15 (US: R)
Length: c.700 words
Insanity indicator: Possibly quite high. *g*
Feedback: How I love it.
The Golfing Spirit
by Lobelia
BBC, Radio Five Live
"Yes, he's choosing the number two putting iron. A wise choice, don't you think, Mick?"
"Well, Bert, I don't know. It looks like a straightforward putt, seven, eight yards perhaps? But the break on the slope here is quite severe and a number of other players have got caught out on that. And then, if you make a mistake, you land in the bunker just behind the flag."
"And here he goes, doing the full Faldo fidget once again. Haven't seen that in a while, have we?"
"No, Bert. I must say it's nice to see Nick back in full form after so many years off the leader board at Opens. Do you think it's because he's been paired with that newcomer, John Sheppard?"
"The American? There has certainly been some chemistry there on the green today, don't you think, Mick?"
"Absolutely, Bert. I mean, this is the second day they're going round together and they're even wearing matching shirts, ha ha!"
"Here he goes. Beautiful shot. Beautiful."
"Well, that puts Nick Faldo in third place for today, and that's his fourth birdie of the day."
"On the ninth, too, Mick. Nobody else has managed to birdie the ninth so far."
The tenth
It's good I scrubbed all my clubs last night.
It's important to do my own scrubbing.
Not a thing to leave to caddies.
Nick's clubs look pretty scrubbed.
So do his shoes, in fact.
Wonder if he gets a new pair per tournament.
I like the saddle shoes myself.
Must get some for next time round.
Only four more days, and vacation is over.
Back to the P-Galaxy on Thursday.
'd be nice to take a trophy back.
Whoa, Nick, watch out.
When you crouch down like that, your pants are really, really tight.
I like baggier pants myself.
Like Tiger.
Tiger's got cool pants.
Oh, is it my go now?
West wind
A west wind ruffled the scrub of the rough. Wisps of sand blew across the bunkers at the eleventh hole. Faldo and Sheppard teed off at the top of the driving range, fingering their irons, hefting their rubber grips, adjusting their gloves and squinting knowingly into the distance, like navy salts.
Twelve and counting
John's gloves bobbed up and down, hanging out of his rear pocket like a bunch of unruly kelp.
Coming up the fairway, followed by caddies, crowd and paparazzi, Nick reached out and tucked the gloves back in.
John turned and gave him a quick smile, unreadable under his fried-egg-shaped sunglasses.
Nick frowned at the grain of the grass. A bead of sweat collected above the collar of his vermilion shirt.
It's good to be tidy
John sat on his bed, in his quarters, on Atlantis. He held a toothbrush in one hand, and his lob wedge, specially calibrated to a very high loft, in the other. A line showed at the side of his mouth as he scrubbed carefully along the edges. Crumbs of soil were still embedded in the sliver-thin grooves. Terran soil, salt of Earth. He licked a finger and wiped the last motes away with his saliva. He held the club up to the light. His face shone back at him from the clubface.
He inserted the wedge back into its bag and withdrew the 7 iron. He wiped its shaft with a cotton handkerchief, then set back to scrubbing. He smoothed his palm over the curve of its blade.
Almost involuntarily, he opened his mouth and licked the cool metal head. Involuntarily, his eyes fell shut.
He remembered:
Hot. Sweat. Fast. Hidden. Locker. Shower. Trophy. Falling, hitting, bruising. Bruising bare foot. Cursing. "Faster, faster." "What..." No stopping now. Still wearing his gloves. Gripping, clutching. Bruising. The clang of metal. The sound of frotting.
Nine. Ten. Eleven.
Twelve, oh.
No, got to keep. Got to keep going. All the way to the end. All the fair way.
Putting, driving, wedging, shafting. A hole in one. A hole with two.
Nothing. Nothing like golf.
"Now, now, now, now."
The Atlantean illumination hummed. Outside, rains lashed the dolphin-less oceans. John stacked the last putter away, slowly. Put his toothbrush in his mouth, slowly. Rubbed his dick, slowly, slowly.
Epilogue (added a day later in response to
tansu's comments, *g*)***
The end.
All original parts © Lobelia. 13 September 2006. c.700 words.
John Sheppard polishing his golf club with a toothbrush. SGA screencap, 3.08, 'McKay and Mrs Miller'.
Nick Faldo, doing the Faldo fidget:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-13 02:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-13 09:50 pm (UTC)Fandom has so muddled my brain that half the time I can't tell who's real and who's not. When David Hewlett has a blog and a real-life sister playing his SGA sister, then pigs fly and Nick can get it on with John.
Have an icon of another fps/rps crossover. God, that reminds me: I have a half-finished McKay/C.Ronaldo fic sitting in my note pad! I had completely forgotten that I had ventured onto the Stargate/sporting stars track before!!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 08:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 10:32 am (UTC)But it was fairly obvious, seeing John Sheppard scrub his golf clubs with a tooth brush!! This is canon!!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 11:39 am (UTC)ike isis, i have a secret fondness for rps xovers...though was john really good enough to play pro???
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 05:37 pm (UTC)Though I am shamed by my lack of golfing research, as pointed out by
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 05:54 pm (UTC)i think this yet again just comes from our differnt outlooks on what AU means and how to research RPF, doesn't it???
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 06:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-15 09:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 03:08 pm (UTC)Technical Thing: I query the use of "number two putting iron" as this is confused with "number two iron", and the two iron is the longest-hitting iron that players carry (Most don't carry a two iron and have a hybrid or rescue club instead. Most standard off the peg sets of clubs don't come with two iron - my partner's irons only go up to a three and mine only go up to a five. Long irons are hard to hit and don't suit all conditions. At the Open a lot of players were using long irons because of the conditions).
Anyway, a small number of players do carry two putters and choose between them depending on the length of putt, lie, etc. So I think it would be better to say "Yes, he's choosing his alternative putter." or "that extra putter" or whatever. Also, the commentator might not comment on whether the choice of putter was wise or not without mentioning why the decision might have been made - he tends to use this one on putts that break left-to-right, he prefers this one on longer putts. Or, since most players do not take a choice of putters, the comment would IMO be more likely to reflect on whether or not it was a good idea to take two putters (and maybe contrast that with whatever club he might have left behind, a long iron, a rescue club, etc)
Also I would personally have the commentator say "pin" instead of "flag", and maybe phrase the comment about danger as something like "And any mistake, and you'll roll off the back of the green into that bunker. This pin position is very tricky today."
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 05:35 pm (UTC)I quite clearly did not bank on real golfing enthusiasts turning up in these pages...!! And now I am shamed and outed for my dismal ignorance and my ten-minute google-research. I clearly needed to contact you as a last-minute-rescue beta! As it were, my 'rescue club beta'!
Well, I have no excuse to make. I surrender to your technical superiority. Um, perhaps this is all AU where golfing works differently...??
I am impressed by your paragraphs. They read like a mini-fic in themselves. So: are you going to write any golf fic, then? Or maybe you already have??
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-15 09:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 06:09 pm (UTC)Bert: "Well, Mick, now that we're off-air, I have to tell you that this is the first time I've ever done the commentary on a golfing match."
Mick: "Now that you mention it, Bert, I myself usually do the sailing commentary, and an occasional rugby game. And I somehow don't think it's called a golfing 'match', Bert, but I could be wrong."
Bert: "What the hell, Mick, let's go get a beer. You do look fetching in that yellow-and-pastel blue V-neck knitted jumper, and the leather patches on the elbows are a nice touch."
Mick: "Is this not what golfers wear? I wanted to get into the golfing spirit. And I do like your paisley-patterned polo-shirt and the 'I LOVE TIGER' baseball cap."
Bert: "Hm, your aftershave smells nice, too."
Mick: "Wanna get a closer whiff?"
Bert: "How far away are we from our hotel?"
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-14 06:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-15 06:29 am (UTC)I seriously have no idea what all those golf terms are, but your imagery of those two on the golf course is enough for me. I just can't help grinning.
Thanks ;)
p/s: niiice pics you've got there *g* and um, McKay/Ronaldo? o.O