Sweat dripped off the tip of my nose and began free falling
toward Mother Earth. It was like watching in slow motion as gravity took hold
of the salty droplet, slowly hurtling it toward the Titleist golf ball perched between
my feet. In a perfect collision of fate, the bead of sweat splashed on top of
the ball at the exact same moment my putter sent it on its way toward the pin
from just off the back fringe of the 18th green at Leslie Park Golf
Course yesterday afternoon. The ball never left its line the entire 40-foot
journey toward the cup, and when it plunked dead center into the hole for an
unexpected par and a final score of 76, I could only chuckle to myself.
It had been that kind of day, so dropping a 40-footer for
par on a hole I almost never par, seemed to be … well, for lack of a better
term … “par for the course.” It was the topper on the strangest round of golf I
have ever played in my entire life. Not the final score of 76, that’s pretty
much the norm for me. It was the way I got to that number that was strange, so
strange, I thought I might actually meet my maker and drop dead on the course.
I was by myself, after all, in the one place I actually feel a connection to
some higher power, so it had crossed my mind more than once that I was being
sent several warning shots across the bow from the man upstairs that maybe this
would be my final day on the planet.
First of all, it was 96 degrees on September 10th
- a record high temperature for Ann Arbor – and it’s not like I’m in
extraordinary shape or anything, and even if I was, most doctors would probably
say if you’re going to go out in the heat in the middle of the day to play
golf, it might be in your best interest to take a cart. Phooey on that. I
always walk when I play golf, and yesterday was no exception.
To be honest, I was excited to play in the heat. I was
excited to even play at all. At the fairly young age of 48, my body has been
turning on me lately and I’m starting to sound like some grandmother rattling
off a list of ailments anytime someone asks me how I’m doing.
“Me? Well, okay I guess, except for the arthritis in my big
toe on my right foot, the tendinitis in my right elbow, the torn labrum in my
left shoulder and lately, I can’t seem to grip anything in my left hand. I
think I broke my hamate bone catching one of my son’s fastballs a couple weeks
ago.”
So naturally, I thought a good 90+ degree day would make it
a lot easier on all my aching joints, so why not give it a shot? Not only that,
as with most of my golfing forays, I try and hit the course when I know it will
be empty, and I was right on that count, the parking lot looked like a barren
dessert when I pulled in just before 11 am. The thought of having the course
all to myself only peaked my excitement. Then I opened the car door and the
first wave of oven-like heat rolling off the blacktopped parking lot hit me
square in the face.
“Holy shit, it’s hot.” Was all I could say.
I nearly climbed back in my air conditioned car and drove
away, as I’m sure most sane folks would have, but then a gust of wind hit me,
and I thought, “Hmm, as long as the wind blows, it won’t be that bad.” And with
that, I grabbed my clubs and headed for the clubhouse where I bought a brand-new
sleeve of Titleists and told the club house attendant I wanted to walk 18.
He looked at me as if I made some kind of mistake.
“I’m sorry, did you say you wanted to walk?”
“Yup.” I said, “Why not?”
He didn’t answer, but the look on his face definitely said,
“Well, because I don’t particularly want to have to go out and search for your
dumbass -scorched carcass somewhere on the hills of the back nine in about
three hours.”
I smiled at him, took my change and my sleeve of balls and
trudged out to the first tee to start loosening up. Right away I realized my “extreme-heat-equals-looser-body-parts”
plan wasn’t exactly going to take effect with any sort of suddenness. Either
that, or the 600 mg of naproxen I popped that morning wasn’t doing the trick,
because the moment I started to warm up by swinging a couple clubs around my
head like a batter in the on-deck circle, several parts of my body immediately
began to take offense.
My left hand, mostly, was telling me, “WTF?” To which I
replied, “WTF to you?” ‘How can you go and desert me like this – what the hell
have I ever done to you? I wash you, trim your nails, even get married so I can
put a nice gold band on one of your fingers, and this is how you repay me?”
My hand either didn’t care, or it wasn’t listening, because
it still hurt like hell, and for the second time in less than 10 minutes, I
contemplated getting back into my car and driving home before I even started.
But it’s not like me to give up that easily, so I figured I would play the
first three holes (#3 at Leslie comes right back to the clubhouse) and if it hurt
too much, I’d abandon ship and head home after the third hole, but at least I
would have given it the old college try.
With all the pain I was experiencing in my hand, I hadn’t
really paid much attention to the fact that my body was suddenly moistening up
at a fairly rapid rate. This was a little strange, given the fact I had only
been outside for less than five minutes, and I wasn’t sure if it was the heat,
me being out of shape, or simply condensation on my skin since I had been in
air conditioning all morning (probably a combination of all three). I took the
towel off my golf bag and realized I would be using it a lot more wiping off me
than my clubs for most of the day.
I also realized that if I were to actually play all 18 holes
on foot, I would have to seriously slow things down and pace myself – conserve
as much energy as possible, swing easy, maybe 75% of max, walk slowly, drink a
lot of water, and not worry about my score.
So I teed up the ball for my first drive of the day on
the 543-yard par 5 first hole, took an easy swipe at it, and then cringed at
impact as my left hand shot a stinger of pain up my arm. But the swing was a
good one, sending a beautiful, high draw up the right center of the fairway
that caught a tail wind and left the ball 285 yards away from where I was
standing.
“Hmm, where the hell did that come from?” I thought as I
slowly and methodically made my way up the fairway to my ball. The ground was
still wet with dew, even though it was 11 am, it was so humid, the dew wasn’t
going anywhere soon, but the ground underneath the wet grass was firm and fast,
and my tee shot benefitted from the firm terrain with an additional 30 yards of
roll.
To stay with my saving-energy plan, I skipped any pre-shot
routine for my second shot and just pulled out my 3-wood, walked up to the
ball, and without so much as a waggle, sent my second shot on its way. Another
beautiful, high draw that didn’t hurt as much as my tee shot, and once again rolled
out a good 20-yards or so, coming to rest about 15-yards short of the green.
“Damn, two in a row - how bout that?” I muttered to myself.
I hadn’t planned on being that close to the green in two
shots, didn’t really want to be, quite frankly. Normally I like to be out around
100-yards or so where I can hit some kind of full wedge to the hole since I
never practice any touch shots (hell, I never practice any full shots either,
come to think of it), but there I was, a tricky little pitch shot over a bunker
to a front pin, and to make matters worse, I was sitting on a tight lie – a
chilly-dip special to be sure. This time I figured I better take a few practice
swings, and oddly enough, my practice swings felt really good; I was nipping
the grass perfectly. When I hit my actual shot, it was even better. The ball
clicked precisely off the face of my sand wedge, landed just over the bunker on
the fringe of the green, took one hop, then began rolling toward the cup, before … plunk! Eagle!
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I’d hit three perfect shots and now I was two-under par
after one hole. Never one to look ahead, I already started thinking about the
64 I was about to shoot!
I walked to the second tee with a smile on my face. Already,
sweat was starting to soak my golf glove. The second hole is a 190-yard par-3,
and it was into the wind, but the wind felt really good in the heat and I was
two-under par. The pin was back, so I hit my 16-degree hybrid club while
promptly forgetting about my 75% motto. Instead, I tried to smoke one hard into
the wind to get it back to the pin. What I got was a smoking duck hook that
crashed headlong into the woods about 20-yards left of the green.
“You dumbass!”
I took out a 3-iron, teed up another ball, and this time hit
it safely onto the middle of the green. Two putts later, I was back to
reality with a double bogey 5.
Easy come. Easy go.
Normally, I would have been pissed about throwing away two
shots like that, but for some reason I was pretty relaxed, and the wind was
making the heat somewhat bearable, so I decided I would at least play the front
nine instead of stopping after three, and If I did have any doubts about
walking in early, the birdie I made on the third hole erased them.
Back to one under par – and this time I was thinking, “Maybe
a 68?”
I quickly readjusted that number after I rolled in a
20-footer for birdie on #4. I was back to two under after four holes and I had
yet to even make a par. On top of the that, the pain in my hand had been
minimal because I was hitting the ball on the sweet spot nearly every shot, and
I had just dropped two longish putts, something I never seem to do when I’m
hitting the ball well.
“Hmm, perhaps a 66?” I thought.
After my drive on the fifth hole, I caught up to a threesome
of women golfers who were putting on the green. This surprised me since I
thought I was the only one on the course, but it also gave me a chance to think
about my next shot. I was 130-yards from the uphill green, but stuck behind one
of two giant oak trees that guard the left side of the fairway.
“Should I try and go over the tree with a 9-iron from a
downhill lie?” I thought. “Or maybe punch-hook a 6-iron around the tree and run
it up to the green? Or maybe I should just hit a high drawing 8-iron that does
a little of both?”
I chose number three, and I chose poorly.
I bladed the shot and it really hurt my left hand. The ball
went screaming under the tree and over the green. Luckily, it came to rest not
far from the back pin placement and I easily chipped it up a foot from the hole
and saved par – my first par of the day! On #6, I made it two pars in a row after
another high, downwind draw off the tee, followed by a 7-iron approach that
landed 20-feet from the pin for an easy two-putt.
The women in front of me let me play through on the seventh
hole, a 149-yard par 3, that I bogeyed by missing a three-footer for par. Now I
was back to one under, but I quickly erased my blemish on #7, by making another
birdie on #8. Back to two under!
To keep up the theme of my Jekyll and Hide round, I severely hooked my tee
shot into the woods on ninth hole and feared the worst, but I actually found
the ball, punched out of the woods, and then hit my third shot 6-feet from the
pin! The way things were going, I was confident I would make a great save for a par, so confident, in fact,
that I three-putted the damn thing for another double bogey!
“Are you f****g kidding me?”
On the one hand, I was really pissed off at myself for
tossing away what could have been a truly amazing round of golf … on the other
hand, I had made only two pars on the front nine and somehow I still shot an
even par 36!
At this point I was on the fence about continuing my round.
I had plenty of work to do back home and I was dripping sweat from every pore
of my body. So I did the only thing I could think of … I checked my pulse.
My heart rate seemed normal and I had to pee, so I knew I
wasn’t dehydrated. Figuring I wasn’t going to die anytime soon, and, what
the hell, the round had been pretty interesting so far and my hand was still hanging
in there, I decided to keep playing.
I headed off for the long walk to the 10th tee.
The 10th hole at Leslie is a long par 4 with a
narrow fairway and a second shot that must carry Traver Creek, which wraps
around and cozies up to the front of the long, sloping green. I’ve made me some
big numbers on this hole in the past, but it was playing straight downwind, and
I shortened it even more by once again booming a high draw off into space to a
spot where I had a very comfortable second shot - 145 yards, to be exact, my
favorite distance. I struck a perfect 8-iron 6-feet from the pin for birdie,
but with thoughts of the three-putt on the ninth hole still fresh in my head, I
never gave my birdie putt a chance, wimping out and leaving it short.
It was an easy par, only my third for the round, but it was the
biggest disappointment of the day. It was golf how I always play, safe and
cautious, and up to that point, I hadn’t really engaged my brain for anything
other than trying to stay hydrated and not die before the kids got home from
school. The results on the scorecard were a total roller coaster, but it was
fun not giving a shit, and the one time I did, I totally blew it, even more
than any of my screw ups on the front nine. I had a birdie by the throat and I
had wussed out!
For the first time all day, I started feeling tired - my
legs mostly, but also mentally. Thoughts
of anything other than golf started taking over as I teed up the ball on the 11th
hole, a winding, hilly par-5 that snakes its way through the woods. The 11th
hole was once a pushover, easily reachable in two for long hitters, and even for
short hitters like me if I really got ahold of one. But those days were gone for
me. A new tee box had been built adding another 40-yards to the hole, and the
left side of the fairway, once nothing but rough, now had a wide expanse of an
overgrown natural area with Traver Creek running through it. And that’s exactly
where I sent my next duck-hook of a drive!
I looked for the ball for a while among the prickers and brush,
but it was really hot in the tall thistle and weeds, and I didn’t want to waste
any more time than necessary (or leave my rotting corpse somewhere where it
might take more than a day or two to find me) so I climbed the banks of the
overgrown creek bed, pulled the last ball from my new sleeve of Titleists, and
took a penalty drop.
As penalty drops go, it wasn’t a good one. I sulked when I
saw it nestle deep into the rough. A normal person would just bump the ball and
improve their lie (what the hell, it’s not like we’re playing in the US. Open
or anything, right?) but I always play it by the book, so I left the ball as it
was and tried to slash it out of the rough, knowing full well it was going to
hurt my hand like hell. I was right, but the pain was only half as bad as the shot,
which I skulled thirty yards deeper into the rough behind a bunch of trees.
From there; I punched out sideways, and then hit the worst approach shot of my
day into even deeper rough, left and short of the green.
Because the 11th hole runs through the woods,
there is little to no circulation of fresh air, and now the sweat was really
poring out of me. My glove had become useless as I tried my best to gouge one
onto the putting surface. Instead, I bladed the ball over the green, off the
cart path and deep into the woods. I had to stop for a second and figure out
what the hell I was going to do. I had just spent my last bullet from that new
sleeve of Titleists, and I didn’t even know if I had any more balls in my bag.
Turns out I did, a few Titleist Pro V-1’s left over from a some scramble I
played in over a year ago. I prepared to take my second penalty drop on the
hole, but before I did, I had to figure out, just exactly, how many strokes I
had taken up to that point!
“Let’s see, one in the shit … drop … hit three into the trees
… chopped four into the fairway … crapped five up to here … bladed six into the
Deep Woods Off … another drop … hitting
eight! Holy crap, I’m already on a snowman and I’m not even on the fricking
green yet?”
I wasn’t mad, just slightly amused at how quickly my
once-promising round had evaporated into the September heat.
Not that it could get much worse, but I chopped my eighth
shot on the green and then three-putted from 12 feet for an 11!!!
They don’t even have word for that kind of score in golf. Quadruple bogey is as
high as they go, after that they just call it “other.”
That pretty much sealed the deal for me. My round was gone …
shot to hell in less than five minutes. The 12th hole, a 174-yard
par 3 would be the last hole I would play. Like #3, it also finished by the
clubhouse, so I would play #12, and then walk in and get out of the heat.
The sweat was stinging my eyes now, and no amount of
toweling off seemed to do anything other than spread more sweat all over my wet
hands and arms. Luckily, after walking off the 11th green, I also
was walking out of the woods and into the wind once again. It was a welcome
relief. I looked at the green before walking back to the tee. Normally I pull a
few clubs out of the bag and then decide which one to hit once I get to the tee box and size up the pin location and the tee placement, but after making
an 11, I really didn’t much give a shit about either, so I pulled a 4-iron out
of my bag, right club or not, and starting digging in my pocket for a tee.
At that point that I realized I could no longer
continue playing with the golf glove I had been wearing, it was a nothing more than a
leather dishrag now, so I dug deep into my bag to see if I could find a
suitable substitute. And find one I did - a tattered, old specimen that must have been in my bag for 10-years and was crispy
as a potato chip, but at least it was dry! The glove was toasty warm, like I
had just pulled it out of an oven, but it felt good to have something dry on my
hand.
I walked back to the tee knowing this would be my last full
shot of the day. The 12th
hole is one of my favorites, the tee shot must carry both a pond and that nasty
old Traver Creek, but it’s framed really well and it always seems to suit my
eye … even after a sextuple bogey!
I teed up my ball and
told myself to just “stand tall and put one more good swing on it,” which
I did. The ball came off the club like butter and sailed high into the air
about 20 feet right of the pin with a slight draw. When the ball was halfway to
the hole I bent down, picked up my tee and started walking toward my bag, but
the flight of the ball was so pure, I stopped and watched as it landed just
short of the pin in the back of the green and I thought, “That should be pretty
tight.”
I kept watching as the ball rolled closer and then … plop... it disappeared!
I just made a hole-in-one.
“Are you f****g kidding me?” Was all I could say.
All sorts of things ran through my head, but none of it was
what I would call excitement. It was more like, “Shit, now I have to finish
this round.” Or “Shit, where did that threesome of ladies go? (I needed some
witnesses, after all).
For a minute, I didn’t do anything. I looked around. No one
was anywhere in sight. Sure I made a hole-in-one, but I made it right after I
made a fricking 11! Who does that? And just think of the damn scorecard. Even
in Putt Putt you rarely see the number one three times in a row.
I’ve played Leslie Park for 17-years, and made damn near
every number you could think of on every single hole on the course, but in one
smoking-hot September afternoon, I’d just made my third score on a hole that I
had never, ever, made before.
An eagle 3 on #1, an 11 on #11, and now an ace on #12! What
the hell was next?
I looked at the sky to see if any thunderclouds were on the
horizon. On this day, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that I might get
struck by lightning, after all.
The sky was a clear, if not hazy shade of blue - as clear as
can be. The only witness to my improbable feet was God, a memorial plaque for
Don Yost just off the tee box, and me. (I’d played with Don many times before
he died several years ago. He was a great guy. I was glad he got to see it too).
“Did you see that shit?” I asked Don, as I walked by his
plaque. “And I’m not even talking about the ace … I'm talking about the 11 on
11!”
As I walked toward the green, I instinctively reached for my
putter until I realized I didn’t actually need it. And then it dawned on me
that maybe someone from the clubhouse could meet me down at the green and
verify my ace before I got there. I called up the clubhouse and a girl named
Leah answered. She agreed to drive a cart down to the green where she did,
indeed, wait for me and verify my ace, even though she didn’t actually see it
go in the hole. (I guess my word and the ball mark on the green were proof
enough.)
Now things got really interesting. I was still hotter than
fire, but I couldn’t just quit now. Not like I had planned on doing before I
dunked my tee shot into the cup. The problem was, I didn’t really want to tell
people I made a hole in one and then hope they didn’t ask what I shot for the
round. How embarrassing would it be to have to tell them I shot about 100 with
two eagles and three birdies? So I trudged off to the 13th tee and
tried to figure out where I actually stood score-wise. Did I even have a chance
at breaking 80? Maybe the heat was warping my brain, because I wrongly figured
I was 5 over par at that point, (I had counted the ace as a birdie and not an
eagle) when in reality I was only four over par, but I still knew I better bear
down if I wanted to post a halfway decent score, if for nothing else, at least
for my pride.
With that in mind, I did the only thing I could do; I sent a
drive screaming toward Traver Creek for like the 20th time on the
back nine. Luckily, I heard it hit a big willow tree by the water, so I thought
I might have a fighting chance to find it. Walking up the fairway, I was never
so relieved to see a bright, white shining golf ball in the sun 50-yards from
the tree. “Wow, that was one hell of a carom.” I thought. Then I got to the
ball and realized it wasn’t my ball at all … or was it? It was a Titleist all
right, a Titleist NXT Tour #1 … the same ball I hit off the 11th
tee. The damn thing must have hit some rocks in the bed of Traver Creek and
bounced into the adjacent 13th fairway.
For the second time in less than 10 minutes, all I could say
was, “Are you f*****g kidding me?”
Once again I looked to the sky for thunderclouds.
Still clear.
I threw down a tee to mark the ball and continued to look
for my actual drive. If nothing else, at least I got one of my new balls back. I
did find my tee shot at the base of the willow tree, it wasn’t sitting pretty, but
at least it was dry. I bogeyed the hole and then marched on, trying to make
pars and trying even harder to stay hydrated.
As luck would have it, I managed to do a good job at both.
Despite only making three pars in the 13 previous holes, I rattled off two in a
row on numbers 14 and 15, and then I birdied #16. It was after the birdie when I realized I had
been adding up my score wrong I actually was only 4 four over par instead of 5
over.
That was when it dawned on me that I could still post a
palatable score despite my “other.”
“Wow, if I par in I’ll safely avoid looking like an idiot.”
I thought to myself as I pegged the tee in the ground on # 17, a par three over
the huge pond that feeds, you guessed it, Traver Creek.
I hit a good tee shot safely over the water onto the green
for a routine two putt for par, but #18 has always been anything but routine
for me, a real ass-kicker if ever there was one. At 436-yards and bone
straight, it’s not much to look at. It’s a long hole for me if I don’t hit the
ball in the fairway, and the strong headwind I was facing made it play even
longer. When I hit a complete piece of crap off the tee well into the deep
rough 20-yards right of the fairway, it got longer even still.
After the tee shot, I safely conceded the fact that making par
was out of the question. I just wanted to avoid something much higher. I wasn’t
even going to try to hit the ball out of the 8-inch rough with anything other
than a short iron to try and save my aching left hand further aggravation.
I chopped an 8-iron 100 yards out of the rough, but over the
fairway and into the deep rough on the left side of the fairway, still 100
yards short of the green. From there I gouged the ball out of the deep grass
with a wedge and watched with delight as it rolled just off the back of the
green.
“Good,” I said to myself. “I shouldn’t be able to screw this
up too badly from there.”
For whatever reason, I was feeling a bit fresher now. It was
my third straight hole walking into the wind, so the sweat that had been running
off my body like a faucet; slowed to a trickle as I lined up what would be my last putt of the day. As I sent that sweat-coated Titleist on its 40-foot
journey to the bottom of the cup for an improbable par to conclude the most
memorable … hell, the greatest round of my entire life … all I could do was
chuckle and say.
“Are you f*****g kidding me?”
Then I looked up to see if there were any thunderclouds
overhead.
The sky was still clear.
The sky was still clear.
(P.S. Just for fun, I went back to where I found my original
tee shot from #11 in the 13th fairway and played it out to see if I
could have done better than the 11 I made the first time around. I made a bogey
6 for what should have been a 71 – a better score, but nowhere near as
memorable.)
it's a 72 in my book [the hole in one would have stopped just short had you not been coming off an 11], and I bet Don Yost agrees...
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