Month: August 2015

Golf tees are like rabbits. I have no idea why I have 40 in my bag nor do I know where they come from. Our club supplies tees made of corn starch, so I guess in famine or a nuclear war I could melt done 100 for a nice soup. Probably would need a little salt. The history of the tee is short and boring: small dirt mounds, the peg and the modern tee. I could even pass that test!

Even with a gazillion in our bag, after every tee shot we search for the tee like we’ve dropped a gold bar. Sometimes the rest of the group watches the tee instead of the ball to ensure one is never lost and to act like we’ve done the golfer such a huge favor!

My brother Jack wears glasses. About 15 years ago he and I were playing with one of my regulars now – LJ. Bro was standing about 20 feet behind LJ. At impact the tee flew straight back and hit Jack square in glasses. Another dangerous golf projectile!

I bet this has happened to every golfer. You’re in a hurry to start, you reach into your bag for 10 ball marks, 3 repair tools and 12 tees. Why do we need all that? In your haste a tee impales that tender little spot below a fingernail. If it hasn’t happen to you, it will.

But once there was a tee that refused to break or be lost. Another regular of our group, Sam, likes brown wooden tees. Just a preference. It’s his one salute to old school golf, well, except the 3 wood in his bag that he found in the corner of his garage one day. Must be 30 years old. He has no idea where it came from but he can kill it.

This tee defied all rules of the universe. It never broke. He swears he played 180 holes with it. For you English majors that’s 10 rounds. It did start chipping around the top. And it chipped and it chipped. Soon the top was the same diameter as the post of the tee. It was nearly impossible to balance the ball for a drive.

On a par 5 one day Sam (6′ 2″) spent several minutes trying to get the ball to balance. He bent over so long that he had a terrible head rush and simply fell back and sat down on the tee box. His face looked like a fine burgundy for 5 minutes!

Sam finally retired it. It’s now encased in a shadow box in his man cave. The Golf Hall of Fame continues to call him for the tee.

 

Most golfers fight a slice their entire golf life. Why? If we’ve got 2 hours we can discuss it. But there’s one basic reason: no turn. Watch a 10 handicapper and you’ll see that the left shoulder (or right shoulder for you lefties) gets close to or maybe a tad behind the ball. Watch a scratch player or a pro and the shoulder is significantly behind the ball, setting up an inside attack – hence a swing path and ball flight to the right and at worst a straight shot. Maybe even a slight draw (a dream of mine).

My Dad had a “nanner” that caused him to practically aim out of bounds to the left! But he had the sweetest short game in the world. His nickname was “Shug”.

A close friend cuts across the ball on every drive and sometimes his left foot winds up a step to the left. But he powers through the ball and usually lands long, splitting the fairway. And he can make a 2 putt from Mars. Doesn’t matter if his lag is 12 feet short or long. In our group his last name is synonymous with a ridiculous 2 putt. But bless his heart if he can do it!

Call it a banana ball, a bad cut or fade or whatever, it’s been bank for club pro lessons forever!

But the sum total of many other little irritants in golf may be more frustrating that that cursed ball flight.

First the course damage left behind by lazy or inept players:

• The front end loader scoops left on tee boxes. I understand divots on a par 3 but on a par 4 or 5 tee box?!?  We all hit a dropkick once in a while. But ever notice a gouge on a tee box that goes nearly perpendicular to the fairway? It defies physics! Don’t most carts have sand jars?

• Fairway divots. The worst things next to ball marks on a green. Again, use the sand jar! Or replace the turf. Would you leave that in your backyard? Well maybe you would. I have a friend that took such deep divots that we called him “backhoe”. I played with a co-worker that scooped such a deep divot that he held it up and called a beaver pelt! Playing with the company President!

• The unraked sand trap. I admit it’s taken me multiple attempts to exit a trap. And I’ve had to rake a trap the size of Myrtle Beach.  I was in a footprint last weekend that was left by Sasquatch!

• And the worst, as mentioned above, ball marks on greens. Repair tools are really not that heavy. I’ve never seen one that didn’t fit in a pocket. For God’s sake at least use a tee! I guess for a guy that’s 97 or has a gut like they swallowed a red, white and blue ABA ball, it’s not easy to bend over 3 feet. We have one particular green that always resembles the artillery range at Fort Bragg. One day I fixed over 20 ball marks, forgot where my coin was for my own shot and bent over so many times that it took 10 minutes for blood to get back to my feet.

The leaning flag. Are players in that much of a rush to leave the green? OK, you 4 putted from 12 feet or you missed a 2 footer or you hit the green before the ball, but put the stick in the cup – straight.  I’ve seen flagsticks leaning like they were in New Orleans during Katrina.

OB markers, or cart entry or exit stakes or rope poles. Did you hit it so badly that you don’t have 10 seconds to replace the stake? Speaking of stakes, we have 4 x 4 red post where you drop for a pond. A friend was 50 feet or so directly behind it and had 200 yards to go. He’s a big boy. He hit a 3 wood, it hit the stake and came back and him square in the _____.  3 groups played through with him flat on his back! The post didn’t need to be replaced, but I’m just sayin’.

This list is endless. Duffers, take heed!

Golfers are an imaginative lot. It’s because there’s a ridiculous amount of time between anything resembling action. We walk (or ride or push and pull) and talk, or think to ourselves about the horrible duck hook or top we just made or the rare beauty we just hit. Some of the funniest, most clever and entertaining conversations in my life have originated on the links. Especially with the knuckleheads in my group.

We name putts (usually with degrading feminine names – sorry). We name eccentric members awful things. We name certain clubs. And of course we name certain kinds of shots. As mentioned above there’s the greenie, the sandie and the barkie (off a tree). The catch is that one needs to make a par to claim the “trash”. I’ve seen more violent arguments than Custer and the Sioux over those claims.

But there’s one type of trash I’ve only seen once.

Our club has a par 3 that’s more deceptive than Joseph Stalin. An innocuous little hole that’s seemingly easy – a simple 7 iron from the whites. But between the reds and the absolute front edge of the green is turtle-infested, algae-covered, evil-looking water. Just water, not lava, it’s not boiling, it’s just water. But the green drops off 7 feet to a rock-lined bank that can resemble the Grand Canyon to the duffer on the tee. To boot, the lake angles way away to the left and drinks the slight pull or the hook. I’ve seen men cry on that cruel 3 acres – 2.99 being water!

I play with pretty good to pretty lousy golfers. Me leaning to the lousy side. I honestly can’t remember all four balls in a foursome clearing the water. Oh yeah. To the right is another pond, smaller, making the geography an isthmus leading to the green. I can’t even pronounce that word sober! So naturally, the bottoms of the lakes tell the endless stories of the tops, fats, duck hooks, dead pulls and other ugly, ugly shots. And the lakes drop off immediately to 10 feet or so. Even with a ball retriever it was like trying to find an honest gypsy.

Pond divers to the rescue! Our club hires Dick and his nephew Larry once a quarter to retrieve balls which they sell to Walmart and other elite golf shops. I guess they clean them in a nuclear plant hot water core and sell them as “used” balls. That’s like calling a fossil fairly old or Siberia a nice size lot.

Larry and his uncle park their little bass boat beside the lake. Now Dick has a wetsuit, scuba, the mask, the whole getup. He dives with a bright flashlight in the lake. Think Monster from the Black Lagoon.  Larry walks on the bottom at the edges and feels the golf balls with his feet. I’ve seen snapping turtles in that water 18 inches long from snout to tail tip. Larry is barefooted. It’s a lost big toe waiting to happen.

I saw Dick and the Rhodes Scholar at the lake just last week. Dick was on the bank shaking off the abyss and Larry was slowly moving around, head above the water. It was 95 degrees. I thought Larry was part of the grounds crew.

So I hollered “getting cooled off?”

“Nope, hunting balls” Larry deadpanned. My playing partner nearly fell into the lake laughing!

So about 6 years ago Steve I were playing this infamous little torture chamber of a golf hole. Dick had parked the boat on the right edge of the lake. He was submerged and Larry was walking the bottom. We approached the tee.

“Wait for ’em?’ asked Steve.

“Nah, just hit, they know the danger” I calmly responded.

Steve is a 6′ 2″, 220. He can kill it!  I hit a 6 or a 7 at #3 and he hits a full wedge. “Screw it, they’ve probably been hit a million times”, mumbled the big guy.

He won #2, so Steve’s up. Slowly he makes his turn and hits the ugliest shank you’ve ever seen. It hit the little ship square in the hull, bounced 50 feet in the air and landed on the isthmus. We gaze at each other in amazement and the rifle shot made Larry lose his footing and disappear into the muck.

“Well, it’s up!” I told Steve.

Shrugging it off, Steve meandered to the right as I walked to the drop area for my swimmer. He hit a soft lob wedge within 5 feet and drained it! For the exceedingly rare “boatie”.

Wonders never cease out there.

Satan was a model child in Heaven. He polished the golden gates weekly but secretly chipped a bit of gold when God wasn’t looking. He spit shinned Moses’ and Saint Peter’s silver slippers daily but left a bit of spit inside just for kicks. Monthly he held God’s mighty staff as the Lord held the gates for the holy entrants, but Satan let it dip now and then.

He forgot a key tenant of Heaven: God knows everything!

In an unprecedented “Reverse Heaven” edict, God declared Satan unfit for the golden temple and cast him back down to earth – into Adam and Eve’s paradise of Eden. He was pretty pissed off.

As Satan sat beneath the now famous apple tree, the serpent slithered to him and hissed “Whassup Dev?”

Satan told his story of dismissal and the serpent replied: “I got an idea – sell Eve on one these apples and we’ll screw it all up for ’em!”

The Devil lit another Marlboro, adjusted a crooked horn and downed his 4th martini. He thought about the serpent’s scheme. “What could be an even more sinister and frustrating curse on humanity?” he mumbled quietly. “The Plague, a 40 day flood, Hitler?

Then he remembered when he and Saint Paul would sneak to the far meadows of Heaven and smack around stones with their wooden canes. Occasionally the stone flew long and straight but much more often Paulie took a peek and topped it – Satan had a dead hook.

Back on earth: “Wait, wait, wait” Satan screamed. “Forget the apples!. I have a much worse curse in mind!”. Satan explained the cane and stone game, the serpent loved it and chucked the apple theory.

That afternoon Adam and Eve approached the apple tree and found Satan and his partner in crime just finishing a 12 pack. “Let me taste the apple” begged Eve. The serpent: “Eve, forgot to tell you that the apples are rotten and wormy. Hey Adam betcha can’t hit that peach tree with this cane and stone.”

Now see, Adam was a little arrogant. He’s got this trophy wife Eve, he’s running around naked (Eve digs it) and he has unlimited freedom. And he loved a dare. “Gimme that cane, stand back and be quiet” he demands of the serpent.

Adam took dead aim, hurried his backswing and misses the stone by a foot. Satan: “Try it again, you looked up”.

Adam weakend his grip and missed again…and again…and again. “This is too hard. Where are the apples!”

“Oh no, it’s a magical game, you’ll get the hang of it” encourages Satan. “One more swing. Trust me.”

Now Satan is Satan, and he still has his heavenly powers.

Adam approached the stone, waits, steps back to find a blade of grass two feet in front of the stone for his line and takes a smoothe, steady backswing. At that moment Satan spreads his hand and places his spell on the stone. Adam hit the cane’s sweet spot and finished with a high arcing follow through. The stone flew to the right and drew directly into the peach tree’s trunk, shaking the tree and dropping hundreds of the fruit.

“Beauty” screamed the serpent. Eve clapped softly. “Of course I hit it – good cane selection” bragged Adam. Over and over and over he hit the peach tree, even with less cane and a crosswind. “I like this, it’s easy.”

Satan took them to the Elysian Fields and designed a four-hole course. Adam played daily and Eve followed him, eventually whittling her own set of canes from the blonde persimmon tree. They played every day and always played below par.

Satan and the serpent caddied for them with gleams in their eyes. Adam slowly developed a slice and Eve gradually lost her short game. They worked hard on their games, often hitting stones until the dim of dusk. They read Satan’s little red book. They became golf addicts!

Eve gave birth to four kids and they all learned how to play “cane stone”. Their oldest child Rolf called the game “rolfie” which was shortened to “rolf” and it morphed to “golf”.

Rolf begat Cane, who begat Able, who begat Moses and the game spread like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the Red Sea! Saint Andrew designed and built a 15 hole course in Scotland, Old Tom redesigned the golf club, a guy named Jack rewrote the game and golf exploded. So did the cursing, the time away from the families, the wasted money on all things golf related, the divorces and occasional suicides.