Fairway Follies, Joe Hinson

My father-in-law was a prince of a man and became my surrogate father in the late 70s due to my own father’s illnesses. He was Harold but I called him “H”. His sons and grandsons called him Big Bear. Several years after his 1994 death the guys in the extended family organized a long weekend at Lake Lure, NC for a weekend of golf and libations – 8 of us. We named it the BBC – The Big Bear Classic for H. In spring of 2015 we played the 10^th BBC.

I could write 100 stories about happenings at the BBC but the Twitter police would ban 98 of them. 8 guys, 4 “A” players and 4 “B” players, if there really are 4 of us that are worth a darn. Nephew Jay plans the tournament with the previous year’s A/B team winner defending the title. The other As and Bs are rotated each year. The tourney is played on Friday and Saturday. Carts are crammed with coolers and the golf is ugly but as the Saturday round closes the competition gets fairly tense, believe it or not. And why not? The winners get the jackets!

We totally copied the Masters green jacket idea except these are not green and are admittedly horrible.

I thought we needed the prestige of the coats. The local Goodwill store obliged. One is a dark brown double breasted polyester beauty and the other is polyester lime green with light blue pinstripes. Jack, Arnie or Tiger would gladly trade a green coat for one of these!

In the 8^th grade Mr. Bost taught me English script so each coat’s breast pocket is adorned with “BBC” in that regal font.

After the Saturday round the previous year’s winners present the jackets as if we were in Augusta National’s Butler Cabin. It’s hokey and the jackets are hideous but the winners beam with pride!

One brother is a doctor and several years he was invited to a medical conference at the Homestead in far western Virginia – home of Sam Snead. My other brother and I invited ourselves. We were crammed into a tiny room that barely slept one, so needless to say sleep was at a premium. But it was all the golf you could play in 2.5 days!

As a side story we ate at the Sam Snead Grill one night and sat at a table under a framed full set of golf clubs – an old set of Snead’s. Under each club was a date and location of a hole-in-one that had been made by each club – even the putter!

Toward the end of a Day 2 round a doctor friend of my brother caught up with us. I had won the previous hole and had the honors. That’s when it happened.

I teed the ball slightly low since I have a bit of an upswing. With a mighty effort and an even mighterer peek I must have caught the ball at the very top dimple. The ball dug into the ground about 8 inches in front of the wooden tee, spun for a second or two in the ground and then jumped straight back and landed about 6 inches directly between my tee – the logo staring at me. Einstein couldn’t have defined it!

The 4 of us were in stunned disbelief and suddenly collapsed into laughter. Miracles do happen on the links.

In my last story you met The Shug, a simple brass trophy engraved with my Dad’s nickname – named for his sweet putting stroke. One day The Shug gained a priceless addition.

My brother and I use to both work for SAS Institute in Cary, NC. SAS co-owner Jim Goodnight owns a local golf course that hosts the SAS Open, a regular tour stop for the Senior men. Thursday is a Pro-Am and one year brother Jack and I were invited to play.

We both had early afternoon tee times so we met for a mid-morning breakfast at the Embassy Suites across from SAS HQ. Walking to the buffet we saw a familiar face – Ben Crenshaw. As we passed and spoke Ben asked us to join him. We talked about everything from his career to his fame as a superior putter to raising 3 daughters – like me. Then we told him about my Dad and The Shug trophy and his eyes filled with tears.

Coincidently my brother had The Shug trophy in his car and Ben asked to see it. Holding it Ben acknowledged its small stature and its immense meaning. He asked for a business card and wrote on it “Jack, Joe and Jon. Carry your father’s memory forever” and then signed it. We shook hands and he left.

We attached the card to the bottom of the trophy and it serves as a tribute to Dad and a wonderful 1.5 hours over breakfast.

My Dad was a real character. There will be many more stories about him!

He lived the high life more than he could afford and loved golf. I’ve mentioned before that he had a mean slice but aimed very far left to compensate – and it usually wound up in the fairway, but not always. Around the green he was deadly. He could always chip it close and could 2 putt from Mars. His putting stroke was so sweet they called him “Shug”. 

Shug is the reason my brothers and I play this nutty game. When he died in 1994 the 3 of us played a round in his honor at his home course – Salisbury Country Club in Salisbury, NC. I mentioned he didn’t always control his slice. Along the right side of #1 is a large creek. In its bowels are many of Dad’s golf balls. As a tribute we each tossed a ball into the hazard as we walked by.

In his honor, and when the stars align, the 3 of us play for “The Shug”. It’ a small brass trophy with its namesake engraved. Each round is straight medal play with a double bogey limit to keep the scores sane. For some reason every Shug round usually comes down to the last putt – just like Dad would have wanted.

A “goat track”. Every golfer knows of at least one. It’s a low class municipal or public track. Uneven tee boxes; no definition between fairways and roughs; greens pocked with poa annua weed; no irrigation; no amenities, etc etc etc. You know one or two.

Wolfwood was a classic goat track but very affordable in the 1980s, maybe $15 for a weekend round – including the cart. It attracted the non- country clubbers, the rednecks and the young guys like me that just wanted to bang balls and have a couple of beers. But this weekend was a special one at Wolfwood – the annual 4 Ball Fall Classic.

You and a chum could declare your own handicaps which lured sandbaggers from all over the county. David and I were legit high 80s players and like fools entered actual handicaps. That would come back to bite us really hard in the collective butts.

All match play, it was a 3 day tournament with a first round, semifinals and a final. We won the first round easily, David playing great. We were smoked 10 holes down with 8 holes to play in the final round by guys that usually play in the mid 70s.  Clear cheaters.

This story focuses on the semifinal round.

The day started bright and sunny but deteriorated as the round progressed. Neither of us played well and found ourselves down 4 holes with 4 holes to play. I thought it was over. Things changed in an instant. We caught fire on numbers 15 and 16 and won both – 2 holes down with 2 holes to play.

Thunderclouds rolled over the course with ever-increasing flashes and rumbling. Number 17 was a long par 5 and David birdied it to make the match 1 hole down with 1 hole to play.

Number 18!  A short, 120 yards par 3.  David and both opponents were right of the green and I was dancing, 50 feet away. The 3 of them all chipped to within 10 feet and marked their balls. It was my putt.

As I squatted to check the break a sense of dread came over me. It was all downhill with at least a ten foot break.  I swallowed hard. My 3 putt and an opponents’ one putt ended the match. Raising up I gathered myself just as the lightening flashed and with a simultaneous thunder clap. The storm was upon us.  I addressed the putt again and put a sweet stroke on the ball. Time stood still. The sphere stayed up on the hill defying gravity. 10 feet away it almost stopped, but it didn’t.  Nearly lifeless the sphere started moving again.  I thought it would never make it to the hole.  The flash and boom repeated. The storm started raging. The ball edged down the hill. Another flash and the rain started. Closer. Steady rain. Closer.  Harder rain. And the ball stopped at the lip! Another flash/boom and the Topflight dropped in. We had won the hole and sent the match to sudden death!

At this point the rain was pelting the course as we moved to Number 1.   This was a really stupid hole: a par 4, only 265 yards but it was a blind green, dropping 40 feet to the hole from the crest. I killed my drive and it disappeared over the hill straight at the green.  The other drives were all short of the hill.

At this point Noah was loading the last of the elephants into the Ark. It was a deluge and the flashes were very frequent. I crested the hill to see that my ball was within 2 feet of the hole. I yelled back to David. The opponents heard my scream and dashed back to the clubhouse. David begged me to leave. But I had to finish.

As I made the eagle putt a lightning bolt terrified me.  I sprinted to the cart and beamed at the comeback! As Churchill reminds us, NEVER surrender.

Watching a bad injury or death is a very startling thing! My friend Joe and I almost witnessed such a thing 2 years ago.

Number 5 at our course needs describing.  It’s a short par 4 that can make any golfer seek a shrink or a  half gallon of vodka.

It’s an innocuous, short par 4, maybe 300 yards. Straight away.  But visuals from the tee would make a blind golfer nervous. 2 fairway bunkers that eat slight hooks or long pushes.  A huge lake to the right that’s a 175 yard carry. But the immediate horror is a sheer grassy drop of 80 feet on the left.

As you leave the tee box the cart path runs on a hog’s back between the lake on the right (10 feet away) and the Grand Canyon to the left (10 feet away). But immediately after the tee box a dirt path veers to the left and goes straight down to the bottom of the imposing left bank.

The rider in the other cart hooked his drive to left and they exited left down that little dirt track to search for the impossibly lost ball. They gave up the hunt quickly.

My cart partner and I were parked at the top of the grassy bank and expected the safe exit by our pals. But nooooooo, they drove straight up the hill toward us!

90% of their cart weight was on the back wheels and the driver panicked, turning sideways to the hill. The rider was facing straight up the hill and leaned out like a balancer on a catamaran. “She’s goin’ over” he screamed.

Panicking for a second time the driver steered back up the hill! Then he turned the other way parallel to the hill so that the rider was now facing downhill – his legs pointing straight out. A rollover would have snapped off both extremities like popsicle sticks.

The driver then turned straight down the hill accelerating to top speed!  At the bottom he turned too quickly and almost flipped it again. I watched my friends almost die 3 times in 1 minute!

Just another relaxing day on the links.

If you’ve played golf a while I’m sure you’ve seen your share of near misses and crazy things involving carts.

I have 2 friends that smoke cigars. Big stogies. Between shots and putts the smokes extinguish and need to be relighted 10 times or more. Unless you bring your own ashtray there’s not really a good place for them to rest. I’ve seen burned seats and melted back fenders. But nothing compared to the conflagration on #6 one day.

The 2 smokers, D and P, were in one cart and K was alone in the other. #6 is a bear of a hole – the number 1 handicap. Mostly due to a pond immediately in front of the green with a severe slope to the water. Both D and P employ those torch lighters that could be used for welding or cutting into a safe. As they pulled beside the green each of them fired up their smokes. Unfortunately one of the lighters kept aflame and the right side of the dash melted and burst into flames.

K was near the carts and started screaming “Fire, fire!” He rushed to the lake to fill his brand new Tilley hat with water to douse the flames but slipped on the bank and performed a dead swan dive into the drink. D and P were frozen! Would they save K or save the burning cart? The hell with K, he can swim. A gutted cart would be a big assessment!

Both ran to the bathrooms beside the green for water but it was shut off for the winter. Then the most logical idea came to them: push the cart into the lake! And they did, forgetting that 2 full sets of clubs were strapped to it.

K floundered to the shore and clawed up the bank, shivering and covered in mud. D and P were assessed anyway and the pro shop sold $3000 worth of clubs later that day!

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.