He finished with an 84, and I had a 93—hardly a banner day, but still a personal milestone: the first time I’d played a full round in the company of two total strangers.
No physical violence, equipment abuse or glaring breaches of etiquette had occurred. Not once had I struck my ball out of turn, tromped on a competitor’s putting line or spit during somebody’s backswing. Leibo said that I might easily have been mistaken for a real golfer.
Afterwards, at the kickoff cocktail party, team pairings were handed out. Leibo and I were in the “Masked Bobwhite Quail” flight, based on an assigned combined handicap of 21—a number that we never quite figured out, even after a couple of cocktails.
Tournament handicaps were based on 90 percent of a player’s normal handicap, with a differential of no more than 10 strokes between teammates. Mike’s USGA index of 5.8 converted at Quail Valley to 7, which was reduced by 90 percent and rounded down to 6. Add the maximum 10 strokes and my handicap as his partner should have been 16, 3 below my Course Rating.
For some reason I’d been listed at 15, a discrepancy that I dismissed as insignificant; even with a higher combined handicap of 22, our team would have been slotted in the same flight. Leibo, a wily veteran of best-ball events, tried to explain that the shorting of even a single stroke could potentially cost us several points during the tournament.
A more confident player might have raised the issue with the authorities, but in my brittle mental state the last thing I wanted was another distraction. It seemed fanciful to imagine the final outcome boiling down to a razor-thin handicap disparity. For me, the mere completion of forty-five competitive holes without incident or intervention would rate as a triumph of sorts.
Eventually Leibo and I gave up trying to decipher our handicap status, and turned to the gambling festivities. He said it would be poor form not to bet on ourselves, no matter how astronomical the odds, so we put down $30 in the name of team spirit, and threw another $200 into the flight pool. I also made side bets on two teams in the top flight, each of which had a scratch player.
When the wagering slacked off, the entertainment portion of the program began. The club had hired not one but two stand-up comedians to face ninety-six tired, hungry, thirsty golfers—a brutal gig, even with an open bar.
Leibo and I slipped out shortly after the second comic took the microphone; the guy might have been uproariously clever, for all I know, but what could be funnier than the prospect of two days of tournament golf when you have no short game whatsoever? That was the real joke, and I was my own punch line.
That night, after re-reading some philosophical passages from Dr. Bob Rotella, I finally drifted off to sleep. Serenity and self-confidence did not embrace me. By 2 a.m. I was wide-awake again, tossing restlessly and tormented by flashbacks of sh_ _ _ _ _ wedges.
Fishing tournaments were nerve-wracking, too, but nothing like this. In the backwaters you have the comfort of sequestration; there’s but one angler to a skiff, and you can put as much geography as desired between you and your rivals. The isolation removes all risk of being humiliated in front of your peers; a sloppy cast with a flyrod is likely to be witnessed only by you and your guide, who might or might not offer commentary.
In a golf match, though, players compete side by side. Civilities must be maintained; certain events acknowledged. An opponent’s good shot requires a sincere-sounding congratulation, while a flub becomes a shared yet politely unmentioned experience. There’s no privacy in tournament golf, no tidewater refuge from embarrassment or shame; only naked and undeniable reality, as evidenced by the location of your ball.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw myself banana-slicing a drive into the big lake on No. 9. In desperation I took half an Ambien, which turned out not to be a brilliant move. When the alarm beeped at 6:30, I was a zombie.
In the shower I let hot water drum on my sore hip for five minutes. Then I gulped an Aleve and a Centrum, and put on my father’s wristwatch. Leibo noticed as soon as he got in the car, and asked why I hadn’t worn it on the previous day.
“I didn’t want to waste any good mojo on a practice round,” I explained.
Leibick nodded. “Good idea.”
This time we made it to the golf course with no interference from law enforcement. A sign near the practice green announced the putting speed on the Stimp Meter at 12.0, which is slightly slower than a .45 caliber bullet.
Lining up for the breakfast buffet, I realized that I’d again misplaced my focus-inducing Mind Drive capsules, which Leibo found amusing. After a short search I spied one on the carpet near my locker, wiped it clean and downed it with a glass of orange juice.
The first of the day’s three nine-hole matches started on No. 14, a reachable par-5 when the wind is favorable. However, the morning was dead calm and I was swinging like a stoned circus bear. The first two competitive golf shots of my adult life dribbled harmlessly along the fairway, and I was out of the hole by the time the others reached the green.
Our opponents, whom we will call Dick and Dave to preserve their privacy, revealed themselves as solid hitters and keen-eyed putters. Quickly they went up 2–zip. “We got ’em right where we want ’em,” Leibo cracked, but I couldn’t relax.
The scoring was straightforward: Best ball won the hole and one point; in the case of a tie, each team received a half-point. Another point was awarded for winning the match.
Because of my handicap rating, I would be “stroking” on four of the nine holes, which meant a bogey was as good as a par, a par was as good as a birdie, and a birdie was as good as an eagle. The objective is to capitalize on such opportunities, but whenever I was stroking, I was choking.
On our fourth hole, I missed a three-footer that would have won a whole point. The putt wasn’t exceptionally difficult, but I stood over the ball with rubbery arms for what felt like slow-motion eternity—and then I pulled it.
Not exactly grace under pressure.
On the very next hole, I drained a thirty-footer that turned out to be meaningless, and on the hole after that I twice knocked my ball in the water. It was a shambling gagfest.
Leibo picked up the slack as best he could, but Dick and Dave were unflappable, save for one glorious moment. We were down 5–2 with two holes remaining when Leibo dumped his tee shot in a collection area on a sneaky uphill par-3. I sh_____ my 6-iron into a distant stand of dense, spiky cover that Delroy implored me to avoid, on account of snakes. I found my Titleist (unplayable, of course) and snatched it out of the vines.
Trudging toward the green, I was surprised to see Leibo with a putter in his hand. His ball lay at the bottom of a grassy slope, at least seventy feet from the cup. I’d figured he would try a lob and hope to hold it on the glassy green, which sloped away dramatically.
Putting from such a scruffy, faraway lie seemed dicey, but Leibo knew what he was doing. The ball trundled up the hill, coasted down the crest, kissed the stick and dropped for a bird. It was a beautiful thing to see.
Leibo grinned. I clapped. Delroy let out a cheer.
Dick and Dave were stunned, but gracious.
The magic didn’t last. We demolished the next hole and dropped the match 7–3. By way of a summary, Leibo said, “We played that nine like a couple of ax murderers.”
He was charitable to employ the collective pronoun. It was I who had murdered our chances, failing to scrape out a single par. Not one. Nada.
Under the circumstances, though, my composure was exemplary—I didn’t cuss, shriek, howl, sob, gnash, froth at the mouth, throw any clubs, break any clubs or feloniously insert any clubs. No matter how poorly I was striking the ball, I marched the course with a grim and unflinching stoicism that would have made my Norwegian forefathers proud. I behaved as a true gentleman golfer, which isn’t easy when one is playing like a spavined troglodyte.
The second death march of the day began on No. 3, a treacherous, bunker-pocked par-5 with a formidable carry over a broad lake. Our new adversaries were, for the purpose
s of this account, Jimmy and Joe, big bombers who hydrated themselves with one beer per hole. Joe puffed cigars, wore knickers and smacked the ball a country mile; later we found out that his team had won this tournament three years earlier.
I started off wretchedly, plowing my drive into the water. I struck the second one well, then killed a 3-wood to the front of the green. I was lying four and still very much in the hole, which we ended up halving. Delroy grinned and said, “There’s still a lot of golf to play. Anything can happen.”
Gradually, I started swinging better and even saved us a half-point here and there. On the sixth hole Leibo gutted another birdie putt, turned to me and winked. “Game on,” he said.
The match was dead even when we approached the final hole, a 165-yard par-3 over water. The infamous “Gale Valley” wind had kicked up perniciously, and the flagstick was tucked far back on the green. Delroy said the shot was playing at least 185.
Some sort of heavy mojo was in the air. From the tee I could see one of the bald eagles, hunkered over a fish at the edge of the lake. On the opposite shore was my good-luck gator, snoozing in the sunshine. I glanced down at my wrist and sentimentally tapped the face of Dad’s watch.
Delroy handed me the 4-iron, a weapon that in my possession produces a startling variety of flight patterns. For once I hit it both high and straight, the ball stopping eighteen feet from the flag. A momentary silence enveloped the tee box; nobody, least of all me, seemed able to absorb what they’d seen.
It was Delroy who finally said, in typical understatement, “That was the right club, captain.”
Walking toward the green, Leibo reminded me that I was stroking on the hole; a par was a birdie. Then he added, “You’re gonna hate me for saying this, but it’s the truth: The hardest thing to do in golf is try to two-putt for a win, just cozy it up to the hole. But that’s what I want you to do, okay?”
The hardest thing in golf? Is that all?
“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” I said.
The other team wasn’t in bad shape; Jimmy had skied one into the lake, but Joe’s ball was on the back fringe, no more than twenty feet away. He stroked a superb putt that barely missed on the low side, and we gave him the par.
I did a convincing imitation of a Lamaze patient while Delroy, a genius at reading greens, studied my line. “Right edge,” he said. “It’s downhill but into the wind. Play it like a flat putt.”
A flat putt for a flatliner. Perfect.
Teetering over the ball, I felt fuzzy. I tried to visualize the ideal path and speed, but what appeared in my mind’s eye was the image of my Titleist speeding away crazily, like a raindrop sliding down a windowpane.
I held my breath and struck the ball.
My aim was true, but I didn’t give the damn thing enough gas. It died three feet from the cup. When I glanced anxiously at Leibo, he shrugged—no gimme, but safe. He had a ten-footer for birdie, and I was confident that he’d bury it and get me off the hook.
But, startlingly, Leibo’s putt didn’t drop. The whole match depended on mine.
“Back of the hole, pro,” said Delroy. “Don’t be short.”
If I’d learned anything about my golf game during the past eighteen months it was this: The longer I stare at the ball, the more likely I am to botch the shot.
So I made a brisk and radical decision to take my brain out of the process—a strategy that I highly recommend. With uncharacteristic resolve and no cognitive activity whatsoever, I stepped up to the putt and sank it for the win.
Leibo was ecstatic. “How’s the old sphincter now, partner?” he crowed.
Delroy chucked me on the shoulder. “Good putt, mon. Good putt.”
Winning felt terrific, but I knew it was a high that couldn’t last. What I didn’t know was how low I could go in the other direction.
Our final match of the day was set on Quail Valley’s devious back nine, and pitted us against two more guys (call them Rob and Roger) who were impossible not to like. On the second hole I pounded a big drive and—avoiding the 56 degree wedge as if it were a hot poker—I stubbed what was meant to be a cute 7-iron punch. Quite by mistake, the shot morphed into a bumpy eighty-yard putt that died pin-high. From there I made par and we won the hole.
Early on, our team was looking strong. Leibo and I covered efficiently for each other; even when we both stumbled, we scored. Both of us three-putted for bogeys on the par-514th, yet we still won it. Heading into the tough final stretch, we led by 3½ points and, for the first time all day, we felt in control.
The most humbling stretch of the course is the last four holes, and I was getting a stroke on each of them. Translation: Choke-mania.
I three-putted No. 15, which cost us a point. On No. 17 Leibo’s tee shot veered into the lake, so it was up to me to carry the load—and I blew that hole, too.
Meanwhile Roger had gotten downright deadly on the greens. He was using a Viagra-blue ball and putting sidesaddle, a style popularized by Sam Snead in his later years. It worked rather well. Approaching the last tee, he and Rob now were only one down.
Both struck nice drives, as did Leibo and I. It was my second shot that was extraordinarily vile, an ankle-high screamer that slammed into the second of three bunkers below the elevated green. With no trouble at all, I blasted my ball into one of the other traps, and from there flung it cleanly over the putting surface.
Leibo’s third shot, a short lob, dropped sweetly on the front edge, bit for one teasing nanosecond, then rolled all the way back down the hill and stopped near his feet. He shook his head, pitched up again and nearly holed it for a par.
With the pin location on the first tier, my only chance of saving victory was a sixty-foot downhill chip from the rough above the upper level. As far as I know, that ball is still rolling.
Roger, who was also stroking, canned his par putt and won the hole for his team. The match ended in a 5–5 tie, which stung as badly as a defeat. “We dropped 3½ points in four holes,” Leibo noted glumly. “That’s not too good.”
He was more annoyed with himself than with me, but he was also too classy to state the obvious: I flopped when he needed me to hang tough. I was, in fact, baggage.
Mercifully, there was no documentation of individual scores. Because of the best-ball format, one (and sometimes both) of us picked up if the hole was settled before we could putt out. The way I’d collapsed in that third match, I’d have been lucky to break 50.
It was withering to recall that only six months earlier I’d played those same nine holes at 4-over-par—whatever happened to that guy? Where the hell did he go?
“We’ll get ’em tomorrow, doctor,” Delroy said with a consoling nod, and lugged away our bags.
Later, beers in hand, Leibo and I approached the scoreboard to assess the damage. As incredible as it seemed, we were only three points behind the leaders in our flight.
“A miracle,” Leibo murmured. “We actually have a chance.”
Even after walking twenty-seven holes, I wasn’t as tired as I’d hoped to be. Sleep came fitfully, once again with visions of sh_ _ _ _.
The next morning, we arrived at Quail Valley early. To get the mojo juices flowing, I purchased a new hat and a new glove. The Mind Drive capsules had been a total bust, but I swallowed another one in the hope that an accrued dosage might work better.
Two nine-hole matches remained, and the opener began on No. 9, a dogleg par-4 that in previous rounds had given Leibo fits. Our opponents were a father-son team that was doing well in our flight. Senior was a sharp putter; Junior was raw power.
It was another magnificent day, clear and calm, the fairways shimmering with dew. We had the honors and, knowing I was a basket case, Leibo told me to go first. He said it would be good for my confidence. I considered teeing up with my left hand, as the Leadbetter coach had suggested, but my fingers were too shaky; both mitts were required to erect the ball properly.
The hole starts uphill, banks downward to the left and then rises agai
n to a knoll where the slender green is situated. I purposely set up off center, aiming to shave the corner, clear the crest and get a friendly roll on the downslope. Stunningly, that’s what happened. I hammered the piss out of the ball, leaving myself 108 yards to the flag. The tee shot is worth recounting only because it proved to be the highlight of my whole match, and I squandered it.
What followed was a skulled punch, a bladed pitch, two flails in a bunker and a sheepish pickup. Leibo barely missed a six-footer for par, and already we were down a point.
On the following hole I made six-for-five, which helped us not at all. Next came a par-3 that I’d been playing well—and sure enough, I landed a 5-iron inside of Junior’s ball. Because I was getting a handicap stroke, a two-putt would have won the point for us.
The green was devilishly fast, and I was facing a twenty-footer. “Just tap it,” Delroy said, and I took the advice literally.
The ball rolled perhaps six feet. Under more casual circumstances it might have been humorous, but not at that moment. I ended up three-putting, so we halved the hole.
From then on it was a nonstop bloodbath. My next four tee shots were, in order: dunked, topped, sliced out of bounds and beached on the bank of a drainage ditch. Mojo-wise, the new hat was worthless; even Dad’s gold watch couldn’t spark a rally.
Before long, my role in the match diminished to that of a ghost. Senior and Junior forgot about me, and concentrated exclusively on beating Leibo. Occasionally Delroy would have to remind them, for their own safety, that I was still walking the course.
On the next-to-last hole, the 520-yard par-5, I recovered from a poor drive with two good shots in a row—a veritable hot streak. Leibo and I were both eying birdie attempts in the fifteen-foot range, and feeling better. That’s when Junior pitched in for an eagle from thirty yards.
Delroy turned to me and shrugged. “It’s just not your day, captain.”