Why I Hate Golf - Part II

Day two of the Club Championship began at 9:37 a.m. on a muggy July day. Damned if I wasn't sweating my ass off before the second hole. Part of that was because I missed a three foot putt for par on the first hole that would have put me one up on the first hole.

Missed another three footer to go one down on the second hole. Where the hell is my putter? I know I put it in my bag. I was seriously thinking about calling Pratas and asking him to bring out his hickory shaft putter, the ol' Billy Barue!

Traded holes back and forth for a spell. I was playing well, but so was the 24 year old kid I was playing against. We came to the eighth, even. He had hacked his way to a double bogey. There I sat on the green, 6 feet from the hole, putting for par. Just lag it close and go one up. It was a sure thing in my mind and his.

Evil putter took over and ran the ball eight feet past the hole. I missed the follow up back, and took a double bogey myself. Damn, we were still even.

Off to number nine, where I blister a drive straight down the fairway to 145 yards from the green. He hits his tee shot into the trees on the left. Great...sweet redemption. God is allowing me to make up for the previous screw up on eight. I pull my next shot left of the green onto a hillside lie. Dammit! He hits a great shot out of the trees to the same place. He hits a crappy short shot onto the green, leaving himself 20-25 feet for par. I hit a nice chip shot to 10 feet. Then evil putter promptly three putts again, to lose the hole. Evil putter takes a flight to the first tee from the ninth green.

We go to the back nine with me down one. Luckily for me, we have to wait on the group in front of us, and I am able to calm down and collect myself. He tees off into the trees on the left, and is dead. Ha ha. Just hit it down the middle and get back even. Breathe deep...find your center...concentrate...smack...hit the ball a whopping 50 yards, barely past the Ladies tees. Fuck!!!!!

Hit it again...50 more yards in the deep rough. Only 225 yards to go to get to the green. I am stomping up to my ball, driver in hand and murder on my mind. Thank God, the group in front of us was still on the green, giving me time to re-think my strategy. My opponent had chipped out of the trees to 150 yards from the green. He lying 2, me 3. Wait Batman...don't make a foolish attempt for the green from 225 yards. Back off and lay up. Let the kid fuck up. I hit a nice hybrid to 15 yards in front of the green. He shanks his into the sand trap. OK...that's step one. Now convert the safe shot. I hit a perfect chip to within one foot of the hole and make bogey. He manages double bogey out of the sand, and we are even again. I can almost hear his 25 year old psyche cracking. Got him...now just play solid from here in and win.

This kid has either been even with me, or one up all day. It is his first Club Championship, and my ninth. I am a sweaty old geezer trying to stay up with this young flat belly. I can feel his young enthusiasm as the holes fall aside, one by one.

On the 14th hole, I take the lead for the first time with a miraculous shot out of the trees, onto the green...10' feet from the hole. I win the 15th with a solid 10' par putt. On 16, I close him out with another solid par. He has lead all day, and I win three straight holes to take the match, with time running out.

You may ask..."Batman, given everything you have written, why have you titled this piece 'Why I Hate Golf-Part II'?" The look on that kids face, as his hopes were dashed by a 48 year old hacker, were hard to handle. He was strutting along, confident in his ability to outlast a bald headed, fat man, and suddenly, his world turned upside down. I had been where he was many times, as grizzled old veterans cranked out miraculous shots down the stretch to beat me. As the latest in a long line of "grizzled old veterans", it really made me feel bad for the kid.

You know what? Fuck him!!! I won!!!