I want to make it clear that I am a lousy golfer. To be honest, I judge the success of my rounds based on how many balls I lose. If I sacrifice fewer than six balls to the golf gods, I consider it an acceptable round.
As much as I enjoy the game, I’ve never put in the time and effort (and money) to get better. I’m the guy who swings by a discount store to pick up a driver for $20 because in my previous round I snapped the head off my driver when I teed off. I’m pretty sure the head went farther than the ball.
None of this is to say I’m dangerous to be around on a golf course. I’ve never hit a single person with a golf ball. I have hit a cart. And a small cabin. And a barn. But not a single person has been injured because of my capricious hooks and slices.
It was going to be a time of father-son bonding with my son Morgan, who was 21 at the time. By that I mean we would bond over crappy shots and creative swearing.
I’ve had the same clubs for more than 20 years. Never had any of them regripped. I’m not really sure I know how or where to get that done. I use cheap golf balls. Bright golf balls. Golf balls that can be seen in the bushes and pine straw; anyone can find a golf ball in the fairway.
I am capable of hitting a solid golf shot. I’m just not consistent. And that capability shone through on a beautiful October day in 2014 at Jamestown Park Golf Course, just southeast of my home in Greensboro, North Carolina.
The first three holes – two par-4s and one par-5 – produced the expected results of double and/or triple bogeys. And a couple of lost balls. Which brings us to the par-3 fourth hole, a majestic 123-yarder with bunkers guarding the front left and right.
After waiting for a foursome to clear the green ahead of us, we debated which club we should use. The debate included the merits and drawbacks of every club from a wedge to a 3-wood (I never want to come up short on a par-3).
I finally settled on a 9-iron. I don’t remember why.
Anyway, I jabbed my tee into the ground with only the very top poking out, plopped the ball on top of it and then immediately began doubting my club choice. Deciding that at my level of hacker it really wasn’t going to matter, I reared back and swung away. I might’ve closed my eyes.
Going against the norm – and physics – the ball went straight. And it went up, in a beautiful arc. It didn’t scream across the ground or off to the right and over the fence onto one of the local soccer fields. It was a legitimate, honest-to-goodness golf shot! I had always wondered what that would look like.
My eyesight isn’t great, and sometimes I don’t see my ball come down. That’s often because the ball is coming down in the woods, but I digress.
One drawback to a par-3 is that you don’t have a lot of time to watch a tee shot that’s only going 123 yards, and I got my head up just in time to see the ball hit the green, bounce once, and then … disappear.
I turned to Morgan and asked, “Did that go in?”
“I dunno. Maybe? I think it did.”
The foursome ahead of us was no help because they were dallying by the No. 5 tee, so after my son slapped his shot somewhere – I wasn’t paying attention due to my brain being numb at the possibility of an ace – we hopped in the cart and laid down rubber getting to the green.
There I found the beautiful sight of a crater-like ball mark – and no ball. I ran up to the hole and – cue the chorus of angels! – I found my ball nestled at the bottom of the cup like a bright yellow Easter egg that was hiding under all that annoying plastic grass.
We high-fived and whooped a little bit, distracting the foursome at the fifth tee box who still hadn’t teed off, and I proudly fixed my ball mark. Once Morgan finished out the hole we headed to No. 5, visions of 300-yard drives now filling my skull. After all, I had just made a hole-in-one. An ace. I was a golfer! The foursome ahead of us, upon hearing of my brilliant achievement, decided they just had to see how good I was, so they let us play through.
And after putting the hole-in-one ball in my bag for safe keeping, I teed up a new one and confidently blasted it into the fairway – of No. 7.
Golf is a wicked, evil, vengeful game.
Dan Loman
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