9/9/20

 I should preface this by saying that I worked really hard to prepare for this round. I was sick and tired of playing badly after my last round (not the dream sequence one) so I was determined to practice before shelling out for another futile flaying on the course. So, Carnagie Hall in mind, I practiced, practiced, practiced. Went to the range twice, spent a couple of hours on the practice green perfecting my chipping and sand wedge, even put in some work from the practice sand trap, giving it a full swing just like the pros. And I have to say, I did some productive work. 

Golf is just stupid hard. So many things to think about, probably more than in any other sport. I mean, look at soccer: kick the bouncy ball. Knock it with your head if you have a high pain threshold. When you get a chance, kick it into the goal, a large rectangle guarded by one relatively small human. And all you have to do is kick one or two of those goals and your team will probably win. How about tennis? Hit a very bouncy ball with a tightly strung racquet into a pretty large space. Do it for hours and hours and you'll win. Win one point and you get 15 points! Your score can even be "love." Isn't that sweet? 

But golf, man. Address the ball. ("Hello, ball!") Feet roughly aligned with shoulders. Back straight. Butt out a little bit. Head down.  Don't groove the waggle!  Straight left arm.Think of the plane, like your head is sticking through a plane of glass that goes from your shoulders to the ball. Keep the backswing under that plane. Swing in an arc. Keep your fucking head down already. Let the left knee bend a little to the right. Use the hips to generate strength.  Supinate your left wrist at moment of impact. Follow through. Belt buckle faces the target. Don't breathe, move or fart at any time. Shake hands with your partner before and after the round. Furthest from the hole putts first. Don't step on your opponents putting line. Fade. Draw. Chip, Pitch. Drive. Mashie. Wedge. Yardage. So much to think about! No wonder people like football. Hit your opponent as hard as you can, ideally causing permanent injury or brain trauma. Fall down. Stand up. Huddle and talk about your girlfriends. Fall down some more. Stand up again. Dumb game. 

So I figured, two excellent practice sessions, and I will be magically transformed into a good-golfer instead of a bad-golfer. I think two practice sessions should be enough, don't you? It's like I go to the gym once, boom, I'm in shape. 

But several things happened that should have foretold what kind of round I would have today. First, my buddy Calvin, who was supposed to drive all the way from Concord, NH to Brattleboro to play golf with me, (what a guy, that's my roomie!) told me last night that he had to work and couldn't come. He obstinately ignored my suggestion that he quit his job immediately, which was a bit churlish, I thought. And then on the way to the course I stopped at McMunchies and had a Filet-o-fish. I haven't had a Filet-o-Fish in years; I think it upset my equilibrium. Then when I was in the clubhouse waiting to pay the $14,000 it costs to play a round, I was listening to a couple of duffers complaining to the pro about the handicapping. "Something must be wrong, Mike," whined one, "It should be at 4.5, and it says 6!" "Oh, okay," I thought, now you're just showing off, you jerk." I thought of saying, "Yeah, you bet, it's definately messed up! It's showing 30 for me, and it's supposed to be 4.5!" But I resisted. It did make me feel a bit inferior and uncool, though, and that was the mood I carried to the first tee. 

My first tee shot was actually pretty fine. Straight and fairly long, pretty shape to it, felt nice off the club. I'd led the stroke with my hips, supinated the hell out of my left wrist, and it was a fine little golf shot. Not a 4-handicap golf shot, maybe, but screw those guys anyway. They looked like jerks. Went for my second shot, which has often betrayed me on that hole for some reason, and I hit a beautiful 5-iron just about 20 yards shy of the green. I'm thinking par. I take out my wedge, the sand wedge that I bought over the winter but have not quite mastered yet, and I get ready to pop a nice little chip onto the green just a few feet from the cup. The club had other ideas, however, and the ball shot like a bullet, skimming over the green and landing in the rough on the other side. I chipped out of that but still needed two putts to sink it. Damn. There goes my par. But the first two shots had given me some optimism, and I strode just like a real golfer to the second tee. 

Hit a pretty drive off the 2nd as well, not long enough but in the fairway of the first of the two massive mountains of the 2nd hole. I was off to the right a little, presenting a challenge. The fairway right after that dogleg is extremely narrow, and the angle I was looking at called for a layup of sorts to get it in the right place to approach the green. I pull out an 8-iron and give it a decent hack, then went up and found it right where I hoped it would be, in the middle of that little narrow strip. Just a matter now of giving it a good 6-iron to get close to the green and I'm set. Thinking par. I address the ball again, think of my plane, keep my head down, take my swing and the ball shoots off at a crazy angle. If the hole was 12 o'clock that ball went to about 2:30. And it didn't just dribble, it went off like it had been fired from a RPG. I didn't see a tank or light armored vehicle in the woods but if one had been there it would have been toast. I didn't bother looking for it. What happened? I think I took out my club, addressed, thought of my swing plane but completely forgot to look and see if my club-face was facing toward my target. I think the club-face was aiming for that tank in the woods. Stupid, awful shot. And it all went downhill from there. 

I usually play the third hole pretty well, it's a straight shot, par 4, no real issues, a pretty normal little golf hole. I use my 3-iron off the tee, usually gives me a nice straight trajectory, and a par is not out of the question for this hole when I'm on my game. Well, today I was not on my game. My game got up and walked away with that missile shot on the hill on two. First tee shot went a good 30 feet in the air and a good 30 feet forward from the tee. Not good. Second shot went far to the left, disappearing down the bank toward the 4th green. I had to take two mulligans on that one hole before I used a different club and put it where I wanted it to go. Got it on the green eventually but my putter was in a foul, malevolent, hateful mood and I barely walked away from there with a six. 

Next is a peaceful little par 3 that just sits there meaning no ill will to anyone. I hit a terrible 7-iron that, poetically, almost made it to the fairway of three, matching my drive from three that ended up on four. Not good. But then I hit another and it popped gently on the green about 6 feet from the pin. Drained it for a birdie (forgetting the mulligan.) That was the most fun I had all day. 

Five is one of my favorites. Hit the ball hard off the tee but it arced to the left, landing in some trees. God, how I hate trees. Finding the ball, I saw that I actually had a clear shot to the green, between a couple of trees, if I hit it straight and low. The 3-iron was the answer, I thought, with its low loft, just zap it between those trees and we're good. It didn't zap. It barely got airborne (the technical term, I believe, is "worm-burner,") and bounced its way onto the fairway still far short of the green. Tried my regular wedge, and once again the ball took off in a bizarre direction, far from the direction I desired. I putted and putted and putted before i finally coaxed the ball into the hole. 

Six, another harmless par 4, pretty hole, played it pretty well with an outstanding wedge shot and got a clean bogey, no mulligans, no "practice shots," just a good clean five. 

Seven, that crazy hole that falls off a cliff and then you have the Atlantic Ocean on your right. I was determined not to drown yet another golf ball today. Hit a drive that sliced deep into the trees on the right. Sometimes that's not all bad, depending on the lie, because it gives you a good angle to avoid the ocean and land it on the fairway. But I hit another anyway, just because. Which was a good thing, as it turned out, because when I went to look for my first ball it became clear that Puff the golf-ball eating dragon had found and devoured my golf ball. Nowhere to be seen. So I take my second shot off the second tee-shot, hit it pretty good but dangerously moving to the right. "Oh no," I exclaimed. But my fears were unfounded; the ball was sitting innocently on the fairway a few yards from the crashing waves of the water hazard. No problem, I think, and get ready to hit a masterful five iron down the right side of the fairway and cuddle it up near the green. Once again, the ball goes off at a crazy, insane angle, and drowns sadly and pitifully in the drink, disturbing some indignant ducks. "Well, shoot," I say, (that's not really what I said) and try again. Big ol swing, and sure enough, the ball goes not straight toward the hole but off at about 1:00 o'clock, headed for the water again. "Nooooooooo!" But I hear this funny clacking sound, and didn't see the ball actually enter the water. Went up to investigate. As you can see in the photo below, there is a big white boulder at the water's edge. 

My ball had hit off that big rock, and in the very definition of a Members' bounce, had ricocheted back onto the fairway, where it was sitting with a smug expression on its face. I wasted the good bounce with some terrible short shots and walked away with a number so high only dogs can hear it. 

Eight is another par 3, an odd little hole. Do y'all remember the scene in Breaking Bad, where they put a huge magnet in a truck and it destroys the computer in the evidence room? I'm convinced that someone has installed a golf-ball magnet next to that eighth green, because at least 70% of the time my shot goes wide to the left, landing in roughly the same spot every time. They'd switched the magnet on today, and off my ball went. 

Nine finally came, and not a moment too soon. I was sweaty, frustrated, fatigued and angry at myself that all that practice had resulted in nothing, just another mediocre round. I suck at golf, gentle reader. I. Suck. At. Golf. I hit my drive, and of course sliced the bejeezus out of it. There's a road that runs parallel to the 9th hole, and there was a car toodling obliviously down the road, and for a terrible moment I thought my misguided shot was going to land on the car. It didn't thank goodness, but it was still a terrible shot. I hit another and it was ok, and somehow I finished my round and limped back to my car. Didn't even have a tanq and tonic. 

I don't mean to end on a negative note, but why couldn't I hit it like I was hitting it on the range? When I was practicing I sank two 20-foot putts! Why couldn't I manage a five-footer today? Will I ever see a 45 for 9 holes? Will I ever play well? What is the meaning of life? Will I ever be the one who knocks? 

This is all Calvin's fault. If he'd come I would have had a great round. Also the light was bad. 

Hit 'em straight!