Tag Archives: U.S. Open
Editor’s note: This is part two – and the conclusion – to my historic round (to me) at Oakmont Country Club. Be sure to read part one here. We now return to the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania….
After 40 minutes of hanging out on the porch it is deemed safe to return to the course, and as we walk back out to the fifteenth tee I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll be able to finish our round. One more delay of any significance and daylight could become a factor. And now that I think about it, the last time Dave was invited to play Oakmont was three years ago under the exact same circumstances. He only got in 11 holes that day. Naturally he was only one over when they had to quit.
No. 15 is a 434-yard par 4, mostly straight and gradually downhill but with a strong left-to-right slant over the final 200+ yards. The left side features the “Mini Church Pews” – as in the bunker is only 60 yards in length compared to the more famous pews found between Nos. 3 and 4, which I’m told are well over 100 yards. In fact “they” don’t even make up the largest bunkers on the hole as the right side of the green is framed by a 90-yarder. The green itself is pretty stinkin’ long making club selection a good time. A brilliant hole, really.
Dave and I both pull our tee shots left into the church pews, but while his ball finds sand, mine manages to land on a grassy pew. I get lucky again with my lie but because it is sitting on the very top of the knoll my stance forces me to choke down on the club. At 193 from the pin, I decide to play it smart and kick an 8 iron down the hill and onto the short grass. Amazingly, that’s exactly what I do. I’ve still got it, baby.
Sadly, Dave’s hole is just beginning. His recovery shot from the sand is a little too hot, rifling over the right side of the bunkers and down the severe slope into the deep right rough. His third doesn’t even make it to the greenside bunker on the right and his chip lands on the front edge. The pin is tucked in the back left corner, more than 100 feet away from his ball. This leads to a three-putt and a triple bogey.
Meanwhile, I start to see signs of life in my own game. I burn the lip with a 20-foot putt for par…which is about the most encouraging thing I’ve done all day. And this is not a bad time to gain some confidence.
The sixteenth is a bear of a par 3. It’s 211 yards, only slightly downhill, and has yet another giant green that hangs off the edge of a left-to-right hillside with nothing but death if you miss on the low side. This and the lack of trees in play once again screw with your depth perception and make the flagstick in the right center look like a distant buoy in the ocean. For the first time all day I have the honor (with a bogey mind you) and select a hybrid to attack this green. Still trying to get my heart rate under control I make an exaggerated backswing and tiny pause at the top. I hit the ball squarely and right at the pin. Expecting it to land pin-high (that darn depth perception thing again), the ball hits the front right fringe barely clearing the edge of death, checks up, and somehow doesn’t move more than a few feet. I quietly pick up my tee and breathe a sigh of relief. The other two guys in our group (oh yeah, you did remember we were playing with two others, right?) find trouble down near the out-of-bounds on the right, while Dave’s ball hits the far left side of the green leaving him with about a 60-foot putt for birdie.
I have some time to think about what I want to do with my second shot. The pin is 18 feet away, slightly uphill, and breaks at most a cup to the right. The ball, however, is only an inch from the rough making any backswing problematic. Feeling some renewed confidence in my stroke after nearly sinking the long par putt on No. 15, I choose the putter. Having left far too many putts short today I give it a little extra oomph. It doesn’t break an inch and rolls three feet past the left side. I choose to finish and waste no time cleaning up.
I have my first par of the day. Heads up, Oakmont. Dave three-putts for bogey.
We leave the sixteenth green and walk down the steep hill to find the seventeenth tee. This short par 4 is just plain cool. It’s only 295 yards long but all uphill to a painfully narrow and severely left-to-right sloped green. The fairway loops out to the right from the tee and then snakes up to the left before it disappears behind six bunkers on that side. If one were cocky enough to go for the green there are only five of the deepest bunkers on the course waiting to screw things up, including the biggest one guarding the front right side known as Big Mouth.
My caddie hands me my driver and I look at him like he’s crazy. I’m not going for the green, it’s almost 300 yards up the hill! No, I’m told, the tees are way up and there is at least 30 yards of room between the fairway bunkers and the green. From this distance it’s more difficult to hit the fairway than the green. Everyone else in the group nods in agreement. Um, okay, since I’m on a roll with my one par…
The pin is apparently on the back edge of the green because we cannot see it from the tee. Picking out a spot on the grassy horizon I saddle up with my driver. Another slow and deliberate backswing with the briefest of pauses at the top produces one of the best swings of the day and a solid hit up the right side. My caddie concludes that it’s a little right of Big Mouth in the rough and that I should be fine. Dave follows with almost the exact same shot.
Our golf balls are found in the shaggy rough about fifteen feet apart but a little deeper than our caddie had predicted. From here the green is wide and tilted toward us, but very narrow and lightning fast. Though we’ve both flown Big Mouth, there is another awfully large bunker beyond it with which we must contend. Instructed not to hit it short into the bunker but also not to fly it over the tiny green because of the impossible sand shot with which it would leave me from above the hole (some caddies are incessant optimists…others simply lay out the facts and leave the rest up to you), I pick out the meatiest part of the green and commit to a flop shot. The ball pops straight up into the air, lands safely on the green pin high, and then rolls back all the way to the fringe leaving about 15 feet for birdie.
Dave hits a more direct chip, which lands softly on the fringe and bounces up to about five feet. He’s back on track with a birdie, and I finish up for my second par in a row.
The final hole at Oakmont is unforgettable. The entire hole is visible from the tee as it leads you home to the clubhouse. In fact almost the entire course on this side of the turnpike can be seen from this elevated platform as if to give you one last chance to count all your strokes before making the final stroll home. Luckily we don’t have time for that.
Dave reclaims the tee and hits a solid drive up the right center of the fairway that trickles into the primary cut of rough. My drive is right the whole way and lands a little too close to the white stakes for my heart. After imagining greats like Sarazen, Jones, Snead, Hogan, Nicklaus, and the Mighty Arnold Palmer all hitting drives off this tee to thundering applause, the last thing I wanted to see was my own ball heading for the driving range. It’s an historic tee but I don’t really need to hit from it twice.
I finish the back nine with a bogey and a despicable 46, but with pars on No. 16 and No. 17 and a respectable bogey on one of the most famous and really hard par 4s in the country, I have a little momentum going into my final six holes of the day. Dave makes par and finishes with a 40.
We walk up the hill and around the clubhouse to find the first tee. What a sight. There before you is a pretty sizable chunk of western Pennsylvania. Unfortunately, that view includes very little of No. 1. You can see all of No. 2 in the distance, but only a sliver of this fairway before it disappears over the horizon. The right side of this 441-yard par 4 is lined with tall trees and OB, while five unseen bunkers await your tee shot left of the fairway.
Feeling pumped I connect on my best drive of the afternoon. So thrilled with hitting the middle of the fairway on Oakmont’s opening hole I take a picture of it.
Dave hits the fairway too, but I don’t feel it’s picture-worthy.
My yardage is 199 and (as seen above) the green is nowhere in sight. I walk up to the crest of the hill and peer over the edge. All I can do is grin and shake my head. Not only is the slope of the hill steep but, like No. 10, it continues through the back of the green. Two bunkers collect shots hit short and left, but the green’s true defense is that a ball hit onto the putting surface has almost no chance of staying there.
My caddie recommends backing off at least two clubs. I concur and hit a perfect 5 iron, running after it the moment I make contact to watch it land. It hits about 25 yards short of the green, skips twice, and slowly rolls onto the front left side of the green, 18 feet from the front right pin position. I actually start to strut down the fairway having every intention of birdieing this world-class hole.
That’s when we hear the sirens again. Wha? No, not now. Not when I’m finally putting it together!
We reluctantly leave our golf balls where they are and take cover in the shelter we visited earlier in the round next to No. 9 tee. Already inside the shelter is another foursome, and after just a few minutes I think I’ve discovered who’s responsible for all the empty coolers throughout the course today. Holy cow are these guys having a good time today. Thankfully the delay lasts only 15 minutes and we can leave the party behind. It’s 5:10pm and we have five more holes to go – another delay and we can kiss our full round goodbye.
I take par on No. 1 with a near miss for birdie on the low side. RPFD. So back across the PA Turnpike to a super short 325-yard par 4. No. 2 is a popular hole to watch when the pros are playing because it’s so short and the temptation to go for the green is so great. During the Saturday round of the U.S. Open, BJ, Mike, (you remember those guys, right?) and I managed to get a decent spot near the second tee box when Tiger’s group came through. I’m not the biggest Tiger fan (whereas some of my pals seem to think golf history began in April 1997) but even I can admit the man has a certain aura about him when he’s at the office. He also knows how to manipulate a crowd.
Standing on the edge of the tee for almost a full minute, staring a hole into the middle of the second fairway, he had his hand on the rim of his golf bag. There must have been 800 people in this tiny area of grass wedged between the tee and No. 8 green, and yet you could have heard a pin drop. In fact, I’m pretty sure they stopped traffic on the turnpike for Tiger’s tee shot. Finally, his hand rises. He grabs the top of that silly tiger head cover and pulls out the driver. It sounded like Jerome Bettis had scored a touchdown. Even I started cheering. He then went on to make a riveting par.
As did I. One over in the last five holes.
Finally, we get to the most sacred stretch of sand in the world: the Church Pews. Everyone who loves golf has heard of them and yeah, sure, they sound great. Let me tell you, when you see them in person they are magnificent. Not only do they come into play off the tee on No. 3, but you turn right around and face them again on No. 4. The bunker complex is roughly 125 yards in length and as much as 35 yards wide, taking up the entire stretch between the third and fourth fairways, and unlike the “mini” pews on No. 15 that have nice lush, grassy knolls poking up through the sand, you can forget about advancing the ball up the fairway if you happen to land on one of these pews.
Should you find the fairway off the tee – there are only five large bunkers on the right side and a closer-than-you-think OB beyond them – you still have to land your second shot on top of an elevated green that shockingly is not referred to as “The Altar.” Kinda seems obvious to me; the pews are even pointed in the right direction!
It’s a 390-yard hole and my good drive leaves me with a 162. The green, though very large, is tricky to hit. A ball hit to the front third or the back edge will fall right off the table and leave you with a 20-yard pitch on either side. I hit a beautiful 6 iron that scares the flagstick on the back left portion of the green, but it’s a little too hot and skips just off the left edge into the rough. This is followed by the worst chip of the afternoon and three painful putts. Out of respect for the famous bunker I keep my expletives in check.
From the fourth tee I can see the last three holes of my day in their entirety. All I need to do is par out and I can still break 90 – usually a terrible thought but one that didn’t seem possible just two hours ago. I’m finally playing to my capabilities and it’s time to finish strong. The par 5 before me is 512 yards long for the humans and 610 yards for the pros. The tee shot must be struck down the hill to a ridiculously narrow fairway that runs between the Church Pews on the left and five deep bunkers on the right. A sudden surge of confidence in the Diablo has me aiming over the left edge of the bunkers – well clear of the pews again – where the fairway doglegs right and continues its long narrow path toward the green. I hit another great drive right over the right edge of the fairway that draws nicely and bounds up the middle of the immaculate short stuff. I am in golf heaven right now.
The green cannot be seen over the crest of the hill and my caddie spends the next 30 seconds pointing to spots on the horizon indicating where the remaining eleven bunkers are lurking. With 260+ yards left, there is no reason for me to go for the green. I hit an easy 4 iron that flies up the right middle of the fairway and ends up in the primary cut of rough a few yards past the first set of giant bunkers. The pin is on the front right part of the green. Naturally I hit my sand wedge to the back left. Three more putts for a bogey. RPFD.
No matter how much my game heats up I still can’t putt to save my life. I’ll have to birdie one of the next two holes to break 90. Sure, no problem.
No. 5 is a great great par 4. The dogleg left is only 349 yards long but the fairway ends after 290 of them, giving way to a thick, grassy depression with ditches and all sorts of bad things waiting to hide your ball. The green is an island beyond and above all this nastiness. Not to sound like a broken record but there are seven very large bunkers guarding either side of the landing area, and five more around the green. During the Open we sat behind this green in the grandstands watching pro after pro hit amazing shots to the middle of the green that slowly trickled past the pin and rolled off the back into one of the bunkers. I remember staring at the one foot of fringe that stood between the garage floor of a green and two miniature bunkers just inches below it thinking I’m glad I’m up here stuffing my face with hotdogs and not playing in front of all these people.
After Dave drives his ball a little off line and into the right rough between the second and third bunkers, I follow with yet another solid draw down the middle of the fairway. That would be my fifth fairway hit in a row and (having already played Nos. 7 through 9) six of seven on the front nine.
Why am I 20-over-par again?
Dave has no trouble finding the green on his second shot out of the rough but has left himself with more than 30 feet of undulating fun. From above, the green looks a lot like a footprint. Very narrow in the front and wide in the back. The right side is perfectly straight while the left side wiggles out to meet the back left side. All corners are rounded. You know, exactly like a foot. (I can get longwinded sometimes. He says after 7,000 words…)
It suddenly dawns on me how little time I have left to play on this historic course and before I step up to my second shot I take a few extra practice swings. I pretend to study the terrain and the trees (three holes away near the turnpike) as if these things will tell me something that will help me with the way I play my shot. I unnecessarily repeat the last thing my caddie tells me in the form of a question. I don’t want to be short or left? He responds, “….right…that’s what I said.” Right. I step up to the shot and glance up at the flag twice instead of just once. An extra waggle. I take my 9 iron back slowly, pause ever so slightly at the top, and come through the ball perfectly. I watch – and pose – as the ball lands right next to Dave’s ball and rolls a few feet closer. Ah, I could get used to this. Dave makes a great lag and taps in for par. I burn the high edge for birdie, pretend to be shocked that it didn’t drop, and then gladly tap in for another par.
Our final hole of the day is No. 6, a 168-yard par 3. The tiny green is slightly elevated from the tee and is all carry over another valley of deep rough. There are two long and narrow bunkers short and left, two smaller ones off the back left edge, and one giant bunker all along the right that is almost as big as the green itself. The severe right-to-left tilt and the way it sits on the hill guarded by the bunkers for some reason makes it look really small. I select a 4 iron. Hey, the tee markers are back a little today, and it’s uphill, and it’s been raining, a little, so stick it. I draw it a little too much and hit the left fringe only to end up a few yards down the hill between all the traps. Dave hits his a little hot and into the bunker off the back edge. Our usually chipper caddie didn’t say anything. Uh oh.
Missing the green is not ideal of course, but missing it below the hole on the left is far more preferable than the alternative. I realize this when I assess my chip shot from about 15 feet off the green. From here the slope is all into you and the tilt of the green is simply frightening. The pin is in the back right corner and my chip doesn’t even come within 10 feet of it. But I still have a makeable uphill putt to save par and (gulp) a 90. My attempt never scares the cup and I sheepishly tap in for bogey. Dave makes an admirable play out of the sand and also two putts for bogey.
Dave 39 – 40 — 79
Me 45 – 46 — 91
We remove our hats, shake hands, thank our caddies profusely (I apologize), and begin our journey back toward the clubhouse across the street. I am exhausted. Because of the three lightning delays it took us a little over 6 hours to play, which is exactly three times longer than the amount of sleep I got the night before. I am disappointed that I didn’t play very well. I knew I’d have a difficult time keeping my heart rate down on the first several holes, I just didn’t think it would be that bad. I have a tendency when playing top-ranked or famous courses to get caught up in the spectacle of it all and end up taking myself right out of a good round almost immediately.
I am thrilled, however, that I was able to right the ship once I calmed down. My last ten holes – 15 through 6 – included my only five pars of the day, five hit fairways in a row, and a much better putting stroke on arguably the hardest, fastest greens on the planet, for a total of six over par. Not too shabby. And so here it is…
Oakmont Country Club is the finest golf course in the world.
Sure, I’m biased. I grew up nearby. I worship the Golden Bear and the King. I love Pittsburgh. I turn down the radio when passing the course on the Turnpike out of respect. I even like the cartoon squirrel the club uses as its symbol during championship years (and there have been a lot of them).
Oh yes, and I’ve actually played it. That might have something to do with making it the very best in my eyes. It is a classic, American design that deserves every bit of praise it receives.
Thank you, Dave, for helping me fulfill my biggest golf wish. Now about getting us a round at Muirfield Village…
Editor’s note: One year ago this week, I played the Mighty Oakmont Country Club. It was a dream come true for me and because I didn’t want to forget a single shot…well, I wrote down everything that happened. This is a loooong post and I’ve decided to split it into two parts. Part One begins now… (update: read Part Two here)
Oakmont Country Club
August 15, 2011
We arrive in separate cars just after 10:00am, turning left into the rather modest entrance and past the unmanned guard shack. Friendly club staff direct us down the hill just past the main clubhouse and to the right into a “jug handle” bag drop area behind the pro shop. Dave, in the lead car, rolls down his window and pops his trunk. As a man with a clipboard asks Dave to indentify himself, another pulls his clubs from the trunk and places them on a large bag rack. The man motions ahead and Dave rolls toward an open parking spot directly across the lot. I pull up, go through the same routine, and moments later I park right next to Dave’s shiny new family truckster making a face at him that says, “I can’t believe we’re here!”
Quickly remembering that we should act like we have been here before, we both nonchalantly exit our cars and gather our shoes and other various items. (For me that means my fully charged camera.) Speaking of acting like we’ve been to a nice golf course before, we had a funny argument the previous evening about when and where to change our shoes. Dave said putting on golf shoes in the parking lot is not something one would do at a place like Oakmont Country Club. He suggested that we change our shoes BEFORE leaving his house and then drive down the turnpike in our spikes. I thought that was ludicrous – and dangerous – and would probably serve to draw even more attention to ourselves.
So with more than 12 hours to go before teeing off, Oakmont was already screwing with our minds.
Golf shoes in hand, we walk toward the pro shop and clubhouse. Oakmont’s clubhouse is one of golf’s greats, instantly recognizable and rich with history. It’s also huge. The side facing the eighteenth green is almost as long as the more famous “face” behind the ninth green. More roof than exterior walls, the green and white gabled clubhouse just oozes prominence and grandeur. It’s awesome and I decide, then and there, that my first house will be painted to match this stately gem (pending wife’s approval, of course).
(I suppose there’s a reason why it’s on the National Register of Historic Places. You should read this, it’s fascinating.)
We enter the clubhouse through the north entrance and into a small parlor. As our eyes adjust to the interior lighting, they get wide fast. Not one square inch of the walls is visible in this room as they are covered from floor to ceiling with pictures, scorecards, and memorabilia from every era, and one giant U.S. Open leader board from the final round in 2007. If for some reason you were not aware of the role this place plays in golf’s history, or the gods who have won championships here, you are subtly reminded before the door closes behind you.
We are greeted by more staff and told to take the steps on the left to the locker room. More pictures of the game’s greats and black and white aerial photographs of the early days of the course lead us upstairs. Once again we must remind ourselves not to act too impressed and wide-eyed at the whole experience, especially when we’re on a steep staircase.
You see, the steps in the 107-year-old clubhouse are about an inch higher than the modern steps you and I are accustomed to. So as I’m trying to climb the stairs slowly enough to get a good look at some of the passing history but fast enough not to draw attention to myself, the last thing on my mind is making sure my front foot clears the next step by an extra inch. Sure enough, I trip halfway up the winding staircase and nearly grab Dave in the a**. Little did I know this incident would become emblematic of the 18 holes of golf ahead of me that day.
We somehow get to the top of the steps safely and make our way around the corner. As we do I have the same reaction Jack Ryan has when he enters the missile room on the Red October – this room is huge! Row after row of lockers line the right side of the main crosswalk and are mirrored by restrooms and showers on the left. Attendants are everywhere and couldn’t be more helpful. Dave and I find our lockers and open them to find two sets of wine glasses engraved with the OCC logo. Nice touch. And one less thing I have to buy in the gift shop later…
Directly across from us are Dave’s coworker and his guest. We all shake hands and introduce ourselves. I can tell they’re as nervous as we are. I sit down on the bench in front of my locker to put on my golf shoes and lean over to say something sarcastic to Dave about not doing this in his garage. Laughing, he says, “Just shut up.”
Our buffet is at 11:00 and tee off is not until 12:30. So we mosey on outside to find our bags and get ready to hit some balls on the range. There are several mini-outings going on today and our bags have been grouped together near the tenth tee by host and by hole. I should note at this point that the forecast for the entire day is nothing but thunderstorms and the occasional 2-minute monsoon. Not wanting to jinx the day by even acknowledging this looming threat, we get out our umbrellas and place them over our exposed bags without saying a word about why. This is followed by another embarrassing conversation about etiquette at elite country clubs and how to get one’s own bag to the driving range.
Can we just take our clubs down to the range ourselves? Is this allowed? Do we have to talk to somebody before we can do this? Should we ask that caddy who’s staring at us? Seriously, he’s looking right at us. I think he’s mad. He’s going to kick us off the course. Maybe we should walk away. Leave your clubs! Go!
We take a deep breath, grab our own bags, find an open cart, and take it down the hill to the empty driving range. I attempt to compose myself and try to focus on getting ready for the hardest test of golf in golf. Naturally, the grass on the range is perfect and each area is supplied with a large bucket of unmarked (no double lines) range balls. I hit about a dozen shots with my Vokey, 8 and 5 irons, and 3 wood, but I’m most concerned with finding a groove with my driver. Oakmont’s fairways are not known for being spacious and finding the short stuff is an absolute must. After five swings with the Diablo, I’m satisfied. Now to the putting green.
Oakmont’s main putting green famously doubles as the back portion of the massive No. 9 green. And when I say massive it seriously looks like a football field and is roughly 20,000+ square feet. Yeah it’s quirky but pretty cool. Sorry, it’s also closed today, so we have to use the smaller and less historic practice green near the driving range. A few putts into my routine I am shocked at the speed: I thought they would be much much faster. Surely Oakmont’s fabled lightning fast greens are faster than this, and I chalk it up to the typical differences between a practice green and the rest of the course. Nothing to worry about.
Confident our pre-round preparation has us ready for the big time, we head back to the clubhouse for brunch. The spread is awesome, I eat way too much, and that’s about as much as I care to share. Let’s play some golf.
The outing is a shotgun start and our first hole is No. 7. As nervous as I am to finally be striking a golf ball on the one course in the world I had hoped to play once before dying, I manage to make a great swing and hit the ball solidly up the right hand side of the fairway. No. 7 is a dead straight 370-yard par 4 with bunkers left and right of the fairway just beyond the crest of the hill. My drive flies the right bunker and lands safely on the short grass. Whew. A nice and easy 9 iron to the front middle of the green and the next thing you know I can finally hear my caddie talking to me over the sound of my beating heart. I guess I can play this course after all.
(Speaking of playing this course and others like it, I have no idea who this guy is – or what the hell Kummel is – but he is my hero.)
I step up to my first official putt on an Oakmont green, and it’s roughly 70 feet in length up over a small ridge with a slight left-to-right tilt. Caring more about the distance than the direction, I pull back the putter head and follow through. The ball doesn’t even get half way to the hole. Huh. It’s still my turn so I give it another try, and this attempt ends up about 6 feet short. Wow, I thought every putt at Oakmont rolls until it hits a cup or a house. As I wait for the others to finish their putts my blood pressure is starting to rise again. This 6-footer is starting to look like 16 feet and my arms feel like jell-o. My third putt doesn’t even smell the cup and I hear the dreaded words, “That’s good.” Yes, I was “given” my fourth putt – all 5 inches of it.
I nearly cried right there on the green, but I pulled myself together and decided to remember the two shots that got me there. Plus, Dave made a nice routine two-putt for par that should be surprising to no one. Plenty of golf left.
From the back tees No. 8 is a 290-yard par 3. Fortunately we are not pros and the more humane tees from which we tee up our balls (uh thank you) top out at around 225 yards. The hole could not be flatter and there is virtually no trouble but for a 100-yard long bunker guarding the front left side of the green. This bunker is aptly nicknamed Sahara, although it is pretty shallow and not terribly intimidating. Which is why it only took me two shots to get out of it en route to my second double-bogey in two holes.
Starting as we did on No. 7, I did not expect to be crossing the Pennsylvania Turnpike at four over. Dave makes a nice up-and-down for par to stay even. (This will seem repetitive several holes from now.)
Before we reach the ninth tee we hear the club’s siren blow a few times. This apparently signals lightning in the area and since Oakmont has exactly one tree on the property (I exaggerate by about 4 trees) they take lightning pretty seriously. For about 20 minutes we hang out under a shelter next to the ninth tee, which gives me plenty of time to decide whether or not to throw up on my shoes.
The siren blares once again and it’s time to play the 462-yard par 5. Most par 5s of this length would inspire thoughts of birdies or better but this hole is all uphill with five traps on the right at various distances from the tee and a grass ditch running along the left side of the narrow fairway. The first 210 yards of the hill are steep enough to hide the lower half of the clubhouse from view as you place your tee in the ground. It is here that I got my first real sense of how much my depth perception was thrown off by the lack of trees on the course. Though my caddie told me the crest of the hill was 210, to my eyes it just as easily could have been 70 or even 340. This was frightening enough for me to hit a weak drive into the right rough a mere foot from the first bunker.
When I can’t tell how far away my target is in the fairway I like to avoid it altogether. It’s just smart golf.
I punch a hybrid up the center of the fairway and then miss the green by a few feet on the left with a 9 iron. A chip, another missed 5-footer, and a tap in for bogey. Routine par for Dave (RPFD).
Enjoying ice cold beverages from the halfway house, we get our first look at the par 4 tenth, which can be seen in its entirety from the tee. The landing area is littered with bunkers on both sides, but the right side has the added benefit of a grass bunker snaking down the far right. I make a great swing but watch as my ball refuses to draw and comes to rest in one of said bunkers on the right. All I can do is punch out to the fairway where I am left with 125 yards to a pin that looks suspiciously like it’s still in the fairway.
From where I’m standing there is no discernable difference between the end of the fairway and the front of the green – another unique-yet-so-simple feature on this fabulous course. In fact, the slope continues unchanged from the fairway through the back of the green, and for this reason my caddie implores me to aim for a spot 15 to 20 yards short of the front. “Okay,” as if I have any clue where that is. I hit a nice and easy sand wedge to the exact spot he suggests and watch as the ball trickles onto the green and comes to rest about 25 feet away from the cup. The putt seems to be a makeable right-to-left breaker, no more than two cups outside the edge. Still expecting every putt to roll like I’m in my shower, I leave my par effort almost 10 feet short. Another shake of the head, another two putts from there, and another double-bogey. RPFD.
Deep breath. Okay…
No. 11 is a pretty cool hole. At only 328 yards its challenge is found in heading back up the hill toward the clubhouse with another menacing grass ditch cutting across the landing area diagonally from right-to-left, forcing the player to lay up off the tee. I hit a 3 wood solidly but it hooks toward the largest of three pot bunkers on the left. Already feeling like this isn’t my day, I find my ball in the sand up against the front left lip of the bunker. I take a massive cut and manage to get the ball over the lip and onto the short grass. Then, inexplicably, I miss the green from 85 yards out and my ball finds the bottom of the giant bunker on the front right side. Double-bogey for me. RPFD.
I’m in shock. After five holes I am nine over par. Nine. I try to tell myself hey it’s a really hard course, but it’s not the course that’s killing me. The way I’m playing now, my scoring wouldn’t be any better on the other side of the fence at Oakmont East.
Fortunately, even as the wheels of my game are flying off with each passing hole, I am still able to appreciate the masterpiece that is this course. There is an odd mix of beauty and terror in looking out across the course’s terrain from the twelfth tee. From this position I can see eight flagsticks and eleven different groups of golfers and caddies slowly maneuvering the maze of holes. But for a few birds who also seem confused by all the missing trees the predominant sound, though muffled and by no means offensive, is that of a busy turnpike.
(Once again I must acknowledge the thorough analysis and historical perspective offered by the good folks at GolfClubAtlas, whose hole-by-hole account of this great course helped me to appreciate it that much more. Warning: be sure to set aside several hours of your day before clicking on this website.)
No. 12 is the longest hole on the course at 562 yards (665 for the pros!). There is a gentle left-to-right dogleg from tee to green that is made to feel 10 times worse by the brutal left-to-right slope in the fairway. There are bunkers on the right that can be carried off the tee and two pot bunkers on the left that guard the landing area. My caddie tells me to aim left of the left bunkers! Balls hit to the far left side of the fairway sometimes end up in the right rough. Mid-swing, I decide to take out the middle man and fire my drive directly to the far right rough, missing the bunkers by almost 30 yards.
The lie is not terrible and I can probably get a hybrid on the ball, but I decide to play it smart and use a 6 iron to get back in play. I take a nice cut and make great contact, but instead of drawing as intended, it stays dead straight and remains in the right rough. From there I’m forced to punch out to the fairway again. The twelfth green is awfully similar to the tenth in that you must squint your eyes to see where the fairway ends and the green begins, and a severe front-to-back slope that makes any shot – from the rough or fairway – tough to hold anywhere near the flag. From 60 yards away, I hit a nice half sand wedge to the center left part of the green that rolls to within 12 feet of the pin on the back edge. I read the right-to-left break perfectly but again leave my putt short. Tap in for bogey. RPFD.
We’ve caught up to the group in front of us on No. 13 and it gives us some time to peruse the refreshments kindly provided for us inside the small tent a few paces off the right side of the tee. Expecting maybe a handful of pretzels and a cooler filled with tiny cardboard containers of iced tea, the tent looks more like a corporate banquet. Bananas, berries, apples, oranges, various breads and cheeses, and individually packaged oatmeal cookies fill a multi-tiered display cart. Next to it are three giant coolers: one each for water, soft drinks, and beer. (The third was already empty. At 1:20pm.) Still feeling queasy from my performance, I select nothing.
The thirteenth is the shortest par 3 on the course at 153 yards. It’s only slightly uphill but has a long, narrow, kidney-shaped green surrounded by deep bunkers. The green’s severe right-to-left tilt makes the right side bunkers particularly deadly. As Dave takes a few practice swings I recall standing just beyond the ropes here during the Saturday round of the 2007 Open as golf’s newest major champion, Zach Johnson, approached the tee box and selected a club.
Zach was standing almost exactly where I am now and from less than eight feet away I watched him do that thing with his sunglasses where he takes them off his face, twirls them over his head, and then wraps them around the back of his hat. Immediately after hitting his shot he expertly performed this task in reverse. I cannot adequately convey to you how impressive this whole procedure is unless you’ve seen it in person. And he could do this 50 to 60 times a round. Pros are nothing if not dedicated. Of all the topics discussed at the Champions Dinner every April, sunglasses-handling is apparently not one of them.
Dave hits the shot of the day right over the top of the flagstick to eight feet above the hole. He’s on fire right now and frankly it’s fun to watch. He’ll have a tough downhill putt for birdie but a makeable one.
The tee box is back a little today, 162-ish, so I select a 6 iron. Though I have no reason to be confident based on my play so far I like the way the hole sets up from the tee. It shouldn’t, as my natural ball flight is a slight draw and the narrow green runs away from the right side, but I’ll take dumb confidence over none at all. The ball is struck, stays straight, and lands in the front right bunker with a nice poof of white sand. Sigh.
The ball is sitting up nicely in the sand but the lip of the bunker is high and, with the pin in its front center location at the narrowest part of the green, I have almost no room to work with. This is where it really gets ugly for a few minutes. I skull my second shot over the lip of the bunker and watch as all the heads in the group follow my ball over the green and then in unison look down in sadness, telling me it’s gone in the opposing bunker. My caddie tries not to make eye contact with me as I have just doubled his workload in the raking department. It’s bad enough when you’re ping-ponging your way from trap to trap on a regular day at the course, but it is excruciating when you’re creating work for another human being. You want to say to him, “Seriously, I don’t normally shoot a 100.” To which he’s thinking, Doesn’t help me today does it, sir?!
I quickly and shamefully make my way out of the bunker, across the green, and down into the other trap. Time has become a factor now as the group behind us has reached the tee. I step into the bunker, take my stance, blast through the ball, and again watch as all the heads in the group follow it across the putting surface and off the other side.
Ohmyholycrap. Did I just put it in the same damn bunker?
My body has gone numb. The first thing I think of is that I’m starting to affect Dave’s play. Instead of focusing on his birdie putt to go one under on the day, he’s having to dodge golf balls from his own partner. Someone who used to be his No. 2 man during the championship years on his college golf team. I open my mouth to say, “I’m picking up,” when Dave says, “It’s in the rough – not the trap. You’ve got this.” Once a captain always a captain.
The ball is in the thick rough between the right side bunker and the fringe. I hastily chip it toward the hole and walk behind it, marking it the moment it stops rolling. Standing far away from everyone in the group as the rest line up their putts, I can see my caddie covering up my handiwork in the second bunker. He hates me. That’s fine, I do too. Dave finally gets a chance to putt and he leaves it on the edge. Another putt that probably would have dropped were we not so psyched out by the legendary quickness of these greens.
We hurry off the green and up the steep hill to the fourteenth tee. I’m 13 over after 7 holes. Dave is even. My caddie is looking at the darkest cloud in the sky hoping it gets here fast.
He may get his wish.
A 340-yard par 4, No. 14 is a relatively straight hole with a slight move to the left over the last 150 yards. It’s a surprisingly short hole for a championship course like Oakmont but the fairway is as wide as a cart path and there are ten – no wait, twelve! – bunkers buffeting all sides. At this point it really wouldn’t matter if I hit Driver or a left-handed 5 iron, but I decide I’m not giving up yet and select a 3 wood. Without taking a practice swing, I smoke it up the left side of the fairway and just into the primary cut of rough between the second and third bunkers. Finally given the chance to hit a short iron to a wide open – and massive – green I’m almost giddy to hit my 9 iron. (I said almost. I don’t get giddy.) The pin is halfway back and only slightly favoring the left side. My ball is sitting up nicely in the short rough and I make a nice smooth swing producing probably my best shot of the day so far. It’s a little past the pin but I’ll take it.
Then the sirens blow again. Rumbles of thunder can be heard off in the distance and the sky doesn’t look promising, but we’re kind of surprised they’re getting us off the course again. We all debate whether to mark our balls or quickly finish the hole. Looking around at other groups, there is no sense of urgency. No. 14 green is practically in the shadow of the clubhouse anyway so we decide to finish our putts and then head for cover. Three putts later (from 20 feet!) I’m wishing we had marked. So is Dave who has his first blemish of the day with a double-bogey. Apparently he is not a machine.
We take the last available table on the porch overlooking the eighteenth green and order a few Arnold Palmers. (Yeah that’s right, we did, because that is how we roll.) Seated at the table right behind me is the Steel City’s mayor who is having a rather loud conversation with one of Pittsburgh’s more recognizable sports anchors* at an adjacent table. (*I hesitate to name him because he looks ridiculous in his dark red golf shirt, black pants, and black Nike hat.) It’s the sort of awkward exchange of comments that really isn’t all that interesting, funny, or terribly insightful but everyone around them appears to hang on every word due to their stature and celebrity. Both are fine gentlemen, but why is no one else on the porch talking?
I break the silence. “That’s a damn good Arnold Palmer.” Everyone at the table agrees, muffled conversation trickles throughout the veranda, and a few moments later we finally see a few frightening bolts of lightning that make us all feel the play stoppage was justified.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Read the exciting conclusion in this space Thursday. Until then, my friends…
Editor’s note: This is a monumental day in the life of MultipleNonWinner. We have our first ever guest post, and it comes from none other than my friend and frequent golf sparring partner “Mike.” Regular readers will recognize him from previous rounds. I told him some time ago that he absolutely could contribute a blog post to MNW, but that it had to be something special. Not just some rinky-dink course down the street. Well, you could say he called my bluff. (I think you’ll also agree that his pictures are gorgeous.) Enjoy!
July 21, 2012
“I’m doing cartwheels in your dome, baby!” I heard this all too often back in the day from my college buddy/wiffle ball rival after he’d again struck me out on a knee-buckling 12-to-6 curve (strike 1), cut fastball (strike 2), knee-buckling 12-to-6 curve (strike 3) series of pitches. It’s a statement meant to assert psychological superiority over one’s opponent. And it’s exactly the statement made by the sign behind the first tee at Bethpage Black.
You read the sign, look down the long par 4 first hole, see the rough lining the fairway, notice the stands being erected that appear reachable (which is confirmed by the group teeing off before you when one of the players clangs his drive off of them, eliciting snickers from the twenty or so golfers watching the tee), and the cartwheels begin.
Before taking the club back for the first time on this famed course, you’re already two over.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The tee time process for getting on the Black is legendary. Or, at least, it has become legendary leading up to and since the U.S. Open was first hosted at Bethpage in 2002. Pre-Open, as one of the members of my foursome who grew up in the area informed me, it was easy to walk up and play. The course was rundown and in terrible condition. It was only through a deal worked out by the State of New York and the USGA in anticipation of hosting the Open that the Black was restored to its former beauty. (For more information about how the U.S. Open was brought to Bethpage, check out “The Open,” by John Feinstein.)
Post-Open it has become extremely difficult to get on the course, particularly if, as is the case for me, one is not a New York State resident. In-state residents can reserve a time one week out. If they’re able to get through the phone lines jammed with golfers all seeking the same thing. Non-residents can only get a time two days in advance. Of course, by then all the times are gone. That leaves only the first six tee times reserved each day, which, as is now well known, requires a slumber party in your car the night before.
Not having much interest in journeying up to the Empire State, spending an afternoon tailgating in the Bethpage parking lot, sleeping in my car, and running the risk of not even being there early enough (at least fourteen hours ahead of a potential time!!!) to get on the course, I instead contacted a buddy who contacted a buddy who is a New York resident and golfer to help secure a time. And secure a time he did. How? Let’s just say there are ways.
So it was that I found myself on a beautiful Saturday afternoon – pulse racing, palms sweating – preparing to tee off at one of the best and most difficult courses in the country. Rounding out the foursome is the buddy of a buddy of a buddy, Jim, and two of his regular golf pals, Ted and Ryan (names changed to protect the innocent), all of whom had strolled the fairways of the Black many times over the years.
Which brings us back to the sign, the tee, the rough, the stands, and the cartwheels.
Just before teeing off, (we wisely decided against playing from the 7,400 yard back tees) the match and stakes were set. Jim and I paired against Ted and Ryan in a best-ball Nassau with post-round beers on the line. Business properly in order, I begin my round at the Black with a well struck, but pulled drive. Jim goes right. Ted goes left. Ryan goes right. No one is in the fairway. But we’re off.
(Note: for anyone planning on playing the Black, Jim, Ryan, and Ted all informed me that it is a gross violation of the starter’s unwritten rules to place your bag on the tee box. Doing so will most certainly get you yelled at. Just one more obstacle to navigate before trying to hit the first fairway.)
My ball comes to rest just in the secondary rough, which is, throughout the course, wispy fescue, clumpy in spots, but forgiving enough that it is possible to get a decent lie. With 190 yards to a well-guarded green (no other kind of green at the Black), and hands still shaking, I opt to play smart golf and punch a 7 iron down the fairway. Once executed, 70 yards remain to a middle right pin. A three-quarter wedge to about ten feet and a putt sliding in the right side of the hole later, I have my first par. This is only good enough for a halve, (Ted and Ryan both made pars of their own, Ryan leaving a birdie putt hanging on the lip, center cut) but you better believe I am calling it a moral victory.
Two and 3 are, as the Black goes, relatively benign holes. No. 2 is a short, dogleg left, uphill par 4. Even so, standing on the tee, Ryan, no stranger to the Black, makes me feel much better about my case of nerves when he admits he can’t get his heart rate down, and then proceeds to top his tee shot. Ted wins the second hole with a routine par while I double bogey after tree trouble, two chips, and two putts.
No. 3 is a short par 3 with a bunker protecting the left side. Nothing to write home about until you approach the green, look to your left, and through a clearing see one of the holes you’ve been waiting for. The par 5 fourth.
Having trouble staying in the present, I manage to make a par and halve the hole with Ted who, at this point, is even through three.
“This is where the Black starts,” Jim says as we make our way from No. 3 green to No. 4 tee.
And he is right.
The first three holes are plenty challenging for a mediocre golfer choking up his or her breakfast, but starting on No. 4 is where the genius of “Tillie the Terror” begins to reveal itself.
The double-dogleg fourth is one of the best known holes at the Black. It brings to mind a beautiful woman; great to look at, a ton of trouble to be found, a couple different options to avoid the trouble, but all of them very difficult to execute. And, per my usual experience with beautiful women, I find trouble immediately, pulling my tee ball into the large bunker on the left.
The second shot presents the golfer with several options: an aggressive line at the green requiring an uphill carry of about 230+ yards over cross and greenside bunkers; carrying the cross bunkers with a short iron, leaving another short club, but all uphill and over the greenside bunkers; or playing farther to the right over the cross bunkers with a longer club, leaving a slightly longer shot into the green, but taking the greenside traps out of play.
Unfortunately, with the ball significantly above my feet in the massive fairway bunker, I have limited options. I try to carry the cross bunkers with a 5 iron, but chunk it so badly I end up well short of them in the fairway. Still harboring hopes of a par, I pull a hybrid with 190 to carry up the hill over 26,000 bunkers.
I promptly top my Pro-V1 right into one of them, and kiss par goodbye.
I blast a wedge to the fairway from a steep side hill lie in the trap, hit another wedge to the green, and two-putt for my second double bogey in four holes. Ted makes another par to remain even and Jim and I go 2 down.
No. 5 is one of the best holes on the course and another double-dogleg. 423 from our tees (478 from the tips), a long, Rorschach-like trap (I see……a double bogey) parallels the right side of the narrow fairway, which angles left-to-right from the tee.
Challenging the trap leaves a shorter shot into the green, but…well….requires a longer carry over the sand. Play to the left, and you run the risk of being blocked out from the green complex, which angles right-to-left.
All four of us hit our tee shots right of the trap. Ryan’s is long enough to kick into the fairway. I manage to draw a decent lie in the fescue and have 190 uphill, but Jim and Ted aren’t as lucky and have to lay up. I pull hybrid, doing my best to block out the mess I made with it on the previous hole, and absolutely stripe one over the front right trap, settling just shy of the green, but sitting down in some thick rough.
Ryan chunks his approach, opening the door ever so slightly. Jim and Ted are on in three, but not close enough to be threatening a four. I chop a wedge out of the bad lie to about nine feet and drain the putt for a par. Ryan three-putts for a double, Ted makes his first bogey of the day, and Jim and I are back to 1 down. For those keeping score at home, I am off to a par-double-par-double-par start.
The sixth hole, a medium-length par 4, welcomes Jim to the match as he makes a scrambling par, capped by a seven-footer to halve the hole with Ryan and keep us 1 down.
Another angled trap paralleling a left-to-right fairway highlights the seventh hole, a short par 5. In the greenside bunker in three, I fluff an easy sand shot, fluff an easy chip, and two-putt for my third double on the front. Ted, Jim, and Ryan all make bogey sixes, and we go to the eighth.
The only water hazard on the Black can be found on No. 8, a downhill par 3.
Playing about 175 to a front left pin, all four of us miss the green. Ted and Jim fail to get up and down from the fescue and bunker. Ryan three-putts from just off the fringe to the right. I miss left off the tee, but have an easy chip, which I play to gimme range and win the hole with a par. Jim and I are back to all square with one hole left to play on the front.
The final hole on the outward nine provides two options off the tee. A large, steep trap (added by Rees Jones in preparation for the Open) extends into the fairway from the left side of the hole and promises at least a bogey if you find it. But it can be carried with a decent tee ball. Doing so provides you not only with a shorter shot, but also a flatter lie, into the well-guarded green. The other option is to play out to the right, away from the trap, making it a more difficult approach, but safer off the tee.
I choose a third option, setting up to challenge the bunker, and reconsidering that choice milliseconds before impact and hitting a block cut that starts right of the trap and goes right…….er. Ryan and Jim also hit poor drives, but Ted rips his ball right over the bunker to the right side of the fairway, hits the green in regulation, and leaves himself about twenty-five feet for birdie. After nailing a 5 iron out of the fescue, but coming up short, I hit a mediocre shot out of the front bunker to fifteen feet, miss the putt, and tap in for bogey. Jim and Ryan make doubles, and Ted taps in for a routine four, winning both the hole and the front nine.
The inward nine kicks off with three straight long par 4s (Nos. 10 and 12 both play over 500 yards from the tips). Jim and I win No. 10 on my bogey since he, Ryan, and Ted all make messes of it.
We take our first lead of the day with a pair of pars on No. 11 (best up-and-down of the day in my round after I hit a long flop shot over a greenside bunker and bury a nine foot slider, center cut)……….
………..Only to give it back immediately on the par 4 twelfth, a similar, but longer, version of No. 9.
And, similar to No. 9, I again hit a block slice into fescue. Playing the smart golf that I am known for (pause), I punch out to about 110 yards and hit a wedge to the green, which is sloped back-to-front with a ridge running through the center of it with the pin on the top tier. (The first green of the day with any real personality. If there is one consistent criticism of the Black it is that the greens are flat and uninteresting.)
By this point Jim is already out of the hole, while Ted and Ryan are scrambling for bogey. Ted gets up-and-down from just in front of the green for a five, and Ryan drains a fifty-foot bomb (Yeah, I called him a name when it went down. So what?? Take off the white wig.) from below the ridge to save his. I give the hole away by three-jacking for a double-bogey six.
The par 5 thirteenth is the longest hole on the course, stretching to 608 from the tips, but playing to just over 540 yards for us. Although not overly difficult, each of us proceeds to make an absolute mess of it. Our methods vary, but they end in double-bogey sevens (mine comes via a second straight three-putt).
Following the longest hole on the Black, the fourteenth is the shortest, playing to about 152. The pin sits atop the second of two tiers, but it makes little difference to me as I top a 7 iron into the fescue that stretches from tee to green.
I manage to find my ball and am able to get enough club on it to reach the front tier only to…………yep, you guessed it……….three-putt for a double bogey. Thankfully my partner manages to make a bogey out of the greenside bunker on the left, which is one better than either Jim or Ryan, and puts us back in control of the second nine at 2 up, and back in the lead of the overall match.
Walking to the fifteenth tee I take solace in the fact that despite three straight three-putt double bogeys, Jim and I have lost no ground. But I am not pleased. And No. 15 is not going to provide one bit of relief.
Arguably the most difficult hole on the course, No. 15 is a 430-yard (478 from the back tees) par 4. A narrow, fescue-lined fairway crawls slightly left and uphill until you near the green complex at which point the gradual climb becomes steep. The two-tiered green sits roughly fifty feet above the fairway and is well-guarded by several foreboding bunkers.
Ryan is the only one in our group who hits the fairway, pounding one down the right side. Jim, Ted, and I all hit our balls right to varying degrees. Jim blows one over the fence and has to reload. Ted is in the fescue and takes two to get it back to the fairway, while my ball is in the first cut down the right side. I lay up in the fairway, leaving myself about 100 yards up the hill. Ryan follows his beautiful drive with an equally pretty approach, roping a hybrid up the hill and onto the green. Advantage team Ryan.
Jim and Ted are out of the hole. Needing to do something special to make four, I leave my gap wedge twenty-five feet short and on the wrong tier. After missing the par putt, Ryan burns the edge for birdie, rolling it about four feet by, but brings the difficult hole to its knees by sinking the comeback for par. The lead Jim and I earned on the previous hole was once again short-lived, and once again gone.
With the match again all square and tensions rising in the titanic struggle, we march to No. 16. Another long par 4, measuring 457 from our tees, but playing downhill from the tee to fairway, Ryan and Ted open the door by both hitting drives short and right. Jim hits his well left and I manage to find my fourth and final fairway of the day, but can do no better than five after missing the green and failing to get up and down. Ted halves with a bogey of his own and we go to the penultimate hole with the match still in the balance.
Retaining honors from their win on No. 15, Ryan and Ted take the seventeenth tee, a 195-yard uphill par 3. The amphitheater created by the bleachers for the thousands of Barclay’s spectators who will soon be cheering on Tiger, Phil, and Ernie added to the drama of the match.
Perhaps visualizing the masses hanging on the result of his tee shot, Ted chunks a long iron into the enormous front bunker. Ryan follows by ripping a hybrid just left of the flagstick. Jim takes us off the tee by hitting his shot into the same bunker that held Ted’s ball, and I hit a bullet of a 3 iron on the same line as Ryan’s.
The angle from tee to green is such that we are unable to see the putting surface until we crest the front bunkers. Ryan’s ball is on the back fringe about twenty-five feet away, five feet outside of my ball, which is on the green. As we line up our putts and repair divots, Ted blasts out of the trap to thirty feet. Jim skulls his bunker shot, banging it off the bleachers behind the green, effectively taking him out of the hole. Ted misses his par attempt, but Ryan lags his putt close enough to tap-in for his three. I do the same and we go to the final hole with the overall match all square.
While certainly a good finisher for our epic match, the eighteenth received a fair share of criticism as a closing hole for the pros even after Rees Jones lengthened it, narrowed the fairway at the landing point, shrunk the size of the green, and added bunkers to both the green and fairway.
Ted and Ryan both flirt with the traps on the right, managing to just carry them, and finishing in the first cut of rough. Jim is not as fortunate, catching the last trap on the right, and I pull my tee shot into the last bunker on the left.
Arriving at my ball, my heart initially sinks. Although I only have 100 yards up the hill, I have to contend with an uphill, side hill lie. I have some time to consider my options while the other three play. Jim has to lay up from the trap and try to make four from the fairway. Ryan and Ted both hit the green with their approach shots leaving me no choice but to go for the green and give myself a chance for birdie.
Pulling a gap wedge, I dig into the trap, adjust my shoulders to parallel the slope, and manage to catch it flush. “Yes! That’s MY partner!!” Jim shouts to the three of us and the thousands we imagine surrounding the green in the stands. Again, hitting to an uphill green, there is no way to see where the three shots landed.
Tipping our caps to the adoring and roaring spectators, we approach the green and survey the situation. I am just short of pin high in the fringe about thirty-five feet away. Ryan is on the left fringe looking at twenty-five feet. Ted is twenty feet away, slightly above the hole, and Jim is on in four having come up short after his lay-up.
Playing first I know a good putt can apply some pressure on Ted and Ryan. Instead, a pusillanimous (h/t Jonny Slator) effort leaves me staring at a pressure-filled eight-footer.
I put my Irish Euro marker down and pocket my ball. As Jim, Ryan, and Ted each play their shots, I have just enough time for my mind to wander to all the three-putts on the previous seventeen holes. I think about the fact that I am standing on the eighteenth green at Bethpage Black, a course I have been dreaming about playing for years.
While the negative thoughts swirl, Ryan and Ted both hit putts to tap-in distance, and are in with their fours. Jim gets his out of the way for a double-bogey six.
It all comes down to my eight-footer. A make means a halved hole, a 1 up win on the back nine, and a halve of the overall match. A miss? A long ride back to DC thinking about the choke job.
I replace my ball. Slip the Euro in my pocket and follow my normal routine. Practice stroke. Practice stroke. Deep breath. Low and slow on the takeaway………..
The thousands in the packed bleachers groan.
Ryan and Ted high-five.
Jim consoles me with a pat on the back.
And I wander off the eighteenth green. The Black still turning cartwheels in my dome.
- Posted with pride by “Mike.”
You can follow this MNW guest poster on twitter at @mcollins9.