Press Pass
I chip like an 80-year-old with Tourette’s Syndrome and trying
to predict the landing spot of one of my drives is about as
predictable nowadays as trying to pinpoint which shoreline the next
category 5 hurricane will touchdown.
Press Pass
I chip like an 80-year-old with Tourette’s Syndrome and trying to predict the landing spot of one of my drives is about as predictable nowadays as trying to pinpoint which shoreline the next category 5 hurricane will touchdown.
Of course, I’ve probably played golf only 10 times in the last decade. So I do have an excuse.
But there was a time before my daughter Madison was born and before my right hip started hurting me – the more I coiled up on my back swing and the better I got – that my game was good enough to get unsolicited applications in the mail for U.S. Open qualifying.
Those were the days when par scores were commonplace, my face smelled like SPF 15 all the time, and my hands would bleed from hitting countless shots at the Palo Alto Hills driving range, Stanford Golf Course and most anywhere else in the Bay Area.
Yes, the dream of becoming a professional golfer is what made me leave New England and settle in sunny California in the first place.
To put it mildly, I grew up on golf …
Today, golf is like a former life of mine, a distant memory. It’s almost odd when I bump into an old friend and they ask how my golf game is and if I’m still playing. But with those memories come stories that I have forever etched in my mind. I’ve told a few of them around the office and was encouraged to write a column on some of the more memorable memories I’ve had on the links.
Like the time I was playing in a match in high school and my opponent fired his putter at his bag after I drained a 30-footer for birdie and he missed from inside eight feet to loose the match. What I forgot to mention was that his putter hit the bottom of his old plastic bag perfectly and shattered it. He had to finish the round carrying his bag horizontally so that his clubs wouldn’t fall out.
In college, a teammate of mine, who was determined to get his persimmon driver to work during a match, hit three duck hooks in a row out-of-bounds into an environmentally friendly waste area. After the third one landed OB, he fired his driver in after the balls and was forced to finish his match with only a 3-wood.
The one I’ll never forget is the time my dad caught his own drive while playing with my grandfather, my uncle, who was the head professional at the course in Weston, Mass, and myself. What are the odds of this? Somehow my dad comes over the top of his shot and necks it 60 feet forward into the ladies’ tee marker. The ball smashes into the tee in what seems like light speed and comes back at him so perfectly that he catches it and re-tees it without ever having to move an inch.
Another classic was the time my friend and I hid behind the fifth green of a blind par-4 at our childhood home course in Abington, Mass. When one particular foursome hit their shots to the green, we ducked close to the ground, where they couldn’t see us, grabbed all four shots and tried rolling them into the hole as quickly as we could.
When they got to the green, two shots – that were originally more than 30 feet away – were now in the cup and two more were within inches. When the group reached the green we were crying in laughter behind a tree in the woods some 50 feet away as everyone in the group was screaming, high-fiving and cheering their once-in-a-lifetime shots.
I also remember playing that same hole with that same friend one winter day when the wind-chill factor was literally minus 25. The look on the faces of the kids playing ice hockey on the pond in front of the tee box was priceless when we arrived to play golf in ski jackets. As a side note, divots could not be made that day, as the grass blades were so frozen that they would only break in half.
One time I was playing in a California Golf Tour event at Ford Ord’s Bayonet Course when the military was still actively using the facility. During the round there were gun and mortar rounds going off everywhere, not to mention helicopters flying overhead. Talk about having a case of the yips.
Another classless classic was the time a teammate of mine in college brought along a girlfriend wearing a mini skirt, skimpy top and stiletto heeled shoes to the Villages Golf Course in San Jose. The girl looked like the opposite of someone who slices and my teammate was proud as heck as she walked the cart paths in the six-inch pumps watching her future pro.
One time I was playing in the winter at Stanford University – the same year Tiger Woods was a freshman there. After playing nine holes, the other guys in my group left because it was getting cold. As a native of New England, I forged on without a problem.
When I got to the 10th tee, Tiger was practicing alone at the putting green next to the tee. He smiled and waved and said hello. I did the same thing. Bad hip and all, I busted my drive and walked away. When I got to the 11th tee I came to the realization that perhaps he would have played with me that cold afternoon had I only had the guts to ask the reigning U.S. Amateur Champ if he wanted to. I would have never seen him had I not been playing from the varsity tees. A few years later he won the Masters and I’ve been kicking myself ever since. I can see the book now, “My Nine Holes with Tiger Woods.”
Golf truly has been a large part of my life, even if it was in my earlier life. But even today it’s making new memories for me.
Like last month when I took my daughter to hit golf balls for the very first time. Her first shot with a child’s 9-iron went 30 feet high and 50 yards straight down the center of the fairway.
That’s the only shot that has ever brought tears to my eyes.
