My 1st Round of the Year

May 4—If anyone has ever enjoyed a round of golf more than I did today at Turtle Creek then I’m not smiling from ear-to-ear as I write this.

Eight-over par through 13, with my boss’ bet that I couldn’t break 84 dangling in front of me, I played the final five holes 3-over to shoot 83.

What actually happened, though, didn’t exactly come that easy.

On no. 14, a par 5, I had 250 yards into the green for my second shot and made bogey. On no. 15, a par 3, I whiffed my flop shot into a bunker, caught a fried egg lie, skulled my next shot over the green then sank a 15-foot putt for double. On no. 16, a par 4, I bladed my chip 15-feet past the flag into the fringe and made the putt. On no. 17, I repeated the same mistake I made on no. 14, and made bogey with a wedge in my hands.

From +8 to +12 in just four holes, I needed to birdie the final hole, which measures 407 yards.

Up to that point, I hadn’t hit driver all day. But for some reason, I pulled it out of the bag and split the fairway, which left me with 130 yards for my approach. Although I had made bogey from this same position on nos. 4, 14 and 17, it never crossed my mind that my ball was going anywhere but at the flag. In fact, it never left the flag, and came to rest about 8-feet above the hole.

About seven years ago, playing with Mitch Boraski and Matt Ortega, I had a 15-foot putt on the 18th hole at Berkshire Hills to shoot 71 and break par for the first time ever. I had made putts of 10, 8, 4, 15 and 4 feet on the previous five holes to go from +3 to even. It never even crossed my mind that I was going to miss that putt. I barely looked at the line. As corny as it sounds, I thought it was my destiny to make that putt.

And I did. You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him what I shot that night.

Seven years later, some things never change. This time, I barely looked at the line. I put a firm stroke on it and a smile came to face as I watched it break right into the center of the hole.

I’m not much of a screamer, but I yelled at the top of my lungs just long enough for the greens keeper to take a second glance at me. “83!” I shouted. I pumped my fist too many times to count then I almost tore off my friends arm and gave him a high five.

Both of my friends put their clubs in the cart and began to drive back to the clubhouse, but I couldn’t get in the cart. “I’ve gotta walk,” I told them. “I’m too excited.”

I guess deep down, it didn’t matter that I beat my boss. And it didn’t matter that I won $5. It mattered that I was able to rewind the hands of time, pretend I didn’t have to work for a living, and could be that kid practicing flop shots from the fence near the pool at BHCC.

After Chris Datres and I drove back to the Golf Channel, he attested the scorecard and I replayed the day’s events to my boss, Dave Taylor. He chuckled, facetiously questioned the quality of the course we played then reached for his wallet.

“I don’t want your money,” I said. “Save it for when you and I play.”

Sun-burned, tired and hungry, I walked out to the parking lot, hopped in my car and headed home. As I turned onto Sand Lake Road, I called my Father.

“Hey, buddy,” he answered.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, with a hint of enthusiasm in my voice. “I’ve got the greatest golf story to tell you.”

I wish I could have seen the look on his face.