One dollar a hole, automatic presses. The bet sounded benign enough when I teed off with my brother this past Friday at Bardmoor Golf and Tennis Club in Largo, Florida.
This match and its terms had been much discussed and anticipated, our own mini-getaway in the midst of a huge family gathering to celebrate our father’s 90th birthday. I’m not sure who was looking forward to it more; he, the owner of the grand central gathering spot for twenty-plus relatives or I, ready to play some warm weather golf after hacking through a New England winter on the links.
There was no argument that could convince my brother that I should play the forward tees. We settled on my playing from the silver tees and my brother from the golds. Dead even by handicap, I let slide the fact that I should have been given a few strokes for moving back. It was just too hard to argue with the “what happened to all that equal rights talk?” This, despite knowing that the USGA was on my side, and that there would be something like a three club differential come time we’re 150 yards out. “He has no short game” became my mantra.
We were happy to be paired with a lovely, enjoyable married couple. I have to admit the sentiment was probably not returned. We both knew better, but our etiquette was not the best.
As quoted from Page 1, Section 1 of The Rules of Golf:
” The Spirit of the Game… All players should conduct themselves in a disciplined manner, demonstrating courtesy and sportsmanship at all times, irrespective of how competitive they may be.”
Hard to believe I actually had a copy of that in my bag.
For example, although I had the presence of mind to write down our fellow competitors names on the first tee, by the fifteenth hole my brother pointed out for the umpteenth time that the poor woman’s name was Judy, not Barbara. On the sixteenth hole I called her Barbara again. More than a blond moment, my brain was in convulsions from counting the billion presses in our match and trying to compute them to dollars. And I can’t tell you how many times we blew by old Judy-Barbara as she stood quietly alone at the red tees, so into our match we forgot she was there. I tried covering our numerous faux pas by explaining that the more beer my brother consumed, his game improved but his driving of the cart became worse. I knew we were playing like the obnoxious transients who clog my own home course on weekends, but we were out of control. The match had taken on a life of its own. Our round played more like more like a trash-talking pick-up basketball game than a civilized golf match. If I didn’t already apologize a thousand times, let this be a final, and sincere apology to both Judy and Jim (or was it Tim?).
Apparently stripping myself of the three to four layers of clothing I’d been forced to wear to play in the North Country agreed with me. Swinging away in seventy five degree weather was freeing, and I quickly went four up after four. I slipped a bit before the turn, but happily grinned at James, the starter, as we headed for the tenth, and he laughed, having heard plenty about our sibling rivalry earlier at the shack.
Perhaps it was all that swing oil my brother was downing, on his part, or maybe just my usual got-a-good-round-going-time-to-choke thing, on my part, but soon enough on the back side the match was dead even. With too many presses for me to comprehend, we were playing six dollar holes. All of a sudden this match was a far cry from my usual $2 Nassau. No partner to fall back on and $6 holes? How would I explain to my husband that my golf bets totaled more than my airfare?
The big guy kept the pressure on until I found myself down seventeen dollars on the 18th tee. Taking stock of the situation, I gave myself a little pep talk. It wasn’t about the money, but I didn’t haul my clubs through two airports to take a thrashing from my corporate-golf-playing-beer-drinking-banana-ball-slicing brother. This had become a matter of pride. I glanced quickly at the card, noted my seventy five yard advantage and voiced my decision; it was double or nothing on 18, my only chance to break even.
Well, the boy ran dry just in time. He’d by-passed the cart girl a few holes back and must have been losing his buzz. He white knuckled his drive, pulling it left and short. Topping the next shot he was now lying two just behind my dead center drive. That’s the match, I thought, as I watched him pull out a wood to muscle what remained of the par five. A few conservative shots later (perhaps my first of the day), I tapped in my par and walked off the eighteenth with my pride intact and the match a squash.
We enjoyed a few cocktails at the bar and readied ourselves for a full slate of activities with a large family group of non-golfers. A pretty cutthroat group as a whole, the rest of our weekend would consist of high volume, aggressive matches of cribbage, pinnochle, Scattergories and more. Not an easy bunch if you’re non-competitive. We were looking forward to the celebration, but for the two of us, with no declared winner this particular day, our Monday tee time couldn’t come soon enough.
