Golf Fore the Good

My time in Atlanta was a mere four days but I enjoyed more sunshine and fresh air than I had in the last month and a half at home. Perfect weather combined with lots of golf, great company and dogwood and azaleas in full regalia. Truly heavenly. My get away was the perfect way to get a taste of spring, so illusive a season in my own neck of the woods. I couldn’t have asked for anything better - except in terms of my golf game.

I didn’t quite leave with my tail between my legs, only because admitting defeat is not in my nature. An oft quoted axiom from a long ago high school coach remains burned in my brain: “quitters never win and winners never quit.” There’s always a next time.

I left for home with my luggage quite a bit heavier than I arrived, stuffed as it was with Master’s souvenirs from my pilgrimage to revered Augusta National. On the other hand, my wallet was significantly lighter. My brother now holds monumental and undeniable bragging rights until next we meet again on a tee box. He soundly trounced me on the golf course for three straight rounds and took back every penny I’d ever won from him - and then some.

The beating I took on the golf course was substantial though much of it was self inflicted. Day One we both had ours struggles with the dormant fairway grass and chunky, muddy divots. My losses that first day were minimal.

It was Day Two that inflicted the most damage, mentally and monetarily. The game was match play, automatic presses plus junk, our usual. With eighteen under my belt and relishing playing a second round in the gentle breezes and glorious sunshine I was confident I could recoup my losses from the previous round. My expectations were short lived. Though the shanks that had plagued me the day before were no longer a factor I was still swinging with less than full confidence. Not once but twice the door was left open for me but I choked worse than Greg Norman at the 1996 Masters (though I never even managed to build up that much of a lead).

My brother went way up with a win on a five hole carry over and then dug even deeper into my pocket when he closed out the match by snagging a six hole carry over on the back nine. Ouch. That hurt even before we factored in those foolish presses. I hadn’t seen a bet multiply itself like that since I’d played my friend Charlie in a $2 Nassau. Even without doing the math, just consider that $5 a hole can add up a lot faster than two bucks a side.

My golf was painful to watch, so often did I throw away chances to score. Our referee was shocked at the civility with which we were playing, mostly because, always the gentleman, my brother could not bear to add to my pain with any cutting remarks. That is, until we were off the golf course and he was sure there’d be no crying in golf.

His sensitivity lasted only as long as it took to take off my golf shoes. The stuff really started flying after we loosened our tongues with some spirits, but all in good fun. Undeterred, I planned a comeback for our third and final match after reviving my mental game with an afternoon of inspiration viewing the fairway action at Augusta National.

Thursday at Augusta was a pilgrimage I’d never dreamed I’d have the privilege of making (more about that later).

Friday brought me to the tee box with renewed spirit, determined to even the score from our two prior outings. Ever the victor in our golf matches over the years, I was sure my last two losses were a fluke and I’d emerge the winner before leaving Atlanta. The sunshine and warmth had dried out the muddy fairways (who said there was a drought in Atlanta???) and the Bermuda grass was springing skyward, finally providing some nice lies in the fairways. How could I not play good golf?

How not, indeed? Let me count the ways. Hadn’t I just witnessed even some of the best of the best golfers in the world struggle down the National’s gorgeous fairways and suffer on those greens? It is a cruel, cruel game we play.

Golf is a bit like having kids and raising a family: if all one ever remembered were the pitfalls and frustrations, the pain and the disappointments then we’d all play golf just once and every one would be an only child. Thankfully, the rewards outweigh the risks in both regards. We learn to love the game despite its harsh moments and I have a brother with whom to play golf.

Midway through our final round I was holding my own even if I hadn’t made up any ground. I was feeling confident that I’d have enough cash in my pocket for the bus ride home from the airport. But things ground to a halt and became ever more painful as we trudged around the front nine in a mind-numbing two hours and fifty minutes. Certainly not the norm at a prestigious and so-very-private golf course and even less than what you’d expect playing behind a gentleman who’d been introduced to us on the first tee as Mr. GQ All American Spirit of Georgia Amateur Golf. Shame on him for setting such a tedious pace. I was wishing myself back to my good old municipal golf course where we can sometimes expect a five hour round deep in the season but most members know enough to keep things moving.

Our Italian blood flared up as with each passing hole the Georgia Peach up ahead played with blinders on, oblivious to the passing time even as we nearly overtook his foursome on a tee box. The tension became obvious in our golf, a factor that often pops up to ruin my game. A tight grip sinks ships and I was floundering.

Finally we were allowed to play through on the twelfth hole. My brother quickly recovered his game and I did not. Even the beauty of the thirteenth, the picturesque signature hole I’d played so well the last two rounds, was not enough to bring back my game. In the end there was no denying I am officially stuck with the “loser” moniker until our next go-round.

I emptied my war chest to pay my debts and flew home the next day, ever so humbled by the game of golf. The last I knew, my brother was basking in his glory, happily ensconced as a couch potato, tivo-ing a full roster of sporting events including the final day of the Masters, his pockets stuffed with my money. Retirement is working well for his golf game. After our golf competition this week I’m sure there’s enough cash between his couch cushions that he can afford to stop watching the stock market ticker and live off the residuals of his winnings for quite some time.