Winning at Golf

He winds up with his awful backswing and I’m just waiting for his elbow to snap in half. And when I say waiting, I mean praying. I’m two down with three to go against Mort Sherman and I can't hit a straight shot. Unless something magical happens I’m gonna lose ten bucks to Mort and wear the shame that goes along with it. In lieu of any semblance of an effective golf game, I’ve been pulling out all the stops.

On the 7th green, he needed a two-putt to win the hole. As he lines up his putt I ask, “Is my mark in your way?”

My ball was twenty feet to the right of his. The only chance it’s in his way is if he has a brain hemorrhage and slaps it ninety degrees sideways as he’s collapsing and dying on the green. Which is exactly what I want him worrying about.

Listen, this is golf. It’s a gentleman’s game played with honor and dignity. But that doesn’t mean I’m not rooting against my opponent at every turn and leveraging every mind-fuck I’ve learned since I was eight. But Mort was a tough out. Even after my ball-mark gambit the bastard almost drained it. It didn’t fall, but the three-putt I was trying to harvest didn’t happen either. I contemplated making him mark his ball, but half of his Topflite X-out was mockingly dangling over the edge of the cup. So I give it to him.

“You’re good, pick it up,” I say gracefully, as my mouth almost bleeds when the words pass my lips. I give him a polite, supportive smile. Mort replies with a head nod.

I’ve never wanted a man to trip and lightly sprain his wrist more in my life.

My tricks aren’t working. He’s unfazed.

We battle back and forth but he’s getting the better of me. On 13 I ask, “Is Jeannie still dating that Lucas fella?”

Jeremiah Lucas is a hedge-fund billionaire. Jeannie is his wife who left him six months ago when Lucas stole her away. Mort and Jeannie were legally separated, but he was dying to get her back. Just last month he was sobbing to me in the card room about how empty he was without her. But that too was now trending in Mort’s favor.

“No, he dumped her for a model. We talked last week and Jeannie wants to work things out with me.”

 Shit, that was terrible news.

“That’s amazing, congrats.”

“Thanks. I’m feeling pretty good about it.”

Jesus, I couldn’t catch a break.

So that was it, he’s getting his life back together, which is fueling his solid play, as love and joy are coming back to nourish his downtrodden soul. What a pig. That eliminates seventy percent of the mind games I have in my desperate bag of tricks.

Moments earlier on 15, I double hit my third shot from ten feet off the green with my new Vokey wedge. I had it customized from 56 to 55 degrees. On the range before I teed off I bragged about how I decided on 55 degrees based on the two-hour fitting I did with our pro Jack. Normal people get the stock 54 or 56 degree, I told everyone. Not me. I’m a student of the game. I count on metrics, and analysis, and delusions of grandeur to fuel my equipment decisions and incessant purchases.

But the club let me down, likely because Javier installed the wrong grip causing slippage in my downswing. For a fleeting, unrealistic moment I considered, regardless of how unlikely, that my take-away was jerky and disjointed, I kept my weight on my back foot as I pulled my head and rushed the downswing, hitting the ground 6 inches before the ball, and giving it a second, glancing blow as I chicken-winged both arms in my follow through.

However, self-accountability is often rare on the golf course, and luck is easily conflated with skill. Somehow the ball scooched onto the green, settling eighteen feet from the cup. As I thanked God for the lucky break, I knew a serious conversation with Javier about his commitment to his craft was forthcoming.

I was able to bear down and three-putt to tie the hole.

I stand on the 16th tee down two with three to go. 16 is the number 2 handicap—a difficult par four with OB on the left, three fairway bunkers, and a lightning-fast green surrounded by another four bunkers. 130 yards from the green, the fairway narrows on the right with a grouping of trees that overhangs any errant approach shot. This makes an up and down from that position a longshot at best. There were a lot of ways to make a big number on 16 and if you wanted to minimize that outcome, a good drive is mandatory. 

In Mort’s shitty, shallow backswing I jingle the tees in my pocket just before impact. The faint sound disrupts his tempo. He slices his drive, high, short and right, barely covering 175 yards. This leaves him 200 yards out, with trouble everywhere.

Mort shoots me a glare as he picks up his pink martini golf tee and exits the tee-box. But there is no eye contact between us. I’m giving my caddy Anthony a faux-death stare, shrewdly shifting the blame to him. With my hands I make an exaggerated, “Anthony, that was your fault” gesture.

“Tough break man,” I say with a sympathetic glance to Mort as he strides by. “I’ll talk to Anthony.”

Mort mutters something like “Thank you”, but his tone screams “You’re a dick.”

The stage was set. I stand over my ball, and after ten confident waggles, I rip a drive 230 straight down the middle. We exit the tee-box and head to our balls. Mort’s tee-shot landed in heavy rough. What a shame. It took him two more hacks to get back to the fairway, lying 3, 150 yards from the hole.

I have the advantage, but I still don’t want to bring the greenside bunkers into play. I step up and hit a glorious knock-down 6-iron to 30 yards short of the green. Mort buries his 4th shot into the face of the greenside bunker. There is little chance his next shot is getting on the green. At best he’s making a 7 and probably an 8.

Knowing the hole is mine sans a meltdown, I choose putter over the sand wedge. Putting from 90 feet is no easy thing, but it’s the safe play. With a good stroke I get it on the dance floor, settling 30 feet from the cup. I blow the next one nine feet past the hole. Two more putts and I card a double-bogey. This time 6 wins the hole after Mort chops his way to a big number.

I stride to 17 oozing confidence.

Knowing he made an 8 I ask, “Mort, was that 5 or 6?” I now have Mort in my mental voodoo ninja grasp.

“I don’t know 7 or 8, but put me down for a double. Whatever, you win the hole.”

Down 1, 2 to go.

17 is a short par 4. Driver is too risky, with OB left, and an iron won’t give me enough distance.  I pull out my Callaway heavenwood. This is the club reserved exclusively for when I need to hit a high draw. In the 18 years since I purchased it on Ebay, it has rarely let me down. It’s been my go-to club when the pressure’s on. And the pressure was definitely on. My plan was to start the ball toward the right side of the fairway and gently draw it back to the middle, settling safely on the left side, giving me a great look at the flag. During past moments like this I’ve tapped into the mental acuity that comes from golf yoga. Not just the physical aspect, but the mental power that’s critical when competing under duress.

I adjust my stance and grip pressure. I lock in and pull the trigger.

I hit a stinger slice off the hosel, as I feel a pop in my lower back. I wince in pain, but try to disguise it with a triumphant, “Be good” exhortation. The ball somehow settles on the right side of the fairway in decent position. I pick up my tee and do my best to hide the crippling sciatica pain shooting through my IT band and down to my knee. 

I glance at the ball and give it an approving nod. I can only hope Mort believes the grotesque shot was executed with perfection.

“Nice play,” he says, and I know my feigned pride has worked.

Mort steps-up and hits his best drive of the day, as I curse God and all living creatures

We walk to our balls in total silence. I stand over my second shot and feel the failure-sweat gathering on my forehead and upper lip. My back is tight and my knee feels like it’s in a bear trap. But I compartmentalize. My hands tremble as I try to focus my mind on the pre-shot visualization I’ve been working on with one of my golf therapists. But all that’s coming through is the memory of the quadruple bogey I made here in the Senior Club Championship, costing me a chance at 5th.

However, pull the trigger I must. I see myself from an out-of-body perspective and the fear melts away.  I take the club back slowly. My mind clears, and I feel it—the tempo of the gods. The takeaway is perfect, followed by an ever-so-gentle pause at the top as my hands fall, I post up to my left side, and my hips elegantly pull my shoulders and club through impact.

The club is delivered on a perfect plane, with perfect force and acceleration. The ball compresses with the glorious “swoosh” all golfers crave. It flies high and true and settles three feet from the cup. It’s my best shot all year. I hold the pose for twenty seconds and know that this is my time.

But Mort is a grinder. He’s the reigning Senior Club Champ and not a quitter. His approach shot is on-line the whole way, and it looks perfect. Almost. It comes up five yards short of the green. Mort pulls out his infomercial chipper and goes up and down to card a par.

I stand over my short birdie putt and drain it with authority, making a three.

This match is all-square.

18 is a long, difficult 405-yard par four. It’s likely a five at least ties the hole and could possibly win. Walking off the course with a push at this point sounds good. But first I need to clear the ravine and get it somewhere on the fairway. And I do. A good-enough, 220-yard poke puts the pressure on Mort. But his tee game has been strong all day and he hits it 240 down the left center. We’re both in good shape as we walk off the tee.

The approach to 18 is tricky. There’s a deep, closely mown valley just short and left of the green—The Swale of Disappointment. A well-struck shot heading to the left side of the green could easily funnel into it, leaving a mind-numbing decision of whether to putt, chip, or putt with a hybrid. I didn’t want any part of that. An errant approach right brings the church pew bunkers into play. Many matches have been lost flying into those god-forsaken things. So, I do what I never do. I put a hold on my hero card and hit a stock 8-iron 120 yards, landing it right center in the fairway, sixty-five yards from the hole. It wasn’t bold, but it was safe, and it was smart. Mort looks at me. An extended stare. No words or gestures given this time by either of us. His non-verbal message was simply,

“You are weak sauce.”

But now he knows I’m playing for keeps. This wasn’t about the ten bucks. This was about all the times that winning was everything and I couldn’t get it done. Mort was also here to win. He played the glory shot, going for the knock-out blow and attempting to throw a dart at this difficult pin located front left, next to the swale. It was a sucker pin if there ever was one, but Mort had no fear. He makes a solid strike with his first generation Orlimar hybrid.

My heart sank as it was tracking to the hole the entire way. I silently prayed for bad things to happen. The ball hit ten yards before the green and was rolling perfectly toward the flag. It hit a bump. It did a wobble. Then, as if on command, it trundled left into the swale. It took all my power not to break character, I did not want Mort to see my glee. But I gave into the temptation of an ecstatic bottom lip bite.

Mort wasn’t thinking about me. He was wrapped up in a hell of his own making. This is a friendly, generous man who keeps his emotions close to his vest and gives a lot of his time to helping others. He’s the President of the local Boys and Girls Club and is on the Board of the Humane Society. But lady luck turned her back on him, and that near-perfect shot going bad nudged him over the line.

I’ve seen people throw clubs before. It’s not uncommon and in many cases useful to focus the mind and maybe loosen up a little shoulder bursitis. But I’ve never seen a 68-year-old man throw it that far or stumble in his follow-through and hit the ground at that awkward of an angle. 

Seeing him finally unravel in such a grand way filled me with joy. But what was most impressive was how, post-impact, he rolled twice, popped onto his feet, and kept walking as if nothing had happened, albeit with a slight limp and a noticeable grimace. He didn’t even wipe off the green divot sand that was now covering most of the right side of his face. I’m almost certain he jarred one of his six heart stents loose—I thought a medical DQ could deliver me a well-earned victory. But it was quickly apparent he had enough juice to finish the hole. This guy was a war-horse. For the briefest moment, my hate abated as I stared in awe at this living, limping legend.

But it was winning time. I was brimming with confidence as I stood over my third shot. He was in the Swale of Disappointment, short-sided, twenty feet away and five feet below the pin. Up and down from there would be challenging and even a five would be tough, especially in his physical state. I felt good coming off my spectacular approach on seventeen, but the butterflies swirled in my loins. I had been working on a nine-iron pitch from this distance all year. My aim was the right-center of the green. I connected crisply. It was a good shot and I was pleased. The ball settled eighteen feet from the cup. I felt confident I had five in my pocket and a run at four was possible.

I walked to the green to begin my plum-bobbing.

Mort gathered himself. He looked different at that moment. He had wiped most of the sand off of his face. I detected a sense of desperate anger. Maybe it was physical pain, maybe it was shame from his outburst. Whatever the case, he looked focused and mean. The pin could not have been in a worse place. It was a short 10 feet from the edge where the green met the top of the swale. From Mort’s position there was maybe five feet to land the ball past the edge before it hit a downslope that would send the ball rolling hard past the hole. Only a perfect shot could both clear the edge, and hit short enough to stop within a reasonable distance from the cup.

Mort tried the perfect shot with a 60-degree wedge that he opened up like a spatula behind the ball. Regardless of whatever tornado his mind and body were in, he put the smoothest swing on the ball I’d seen all round. The ball made love to the clubface. It flew high, directly above the edge of the swale. It peaked and began its descent. It was headed toward the good side of the edge. If it hit that mark, it would kill the speed and possibly end up within gimme range. It could even go in. It hit the edge, and I expected it to roll forward. Then I thought it might roll back down the hill. I shot a quick glance at Mort as he held his pose. His eyes were wide and bursting out of his orbs, as his white-knuckled hands strangled his club, hoping, praying for one more revolution forward. But it did not come. Miraculously, it came to rest on the ledge, perched precariously over the swale. He would have a putt at four, but more than likely he would two-putt for a five, giving me a window to win or tie.

I was ok with a tie at this point. It had been a grueling morning of golf and I knew lesser men would have given in to defeat. As I bent down to look at my line, finally feeling a sense of relief, I heard a shrill, horrible shriek. I looked up to see Mort’s ball gently and cruelly roll down the hill. His ball had not come to rest on the edge of the green. It had come to fuck and fuck Mort it did. Mort was beside himself. The ball settled. It was even closer to the hill and the hole, and this was a bad thing.

Gamechanger.

A win now was very likely with a two-putt from me, and I knew I could do that. Mort stewed. We finally made eye contact.

“Go ahead,” he grumbled.

Even though he still wasn’t on the green, I was away and it was my turn. I knew what I had to do. My putt was a good one. It burned the edge settling a few inches from the cup. Mort gave me the next one for a five. I was more than satisfied with a bogey. The chances of Mort tying me with a five were slim.

He was now left with a similar shot as his last, yet even more difficult. This time there was no rage-fueled focus and he didn’t take much time over the ball. This was a defeated man who just wanted to go home. His set-up was the same. The backswing was solid, but the mechanics on the downswing were off. It’s hard to be perfect when self-loathing is eating away at your broken, empty soul.

The ball came off the hosel at about 100 miles per hour and I was certain it would fly well over the green. But something incredible happened. The ball hit the flagstick and kicked back hard toward Mort. It was rolling with speed and seemed as if it was once again heading back down the hill. I lifted my eyes to Mort with some tiny measure of empathy. But when I looked at Mort I was surprised. There was something in his face I had not seen in several holes.

Hope.

 I was confused but a quick glance told me the story. The ball had done the opposite of his previous shot. It did not make the edge of the green and trundle once more into the Swale of Disappointment. It stopped short of the edge and was now moving back down toward the hole. It was rolling, but it was about to stop. It should be stopping. Why was the ball not stopping?

What was happening?

At that moment, I remembered when I was a high school senior, and a reserve on the junior varsity golf team. My coach told me, “Character reveals itself in grace. You can’t always win, and when you don’t, lose with the heart of a champion”. What an asshole. I’m still not sure what the fuck that means. My heart sank. The ball dropped. He made 4 which beat my 5. The match was over. No win. No tie. No glory. Mort limped over. We took off our hats and shook hands, both grumbling meaningless words and empty niceties. I gave him a $10 bill, briefly wishing I had dipped it in muriatic acid before relinquishing it.

As I reflect on the match, I realize that in many ways golf imitates life. It is full of pain and heartbreak and unrealized dreams, offset by moments of unbridled joy. I was proud of how I battled, nearly pulling out the victory. In the end, I feel privileged to be able to play a game that I love so dearly and that has given me so much.

Also, go fuck yourself Mort.