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BACK NINE
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Luck
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“The
clam before the storm,” Paul B said for the thousandth time
in his
life. He had once actually commissioned a painting with that title from
a
friend. A defiant clam, arms akimbo, staring at an oncoming
lightning-filled
black cloud. He found the phrase hilarious.
The
first fat splat sent the members into the grill room for fear of
diluting their
Falstaffs. It grew dark enough to warrant the overhead lights, but a
sharp
crack made the room white, then the power went out. Janine, the grill’s
bartender, called out in her Scottish brogue, “Drink, lads, the beer’s
nae
gonna stay cold.” The storm was duly toasted. It looked like it was
going to be
a prolonged stay.
Janine
carried Geronimo in. The poor dog was shaking with fear of the thunder.
The
senior members took turns consoling him.
Paul
B walked to the dark window and watched a series of flashes. “Did I
ever tell
you about the luckiest or unluckiest golfer in the world?” He turned
back and
caught half the men rising and looking to the exit. “Now, now. You’ll
be glad
you heard this one, and every word is true.” * *
*
“It
actually was the very first round played after we lost the back nine
holes, in
1963,” Paul B recounted. “And, amazingly enough, it was J. Frank Dobie,
the famous
folklorist, who was the golfer.”
“I
never heard of Dobie playing golf,” said Barker Baines Johnson, a known
skeptic
about town.
“Well,
did you ever hear of him not playing
golf? He lived near here, just down on
“Now
this was back when this was a public course and the idiot population of
“So
through no plan other than being an early riser, Dobie happened to be
the first
off the tee on an ordinary midweek day in 1963, that first day of
infamy when
we were reduced to nine holes. He was by himself. And here’s when the
most
amazing round ever played on this course or anywhere starts.” More
dismissive
grumblings from the members.
“On
the first hole, he hits a weak iron that bounces off the stone banks of
Waller Creek.
The ball rolls on the green and into the hole. He looked around for a
witness—no one. A little stunned, he heads to the second hole. An
unusually
good drive and second shot gave him a clear opening to the green. His
4-iron
goes in.
“He’s
an old guy at this point, around 75—in fact he died the next year—and he’s jumping up and down, cursing
that no one could verify this. He goes to number 3 and hits another
good drive.
His approach is still a good 140 yards out. He wanted to hit a 6-iron,
but was
only carrying about seven clubs so has to hit a 4. He accidently hits a
screamer that would have gone across onto
The
eye-rolling and eyebrow-arching is so rampant among the senior members
that
it’s the most exercise some have gotten in years.
“So
he’s had three eagles in a row, maybe something that’s never been done
outside
of a Putt-Putt course. A score of 6 after three holes, six under par.
He’s
trying to stay calm and not think. Maybe he should just quit right
then. But he
laughs at himself. ‘It’s just a game.’ His tee shot on number 4, the
bland par
3, hits the flagstick and drops, stopping right next to the hole. As he
walks
to the green a big wind, on an otherwise calm day, blows the ball in
the hole. At
this point, he’s starting to think maybe he’s insane, but glad it’s
taking this
form.
“He’s
starting to wonder if he’s on Candid
Camera. That was real popular on TV back then and being a
folklorist, he
thought the show was like fieldwork. He casually looked around for
Allen Funt
hiding behind a tree.
“On
to the easier next four holes, which for the first time, were the end
of the
course. On number 6, he can hear, if not yet see, where the back nine
were.
Huge earth movers, jack hammers, trees falling. He is shaken. He knew
this was
going to happen but the reality hits him in the gut. His
drive is so-so, maybe 175 yards. His
second shot is a worm-burner to the left, into a deep swale 50 yards
short of
the green. He, of course, hits a 9-iron into the cup on the fly. ‘Hell,
only a
birdie.’
“On the number 7 tee he’s
confronted with the
actual sight of the destruction of the back nine. A line of cement
trucks is
waiting to enter while another line of trucks hauling away cut-down
trees
exits. Dobie feels like he’s in heaven and hell at the same time. He
hits two
decent shots and is on the green. A 20-foot putt goes in. It feels like
the
most ordinary hole in the world. Back-to-back birdies, something Dobie
had
never done before, now seemed like a letdown.
“On
number 8, his nice drive sits in the middle of the fairway, but just as
he’s
about 30 feet away from his ball a dog runs out of the trees to the
right
and picks up the
ball in its mouth. Dobie shouts at it and, of course, the dog thinks
it’s a
game. They chase each other around, moving toward the green. The dog
finally
drops the ball in the sand trap to the left of the green. Afraid the
dog will
pick it up again, Dobie throws a stick off to the left for the dog to
play
with, which works. But in tearing out of the trap to get the stick, the
dog
kicks the ball, which rolls onto the green and into the hole. A hole in
one. A
double eagle.
“Now
Dobie’s on the final hole. He tries not to but can’t stop himself—after
eight
holes a score so far of 16, fifteen under par; one double eagle; five
eagles, three
holes in one; two birdies; a total of one putt.”
In
spite of themselves, and aided by a constant flow of Falstaff and a
lightning-lit Paul B, the small crowd of senior members were leaning
forward,
eyes wide.
“Now,
you all know number 9 has a pond to the front left of the green. Well,
when
Dobie hit his tee shot, the depression that forms the pond wasn’t
there, but
before his shot landed, it was.” Paul B paused and took a long sip of
his beer then continued.
“Right
as his tee shot was starting to come down, a meteor came flying in from
the
south, hits Dobie’s ball, then the fairway, forming the depression.
“Well,
Dobie sat down right on the tee box, staring like a dead man. After
about
thirty seconds people came running from all over to find out what the
big noise
was. Dobie slowly approached the crowd. He spotted the club pro and
asked him
what the rule was for a ball destroyed in midflight by a meteor. The
pro
immediately said a substitute ball would be dropped where the original
would
have landed. No penalty. ‘But,’ said Dobie, ‘it would have stopped
where that
flaming pit is now.’ The pro said in that case he could drop anywhere
no closer
to the hole.
“Dobie
hit a nice 9-iron onto the green. His birdie put lips out. The club pro
said,
‘Aww, tough luck.’” * *
*
The
quiet in the grill room lasted about fifteen seconds, then Barker
Baines
Johnson said, “Hey, Paul B, wait just a minute….”
The
group looked at the two of them. Johnson started to say something twice
then
said, “Forget it. Never mind.” As the group got up to replenish their
mugs with
the warming Falstaff, Johnson sidled up to Paul B and said quietly,
“The holes
were arranged totally differently back then. For instance, what’s now
number 9
was number 5 in 1963.”
“Well,
uh, Dobie didn’t really know the right sequence and because his round
was so
amazing, the management rearranged the numbering to match his.”
“Really?”
“
May I be struck by a meteorite if I’m lying.” © Red
Wassenich October 2008 Back Nine
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