BACK NINE

THE AUSTIN GOLF CLUB STORIES

THE UNISEX CHAMPIONSHIP

            They also shared, or more accurately, obsessed upon, the etiquette of golf. Woe be unto a member of their foursome who hit into the group ahead or failed to repair a pitchmark. Having a competitor talk during his backswing once led Paul B to kneecap the offender with his driver during a club championship match, leading to a disqualification and a temporary nickname of “Tonya.” Both could explain the rules pertaining to casual water.

            Paul B had never won any of the various club championships—the Men’s Single, the Men’s Team, the Mixed Team, the Senior Men’s Single, the Senior Men’s Team, the Senior Mixed Team—and Sinfonia had not won any of the distaff versions. Both had this stuck in their respective craws but knew not to speak of it, knowing it would be grist for others’ jibes.

            But it came upon the land that the Competitions Committee decreed a new match: the Unisex Championship. It had a new scoring system that the chair of the committee had appear to him in a dream, which he explained in an odd trancelike voice to the crowd at an open meeting. Each fairway hit got a score with a formula based on distance and accuracy (white stripes were put down the middle of each fairway as a gauge). Each green in regulation got a score. Zero, one, or two putts led to more points. In the meeting room where the new system was introduced, the formula filled a three-foot by five-foot board with smallish figures. But everyone stared at it for a minute after his explanation and then went, “Yeah. OK. Got it.” It was immediately dubbed the Dream System.

            Part of the system was that handicaps were not used. The only advantage proffered was that women hit from the front tees, men from the back. (The Austin Golf Club had only ever had two sets of tees.) The man always hit first, otherwise the Rules of Golf applied, penalties, hazards, the whole wonderful 192-page collection of arcana that true golfers relish. Thus men and women were to compete intertwined, as it were. There would be but one champion.

 
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            The usual group of male duffers gathered on the verandah overlooking the ninth hole to chew the new championship over.

            “Well, as I’ve pointed out before,” said Paul B—a phrase that preceded a large portion of his statements—“golf is the only sport worth being called a sport where the low score wins. This new Dream System goes against that, but I must say I rather like it.” The others mumbled agreements of various sorts, all inwardly thinking that the new format was a perfect match for their imperfect abilities.

            Around the fireplace in the clubhouse, the women golfers were having a parallel confabulation about the Dream System.

 
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            One of the many minor oddities of the Austin Golf Club course is that the first hole is a par 3, 150 yards. An elevated tee looks down on the stone banks of Waller Creek. Although the carry is no more than 125 yards from the back tee, the psychological impact of a water shot on the first hole can be considerable, especially in a tournament.

            Paul B, outwardly maintaining his phlegmatism, was annoyingly nervous, but managed a decent 6-iron to the far left edge of the green. He scored one point in the Dream System but was left with a sharply breaking 30-footer.

            Sinfonia Dugger’s 5-iron on the 140-yard hole was bladed badly and bounced wildly off the rock ledge on the far side of the creek, rocketing to the right onto the fifth tee box, thirty yards from her intended green. Her ears swiveled, waiting for snickers from her opponent, Paul B, or his cronies in the gallery. But none were heard, such was the gravity of the moment. Theirs was the final twosome of the day.

            Sinfonia was faced with the double whammy of now having to hit a hard lob wedge after having skulled her opening shot. If she bladed the wedge it would go screaming into the unkempt foliage beyond the green. She concentrated on supination and hit a high soft one that stopped ten feet below the hole. Paul B’s putt weakly ended almost exactly on her ball marker. Her putt went in, giving her two points; his didn’t.

            Number 2 is the hardest hole on the course, the only par 5. The right side has scrubby trees and horrible soil. It was either a distinctive element or a sad commentary on the groundskeeping when it came to the baked, packed, gravelly areas here and there on three of the nine holes. Waller Creek runs down the left side of the fairway for three-fourths of the hole, then cuts across where the hole takes a sharp left turn. Even a long, straight drive probably left one with a layup due to the tall trees that created only a narrow window over the creek. The green was severely elevated.

            Each scored a point for the accuracy of their drives and Paul B got two for his one putt, never mind his medal score would have been an 8. Sinfonia made an even worse hash of the hole, but as they stood on the third tee, someone in the gallery reported that Paul B’s three points was the most anyone had made on the hole that day.

            The third hole, a par 4, requires a high drive due to Waller Creek again crossing the fairway. How many courses have the same body of water come into play on four of the first five holes, Paul B wondered as he waggled. A tough reference question he might phone into the library just to annoy them. Paul B had found that his swing thoughts were best left to graze where they might. He had tried concentration on supination, pronation, weight shift, axis rotation, grip tightness, shoulder looseness, et cetera, but had decided randomness worked best. His 5-wood rose nicely and faded to match the dogleg. Another point. Sinfonia, being closer to the creek, actually was disadvantaged: Her drive had to go high more quickly. She hit a smart 7-wood. Point.

            Each hit onto the tiny green with their second shots and each two-putted. Three points to each.

            Number 4 is an undistinguished par 3. The hole was newish, from the 1970s, the last time any course changes had been made. The only thing of interest about the hole was in the minds of the old-timers who remember that it had once been the last 150 yards of what had been a second killer par 5. All were relieved to have it gone. Both our golfers hit smooth 6-irons onto the green and again two-putted. This is the methodical golf each thrilled in, and the Dream System was rewarding them.

            But as the Austin Golf Club giveth, so doth it take away. Number 5 is a short par 4, only 250 yards from the back tees, but in addition to again crossing Waller Creek, the fairway rose severely and there was a forest on the left. A big drive, even if straight, was likely to end up in the deep swale in front of the microscopic, slanted green. Six feet behind the green was O.B. It was a nasty bit of work.

            Paul B rifled a driver directly into the rising fairway. The ball hit the gravelly upslope, bounced almost straight up, and rolled back down to the creek’s edge. Only his love of golf decorum kept him from hurling the club into the traffic on nearby 41^st Street.

            Sinfonia peeled her drive off to the right, bouncing off the huge live oak that stood alone. Her ball ended up on the incline that defined the first tee box. Fear had won the day on their drives. Each hacked away, grateful that it was not medal play. The vagaries of the Dream System let them each score a point for their two-putts. Sinfonia said as they trudged to the next tee that the point felt like a greasy Mulligan.

            The members generally refer to the rest of the course as the Back Four. Whereas the opening holes have water and hills and doglegs, the final holes are wide open, fairly flat par 4s where an errant shot is often not punished. Paul B and Sinfonia both took out their frustrations with the previous hole with long, accurate drives, hit the green with their approaches, and one-putted, racking up points. The scorekeeper announced Paul B had a one point lead and that the pair were in first and second place overall.

            They both suddenly ingested a rabble of butterflies. This chance to finally win a club championship filled the air as they stood on the seventh tee. Paul B stared forlornly down the fairway of his nemesis hole. It was the easiest par 4 on the course, only 335 yards for the back tee, 309 for the front. Flat, straight fairway with a large mild green. But Paul B was filled with rage and loathing that took over his game on this hole because it afforded a taunting view of Hancock Shopping Center, the travesty that occupied the old back nine holes of the Austin Golf Club. It was his greatest desire in the world to reclaim this land and restore it to its proper glory. He hadn’t played this hole in better than a triple bogey in a year. The best strategy he had was to intentionally hit his drive to the left, onto the next fairway, where his view of the shopping center was blocked. But in the Dream System that would punish him, so he took dead aim down the center of the fairway and topped a driver 125 yards. But it stopped dead on the white line in the center of the fairway. A galling point.

            Sinfonia’s 185-yard drive was near the center line for two points. Score tied.

            Paul B marched, head down, to his ball. He actually faced back to the tee box for his practice swings so he couldn’t have the shopping center in his vision. He about-faced and in his backswing couldn’t help but look up at the old back nine. Rage fueled a mighty lumberjack hack with a 5-wood that amazingly connected cleanly—directly at Hancock Shopping Center. The ball flew 200 yards, landed on Red River Street, bounced twice, and went through the window of Pirate’s Cove Wholesale Wart Removal, one of the many cut-rate, sleazy businesses that grew out of the crushed economy of Austin. His shoulders suddenly loosened, his jaws unclenched. He calmly walked to where the ball had left the premises and calmly chipped back to the fairway, taking his punishment.

            Sinfonia put an 8-iron on the front of the green for a point. Paul B put his fifth shot about twenty-five feet behind the pin. Her putt stopped an inch short. Paul B’s didn’t. Two points for him to take the lead. Plus he had only double-bogeyed the hole, his best score in ages.

            The 8^th hole has a giant live oak about eighty yards from the tee, right center of the fairway, so one must either bend one around it or hit over it. Paul B took the high road and Sinfonia the side one, both scoring a point for accuracy. Their second shots into the par 4 were difficult only in that the green is sunken, with only the top three feet of the flagstick visible, and slopes from front to back. Number 8’s main claim to fame is that there are only two sand traps on the entire course and they’re both on this hole, one on either side of the green. But our players chose to miss these by hitting short. Paul B chipped poorly. Sinfonia chipped in.

            In a daze, he three-putted, his coveted championship disintegrating. Down by a point.

            The final hole is one of those wonderful sucker holes for big hitters: only 264 yards from the back tee, with a water hazard to the front left of the postage stamp, slanted green. Our pair knew well to hit as close to the hazard as was safe and to lob one on. Paul B placed his 5-wood well and secured a point. He walked up near the front tee to watch his opponent’s drive. She was debating club selection with herself, pulling and replacing clubs repeatedly, obviously nervous about her first championship. She absently placed her tee into the ground six inches in front of the marker. As she stood behind the ball to choose her line, Paul B mentally strummed through his encyclopedic knowledge of the Rules of Golf:

If a competitor, when starting a hole, plays a ball from outside the teeing ground, he incurs a penalty of two strokes and must then play a ball from within the teeing ground.

Let her hit, call it, be the first Unisex Champion of the Austin Golf Club. Saying that title to himself immediately led to a clairvoyant vision of the usual gang on the verandah taunting him. “Oh, Mister Unisex Champion—or is it Ms. Unisex?—may I get you a passionfruit daiquiri while I’m up?”

            “Sinfonia, you’re teed up in front of the markers.”