He showed up on the first tee one foggy Sunday afternoon at Lake Chabot Golf. He wore jeans, a plaid work shirt and sported a week's beard. He swigged from a whiskey pint. He stumbled to his ball. He smoothly striped the fairway, catching the downhill slope coming to rest 280 yards later. His name is Gary.
He parred the tough 400 yard first hole, parred the uphill par 3 160-yard second hole. He limped and grimaced. He disclosed, as if telling you the time of day, that he had some DUIs and that his wife had given him a ride to the course and would pick him up later. He was just getting warm.
Holes three and four are back to back uphill par 5s of about 480 yards that play like 500 and 520 yards. I learned to play at Lake Chabot and what I saw next I had never seen in 11 years of playing my home course. On the third hole he was just off the green in two; he chipped and made his birdie putt.
Gary pounded a drive on the 4th, another 270 yarder. His second shot, playing 220 yards uphill, found the green from a towering 5-wood. He missed his eagle putt but sank another birdie. In all my years I have never seen anyone on the fourth green in two strokes. Gary played the rest of the front nine about 1 or 2 strokes over, clutching his back and nipping whiskey. It was getting dark so we went our separate ways.
Gary was just another Lake Chabot critter. One of the reasons I love muni golf and my home course is the parade of characters like Gary. The other great golfer I had encountered there, a young guy from the hood, smoked a joint every three holes and finished the round two over par.
What makes a home course is that it's close to you, a 15 minute drive for me. Lake Chabot has had a resurgence lately because it's fixed the drainage, finally added colored flags and generally just tidied up. It's cheap, $10 to walk during the week for an Oakland resident.
I always walk the course. I know that it has 11 distinct uphill climbs. When I walk it the first time, if I have not played it in a while, I huff and puff. But the next time I play it I find my legs. People who don't play it often hate it. "I don't like the hills," they say. "The place doesn't have a flat lie," etc.
It has: deer, wild turkey, potheads, boozers, hacks, kids, geezers, ladies, Asians, college golfers and working stiffs. The fifth hole is next to a house with two German Shepherds that bark like hell as you line up your putt.
Chabot has serious design flaws. The road to the clubhouse runs through the center of five holes. Golfers and motorists dance oddly passing through, pausing for each other to go by. And yet I am not aware of any shattered windshields.
Many of the holes are cupped so that if you are somewhere near the fairway the ball funnels back towards the center. The ninth hole, a par 3, is off a cliff that drops about 200 yards down to a pie plate green. It's only about 6100 yards from the blues but plays more like 6500.
Up on the back nine you have spectacular views of Alameda, San Francisco and Hayward. The 18th hole is about 640 yards, 530 yards downhill, and is the only par 6 that I know.
I take refuge at Chabot. Cell phone reception is spotty so you can play hooky. Many times I just drop three or five balls near the green to work on my approach shots.
Over the years the City floats ideas of privatizing the course or selling it off to some fat cat. And yet these deals never happen.
Chabot will make you a better golfer.
