Wednesday, June 15, 2011

I Broke 80, Bitches!!!!!!!!

If you are not remotely interested in golf just walk the F away. Scat. Rory this, Rory that. Folderol. This is a story about a 12-handicapper, Mr. Michael J. Spencer, who brought desert golf gagging and choking to its knees one fine day on a podunk muni in Palm Springs on Super Bowl weekend in 2011.

For the rest of you, let me tell the story. Pull up a chair and pop a cold one. Glug, glug, glug, here you go. I played from the blues, 6300 yards at Cimarron Resort


Rory was born to golf. I wasn't. He and his silky swing and Gumby-like flexibility. Going 16-under at the US Open was his birthright. I, on the other hand, was born to aspire to journalism, club rugby and private investigations.

I took up golf at the tender age of 35, battling a whopping astigmatism, impatience and saltiness. What set me on my golf odyssey was fat old farts drubbing me on a course in Reno in 2000. I vowed never again to lose to men who couldn't get out of their Cadillacs sans walker and hydraulics.

The day prior I had shot a pedestrian 94 on a much tougher track near Palm Springs. As my usual habit, I perseverated the minutiae of the failed round over night, tossing and turning about missed putts, missed drives, errant approaches, the bitter unfairness of it all. Then I got right back on my horse.

Went to the range, no magic but some decent shots. I joined my foursome on the T box, two older dudes with a strong Midwest accountant/possible aging lover vibe and an even older guy,
Eric, recovering from hip surgery and chain-smoking. Eric would be my Obi-Wan Kenobi for the round.

My drives more or less found the fairways on the front 9. I think I had two birdies and no doubles, in for an amazing 37. I wasn't even drinking but I drank a ton of water.

Pace of play started to slow. At the turn I had a big boy Coors Light. I had to piss like a stallion but play was under way and the place was stingy with its outhouses. To maker matters worse, no bathrooms out on the course and not even some decent cover for me to let Big Ed out for some air without fear of scaring away the Ladies Club. I of course knew that I had to come in under 43 for my magic sub 80 round.

It was on the 10th hold that I spazzed a drive and then lashed a fairway wood to 40 yards out to an uphill green. Then, magic! I softly gripped a lob wedge and holed it. Up on the green, a few hops and down she went.

I still had to pee, horrendously so. We now waited on each t box for about five minutes because of the slow pace. At hole 15 I knew I had a good chance if I could avoid the meltdown.

On the 17th, short par 3 over water, I hit into the drink but my ball skipped to within 2-feet of terra firma. It was in mud against a rock. I waded in and hit a wedge over the green into a bunker. I started to think I could take a triple and then all bets would be off whether I could make the magic number. I hit out of the bunker to about 6-feet and sank the putt.

I was on in regulation on the par 5 18th. I think I 3-putted but could care less cause I had sealed the deal.

At the end of the round Eric bought me beers. Turns out he was a retired gym teacher from Washington who had played collegiate rugby. He downed three Irish coffees, congratulated me and I took off.

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