Fairway Follies, Joe Hinson

As detailed in earlier stories our family has a long drinking weekend that’s disguised as a golf tournament – the Big Bear Classic (BBC). Lake Lure, NC.  If you’ve never been there, go. The golf courses are just average but they’re surrounded by the first range of the Blue Ridge mountains. Jutting up similar the Tetons the peaks frame the courses with cliffs that plunge 300-400 feet. The crown jewel of the resort is the 720 acre lake and it’s crystal clear. Check it out:

http://www.townoflakelure.com/

5-6 years ago Bob was deep in the smoothies – vodka, orange juice and other secret ingredients. Even worse he was driving the cart. Leaving the 16^th green the cart path passes a bridge that was featured in a scene from the movie Dirty Dancing.  But this is no love story! Screaming downhill to the 17^th tee Bob swerved sharply right causing the right wheels to go airborne. Would it flip killing Bob and passenger Little Bill? As in an action movie the cart balanced on the left wheels for nearly a hundred feet, Little Bill screaming and praying. By a miracle the cart slammed to the ground with Bob howling a rebel yell.

The BBC is always held in early spring, prime time for storms. During the Thursday warm up round the 2 teams dodged showers but nothing severe – so they thought. During a heavy shower both foursomes huddled under a large oak tree to wait it out. Scott and dad Big Bill popped a fresh one and sat back to relax. Suddenly BOOM! Scott stomped the gas pedal not seeing the low dead limb aimed straight at the cart. Breaking from the tree trunk the limb pierced and shattered the windshield miraculously flying between the 2. The spear continued over the basket snagging a club head cover and crashed to the ground.

A particularly sinister par 3, # 12 drops 140-150 feet from tee to green. A creek fronts the green. Obviously the cart path drops off like the Grand Canyon. Little Bill, aka, Jackie, casually parked the cart forgetting to apply the brake. As he and Bob walked away, the cart slowly began to roll – downhill. Both sprinted (if the way they run can be called sprinting) toward the cart but it was a lost cause. For 50 yards the cart stayed  on the path but quickly veered toward the creek. Gaining speed the little vehicle took aim at the steepest bank of the creek. The cart chicaned and did a nose dive into the rocky far bank. The cart front end shattered into a 1000 pieces and both golf bags released, emptying clubs into the 4 feet  deep water. With bare and wet feet all equipment was retrieved and they lopped back to the clubhouse – a  mile away.

Thinking back, I’ll just take a push cart!

The golf ball is a fairly innocent looking little creature. It’s what girls might even call “cute” – small, pure white with pretty little dimples and very shiny. It’s not that big, only 1.68 inches in diameter. Fits neatly into your pocket. Easy to throw to a fellow player after marking his spot. But if you’ve been hit by one, you think of it as a sinister projectile.

On closer inspection it’s incredibly hard and can reach blazing speeds. An average 10 handicapper (not me) reaches 137 mph. Scratch or better reaches 161 mph. The highest recorded ball speed is 225 mph by former long drive champion Ryan Louw. That could ruin a sunny day! The South could have used a few more of those weapons in the War of Northern Aggression in 1861!

If you’ve ever been to a professional tournament and stood just beyond the tee, a pro’s drive has an eerie sizzling sound as it screams past you. I repeat, it’s a weapon. ALAWAYS stay behind the ball on a shot and that’s not 100% safe as you will read.

My father-in-law caught a screamer in his ear 40 years ago and couldn’t hear for a year. Actually his wife said he just didn’t listen. I hit a line drive directly at a co-player once and the only thing that saved his life was his crouch behind behind his bag.

A black humor joke:

A traveling salesman decides to quit early one day and take in 9 holes at a local muni. #1 ran parallel to a busy highway. He yanks his 1st drive over the left rough trees and probably onto the highway. Actually the ball goes through a woman’s windshield, hits her in the temple and kills her instantly causing a terrible multi-car pileup. Cops rush to the scene not only find the dead lady but a golf ball on the floorboard with a name engraved. They know the course is close so they rush to the pro shop, find the guy’s name on the starter’s list and drive down the fairway to find the unknowing fellow.

The policeman is raging mad, finds the guy, tells him what happens and asks the golfer what he’s going to do about it?

The guys says “I guess I need to weaken my grip so I don’t pull it!”

Our 9 o’clock shotguns on Saturdays are a real cluster from the start. All non-par 3s have an A and a B group, so the course is packed. The practice range is loaded and golfers with drivers in hand are hovering for a spot like vultures over road kill. The putting green looks like an anthill with balls colliding and occasional arguments over who hit the Titleist Pro V and who hit the Topflight. Carts zoom in every direction and many big drinkers are  into their 2^nd beer. It’s mayhem!

Adam sounds the bullhorn, half the guys can’t hear afterwards and several geese usually fly in from the mating call. But somehow, someway, all the players reach their assigned holes – some going completely the wrong way and arriving very late to their tees killing the pace of play! Some holes wind up with 3-4 groups due to those wandering idiots and the glacial pace of the deliberate players. I’ve seen yelling nearly turn into skirmishes making Ali-Frazier look like a chess game.

I’m with my regulars and we’ve played 4-5 holes. Lefty Steve has severely pulled his tee ball and is in the pines on number 10. My buddy Tim respects the golf ball and the very low probability that Steve will thread the needle to the green. So he parks nd parks a good 50 feet back. Before he can even twitch Steve’s ball cracks the tree bark and comes back to shave his ear. It leaves a red streak on his cheek but mark but no blood. We all rush to Tim’s aid are amazed that he is still in this world. In a delayed reaction Tim goes ghost white and knows he has literally dodged a bullet. After realizing what just happened he warns us brags that that’s his ninth life. Another would kill him.

Well, we’re then at 15 and its cart path almost veers in front of 16 tee. I’m certain many a ball has blazed past many a head. As usual Tim has smashed one about 270 but it was way left just begging for a errant hook from 16 tee. Steve’s and Tim’s cart was parked to the left as well. Nonchalantly Tim exits the cart’s driver seat and checks his Garmin watch for the distance but not paying attention to the 4 folks on 16 tee.  I was alone in my cart I see that a very big hitter is addressing his drive on 16. “This is not good” I whisper to myself. As Tim addresses his shot, the ball from 16 suddenly pounds and dents his empty seat backrest and bounces into the cart basket, rattling and spinning. If Tim had not left the cart his sternum would have taken a direct hit! Steve is frozen. Tim is ashen. And I’ve just seen lightening strike twice in one hour to the same guy – Tim.

“That’s twice today!” Tim shivers as his knees buckle. He drops his club and has a look of dread in this saucer-sized eyes. Backing up, Tim suddenly grabs his gut and explodes his lunch, covering his shirt, pants and shoes. He sags and has hands on his knees knowing that he’s dodged a second bullet in one day.

Even though we just witnessed a friend almost get terribly injured we couldn’t hold it together – we laughed hysterically! Tim had a tirade of choice words for us.

To the golf family: Put down the range finder or cell phone or Bud Light and pay attention!

Winter golf is actually fun if you’re dressed well, the sun is out, you’re walking and you’re crazy. In NC it rarely gets whacko cold so you keep the clubs ready to go. Once it was 29 and very windy. We should not have been out. We were the only group on the course and our 4th was a guy from Canada – in shorts.

Steve, Ron and I loved the tournaments. As a fairly high handicapper Ron could get hot and we always won low net! 

This tourney was in late March so we figured the weather would hold up. But a snow storm suddenly blew in. After only 3 holes the putted balls looked like softballs. No horn from the pro shop to stop despite being the hardest I’ve ever seen it snow. So we started #16 and Steve was first to hit. He killed it! 40 yards farther than he usually drives it. Before Ron and I hit the horn finally blasted. “Let’s get out of here!” Steve shouted through the blizzard.

“Man you just hit a new Pro V. You gotta get it” Ron challenged.

Steve relented and sprinted to his ball. Being late March the snow was wet and heavy. 50 yards out we couldn’t even see him! As Ron and I shook off the cold with a hot toddy we saw a white form crossing the 18th fairway. Steve had become the Abdominal Snowman as my 8th grade history teacher called it. He tried to enter the clubhouse but the club attendant made him shake off first. And he was soaking wet.

Yes, we all suffer from temporary insanity at times for the old game.

Facing critters on the golf course is just part of the adventure: gators, mosquitoes, clouds of gnats, etc. But the scariest to me are the cicada eating wasps. Look them up:

http://blogs.mcall.com/master_gardeners/2013/08/the-fascinating-cicada-killers.html

If you’ve been in a sand trap in the mid southern or deep southern U.S. you’ve probably seen them and been scared by them.  Bodies are massive; come out of nowhere while you’re trying to hit a shot you never practice; the yellow and black bands terrorize you; come at you in at least a pair; and, the huge orange eyes are haunting.

Par 4 #14 at Cedarwood is impossible anyway. It’s slightest uphill, doglegs left and your best drive leaves you at least 190 yards out. Along the left runs a fairway bunker that makes the Sahara Desert look like a kid’s sandbox – 50 yards long with deep faces and in the perfect spot to capture the poor souls that pull it or hook it or try to fly over it.

Enter the wasps! The hotter the weather the worse they swarm. And they move their nests every day. Golfers entering the steep banks look like the guys that walk on red hot coals in their barefeet. Or someone trying to cross 12 lanes of traffic on an interstate.

Steve can blast it. As a lefty his usual ball flight for #14 is unfortunately directly at that sand trap. This day his drive carries long but deep into the bunker face – a fried egg. “Wasps” he mutters.

I’ve never seen a 220 pound guy step so gingerly to the ball. Maybe, just maybe he could see 3 dimples on the ball. It was buried. But no wasps in sight.

Carefully he entered the trap (no small feat for a guy with a bum knee) and crept to the nearly hidden sphere. He studied the proximity and thought it was all clear. With a mighty arc he dislodged the ball and an entire wasp nest! The air exploded with the hideous creatures. Must have been 100.  “Get out, get out” I screamed as if Steve was engulfed in flames.

The sand wedge flew 30 feet in the air as Steve flailed and dodged the cloud of insects. He was terrified. But amazingly he wasn’t stung!

Being July Steve was wringing wet and shaking. We finally spotted his wedge in the trap but neither of us wanted to retrieve it. So we left it!

I play at Cedarwood Country Club in Charlotte, NC and I’ve met some my closest friends there. As I close out Round 1 of Fairway Follies most of the stories include those fellows. I’ve learned a lot during these 18 Holes and one thing is not to use real names. So I close the Round with Scott who’s actually the protagonist in “The Boatie” story. He’s a lefty

#9 at Cedarwood is one of the most difficult par 3s I’ve ever played. It looks harmless from the tee box but that’s deceiving. Consider: from the men’s whites it’s 185 yards; Traps left and right leave a narrow gap to the green; the green itself viciously slopes from back to front; and, the west wind is always in your face.

Scott and I played 9 late one afternoon.  He won the previous hole so he had honors. A back pin made the shot about 200 yards and the wind was howling. He decided to hit all he had in his bag. His driver was pure but he pulled it slightly to the right. The ball struck the cart path very hard about pin high and it bounced like it contained flubber.  Another high bounce. Another as it bounced over the twosome that just finished the hole. Another bounce over the bag rack near the pro shop. Another and it flew over the circle drive fronting the clubhouse. Finally, the last bounce as it entered the tall grasses that encircled the US, NC and Cedarwood flag poles.

“We’ll never find it!” he said in shock.

I have no idea what happened to my shot because we were in a hurry to find Scott’s ball. We needed a bushmaster with a machete as we swam into the decorative grasses. After 10 minutes Scott announced “I’ve got it. It’s against a flagpole!”

“Which one?” 

Fittingly he replied “The Cedarwood pole!” 

It was miles out of bounds and was impossible to play so Scott walked off the distance back to the pin. A total of 270 yards!

See you in Round 2!

Crazy bounces are a big part of this weird game called golf.

The tee box at #14 drops straight into a deep lake surrounded by large, angular rocks. As a double whammy, when the sun gets low, it reflects off the water so that there’s a severe double glare.

Scott is one of my regulars. He’s also the worst golfer in the world to keep an eye on your ball. His distance vision is terrible and he’s color blind. Not a great combination for your foursome’s spotter. I swear his gravestone will read “I never saw it”.

It’s Scott’s turn to hit the tee ball on #14 and the glare is particularly bad that late afternoon. He caught half the ball so it dove straight to the lake, more specifically to the lake’s edge. In a split second the ball hit a rock at an impossible angle, came straight back, flew within an inch of Scott’s ear, hit the cart behind the tee box (again at another impossible angle), and bounced straight back toward Scott again. It landed only 6 inches from his tee that still in the ground.

“I never saw it” Scott said in a defeated tone.

I said “Look down. You’re still up!”

If it had not happened I’d never have believed it. But it did!

Let’s establish the facts:

History:

In the early days of golf, the hole sizes were unpredictable. The standard size of the cup evolved purely by chance. A pipe used to reinforce a crumbling hole at St. Andrews was 4 1/4 inches.

Size:

The hole must be 4 1/4 inches in diameter and at least 4 inches deep, according to the USGA Rules of Golf.

So that’s established.

During high school my brothers and I lived on the #1 hole of the Country Club of Salisbury in NC. That only lasted about 4 years until we discovered that the lot was in a 100 year flood plain, and guess what happened the 4^th year? God said “Noah…” But we took full advantage of the time we lived there practically living on the course.

One afternoon after school my older brother, my kid brother and I sneaked in 9. As mentioned before, the front is a gem of 9 holes. I challenge you to Google it and discover the praise. In 1927 Donald Ross decided to torture the people of the town: length, many deep greenside and fairway bunkers and crowned greens. Each hole was lined with the mansions of the local aristocracy.

I can’t recall how each of us played that day but the play on #9 is as vivid as this laptop screen. It’s a devil of a par 3: uphill, immediately over the creek that sent our family packing that fourth year, into a long, deep, 2 tiered green. Oh yeah, greenside left immediately fell 50 feet into the creek and greenside right is guarded by 4 huge sand traps in a row. Another “oh yeah”, it’s 190 to the center of the green. My ulcer hurts just typing this.

Again, no idea where kid bro and I hit our tee shots. Older brother cranked an old black First Flight 3 wood dead at the flag.  The line drive hit on the lower tier and kept rolling, and rolling, up onto the upper tier and disappeared! AN ACE! First in Hinson family history!

After many soul handshakes (before high fives) and waking the dead we scurried across the bridge to the green. Without pacing ourselves, and in the celebration, the hill gassed all 3 of us. I reckon the 2 of us hit up as older brother walked to the hole. With a perplexed look he proclaimed “It’s in, but….”

I asked “But what?”

“Well the cup’s kinda big”

“How big?”

We all rushed to understand his “but”. The day before the grounds crew had repaired some sod on the green and had temporarily replaced the standard 4 1/4 inch hole with a gallon-sized institutional tomato soup can from the club kitchen!!!

“No way that counts” I blurted.

“An Ace is an ace” brother responded.

“That’s not a standard hole!”

“It doesn’t matter”

After pushing and shoving we walked away still dueling.

The sweet thing is, older brother has witnessed one of my “legit” holes –in-one.

45 years later I mention the soup can and the battle erupts anew!

Years ago my friend Dan called and needed a 4^th. In agreement I asked who’s playing.

“Me and 2 friends from work” he replied.

I knew one of his buddies but not the other.

“He’s pretty tall” Dan casually mentioned.

I was warming up the old flat stick when Dan’s Oldsmobile Intrigue pulled in (remember that one?). Viewing the passenger side all I saw was body. Dan was eclipsed.

His passenger gradually unfolded from the vehicle. Slowly he emerged until half his body was above the car roof. He was a backup center for the great Villanova basketball teams of the 1980s. 7’ 2”, 310. I dropped my putter.

Dan and Goliath loaded their bags and walked to greet me. My hand disappeared into the center’s catcher’s mitt of a paw. Straight ahead was his belt buckle. Did oxygen really exist up there?

“I gotta see his clubs” I thought to myself. His driver was longer than a fishing rod and his putter was taller than me! “Will he fit in the cart?” another thought came to me.

He tried legs first but that was impossible. Head first – no room for the legs. So gradually he slid his rear across the seat followed by a rather graceful shoulders and hips/legs entry. It looked like he had just blocked out Georgetown’s Patrick Ewing from the 1984 title game.

During his address, even with greatly lengthened clubs, this guy’s torso was nearly parallel to the ground. The swoosh from his practice swings sounded like a prop from a wind turbine. Even his tees were long!

His shoes? Size 22, custom made by Footjoy, regaled in ‘Nova colors.

He bellowed his tagline “You know what they say about guys with big feet? Big feet, big shoes!” ala Cowboy Curtis from Peewee’s playhouse.

His swing was actually fluid for a construction crane. With the extension back and through the ball flew nearly 300 yards at times. As I recall be broke 90. Not bad for Shaq on steroids!

Rico was a hot tempered Italian tile and marble genius. His laughter and cursing could split the air like a thunderbolt. He loved golf almost as much as his veal, pasta and chianti. From Siena he was the son of a master in the same trade. Rico migrated to the U.S. in his late 20s and settled in my hometown. Even with many field employees he still managed the delicate marble jobs. His forearms were huge tree limbs which he applied well on the links. But there was that temper.

One day Rico was paired with Bobby, a talented golfer with a 7 handicap. Bobby owned a small string of convenience stores and knew how to squeeze blood from a stone. He was always seeking a bargain.

Number 7 at Salisbury Country Club has a narrow fairway lined with silver maples on the left planted in the 1920s by Donald Ross. Regal, these thick tree trunks shined like the gleaming ore from the Comstock Lode. But they were planted close together and presented a thick barrier to an approach shot to the green.

Rico was hot tempered but was having a cold round. That day every drive duck hooked dead left. After 6 holes the usual mid 80s player was 10 over par. True to form his drive on 7 was a smothered hook toward those maples and was stymied by the silver arbor. Before his second shot he announced “Ifa I hitta the tree I breaka every cluba in my baga!”. Certainly he wouldn’t the other 3 thought.

His arms swelled as he took a mighty swing with a 3 iron. He hit the tree trunk dead center and flew into a rage. Immediately Rico ran to the tree and broke the shaft against the tree. “Whoa Rico” yelled Bobby as Rico wheeled around to unstrap his bag from the cart.

“Likea I tolda you Bobby Ima gonna breaka every cluba in this baga!”.

“Rico, you bought those clubs last week” exclaimed Bobby.

“I don’ta carea” as he methodically started breaking clubs starting with the driver.

“Rico I’ll give $300 for the set”. (this is 1972)

Snap went 2 more!

“OK, $250”.

Rico was through the woods now working on the irons. Snap! Snap! Snap!

“Ok, $150, there are only 5 clubs left!”

5 snaps!

Then Rico threw his putter at Bobby and said “Takea thisa homea” and stormed off to the clubhouse dragging his bag which finally threw into the creek on #1.

Temper can be dangerous thing combined with the ancient game!

I’ve mentioned my father –Shug. His real name was Eddie. Dad was the best real estate salesman in the world being very observant and intuitive. Once he told me that when a potential home buyer would shake the change is his pocket, they wanted that particular house but that the price was a little high – but a definite buying sign. I bet he had 50 of those little tips.

And he loved golf or should I say he loved betting when playing golf. He was a lousy bettor and would lose much more than win. Another nickname was Fish, as in I’m reeling him in like a……

His home course was a classic Donald Ross design in Salisbury, NC. Many golfers regard the front 9 as perhaps the best 9 holes of golf in the state. Number 4, a par 4, was a toughie: you drove onto a plateau and then approached a plateaued green surrounded by the Gobi Desert – huge traps. I can remember parring that hole just once in 10 years of play. To the right were woods thicker than the Amazon jungle. On the left were houses. One home hosted Byron Nelson during a severe thunderstorm in the middle of a clinic/round.

Dad had a beast of a slice. This day he under compensated and landed in the forest to the right. As he stepped from the cart into the jungle he felt a sting and then another and then another and then many. He had stepped on a yellow jacket nest and they were highly pissed! 20 or 30 of them buzzed up his pant leg! The screaming and yelling and cussing could be heard for miles!

“What’s wrong with Eddie?” quizzed a playing partner. Trying to extricate himself from the swarm Dad yanked off his golf shoes and then, yes, his long pants – jumping and tripping and spinning! Down the fairway he ran in his boxers still swatting and hollering. After a hundred yards he finally stopped to examine the damage: 27 stings! Some stings in very sensitive places. Needless to say his round ended at that point! His playing partner dashed him to clubhouse where he was covered in that old yellow, sticky Clover salve.

Watch your step linksters!