1757 GOLF CLUB
By the back nine Carlos and I turned it up a notch with joking/serious game faces on the greens; at this point, each shot counted heavily as we were square for the round so far. By hole No. 12 we were ribbing each other in the tee boxes, thereby turning up the competition from the first stroke of the remaining holes. In truth, we were both playing pretty well. A little pressure will do that. John, being the official scorekeeper, gently reminded us at 18 that we were tied for the round. In order to win the coveted dollar, I’d have to shoot a lower score on this final hole. If you have stayed with this tale to this point, you are a golfer, one of those folks who can’t turn the channel when there’s a tournament on TV and who can’t drive past a country club without looking to see if someone is putting on a green. Golf stories are only interesting to other golfers, and I expect this one is no different. And now comes the dramatic ending, because they always are. Naturally it came down to the final putt. Would I win the hole by one and earn that 50
46-51 FALL 2012.indd 50
greenback? First I had to make my own putt, a hole-high 15-footer that looked dead straight, not-muchbreak. Carlos was “away” (further from the pin) so he set up to make his 25-footer before me. The tension mounted as John and Gary stood in respectful silence, their own balls marked a few feet from the hole. After briefly considering his shot Carlos addressed the ball and let his putter do its job. Rolling, rolling, rolling . . . The ball stopped within inches with a nicely-read line that set him up for a tap-in. Nervous laughter all around. I was sure everyone in the South Riding clubhouse behind us was watching me, and with the weight of the pressure of the other three standing nearby I had an inkling of what it
must be like setting up a shot on the 18th green of a Major tournament on television. The word “yip” came to mind, but I quickly cleared my head and tried to drain this 15-foot finale. Rolling, rolling, rolling . . . It stopped five feet short. A ton. A mile still to go. And I was still “away,” the last thing you want to hear on a green. I also missed the next shot before finally tapping in in frustration. No, I didn’t win, but I had a lot of fun playing some lush Loudoun courses with my pals, so I didn’t lose, either.
L o u d o u n M a g a z i n e
8/31/12 2:46 PM