Day at the Beach

Ridgecrest Golf Course, Nampa, ID
May 11, 2007, 115 (+43)

It began as a beautiful day—most golf days do. Where they go from there is anyone’s guess. Kind of like my fairway shots. Although on this particular day, those shots generally found the bunker.

The theme of Friday’s round was beach party. No, it wasn’t like MTV Spring Break on the beach with Carson Daly and B-spears and hundreds of underage pop wannabes freak dancing on the boardwalk. It was much closer to that family vacation to the Oregon coast with mom, dad, and little brother who keeps knocking down your sand castle no matter how many times you tell him to mind his own business and go touch a jellyfish.

The amount of time I spent in some bunkers would have been ample to build said sandcastles, and the wild swings I took would have been suffice to knock them all over. Hole 5 was the first time I hit the beach. I did it with a beautiful looking five iron, which made me feel better about my new sandy home. But with one mighty swing of my pitching wedge, I said, “Thanks for the lemonade, but I really must be leaving” and willed my way from in the trap to three-putting for triple bogey.

It was a thing of beauty.

It also happened to be the high point of my beach play.

Two holes later, I was back in the bunker. Laying three, I needed to hole out to get my par. Shot selection went like this: Sand wedge three feet back into the bunker, sand wedge 12 feet over the green, lots of raking, putt, putt, putt, three-over.

Wherever there was sand, I seemed to find it. I’ve never been particularly unsympathetic toward sand traps, mostly because I rarely was in them. I have a theory on this: sand traps are placed so as to punish slight miscalculations by those trying to reach the green or fairway. I, being the type of golfer that I am, tend to make gross miscalculations, generally to the adjoining fairway, so these intended punishments are rendered completely mute. My game is like the bizzaro sand trap kryptonite.

Considering that I was actually playing pretty well Friday would help to explain why I found myself in the sandbox as much as I did. My drives were still fairly regular shanks, but they were shanks into the right places. My 5-iron was long and straight, relative to how it’s usually inadequate and all over the place. Even my putting was not a sheer waste of time.

After nine holes, I was playing some of the best golf of my short-lived golfing career. Heading into the clubhouse, I was at 54—on pace to set a career scoring mark…career low.

I had a hot dog for lunch, and it was not delicious. Quite the opposite, in fact. It did, however, make it easier to blame my sluggish start to the back nine on its altogether disgustingness. On the 11th, a fairly straightforward par 4 with a plunging ravine off to the right, I recorded my worst score of the afternoon. A lost ball led to a panicked drop shot into the bunker, which led to a powerful blast over the green entirely, which led to my getting up and down and up again before finally tapping out. Quadruple bogey, but I wasn’t complaining.

In fact, I didn’t have much to complain about all day. It was the first golfing I had done this year, so I expected the normal amount of rust. Overall, I feel that I outdid myself. No weak grounders to the women’s tee, no two-foot flubbers from the rough. And I went 10 holes before losing a ball.

Not even the 18th hole and its golden shores could dampen my mood. Fittingly, I was into the sand trap again on the last hole. And also fittingly, I was out in two sand explosions of my wedge.

Dumping sand out of my pants after the round, I reflected upon how great things would have gone had those awful sandboxes not existed. My 115 could have been a 110 or perhaps even (gasp) a 105. I might have had a par or an honest bogey or (gasp) single green in regulation. It could have been the greatest round of my life.

Quickly, I was brought back to the all-too-real here and now by piercing pain up and down my arms. Sunburn.

It wouldn’t have been a day at the beach without it.

Scorecard
Driving: More slices than a Pizza Hut.
Irons: Monster five irons, respectable 8s, even a cameo by Mr. 4-iron
Short game: Started with a bang, ended with tears
Putting: 2 3-putts plus 0 1-putts equals good enough
Lost balls: 4
Overall: no more trips to the coast until my arms stop peeling