Five Irony

Jug Mountain Golf Course, McCall, ID
May 26, 2007, 131 (+59)

With its breathtaking views and picturesque location, Jug Mountain Golf Course was one of the most dazzling places I had ever played. It had deep blue lakes, towering pines and perfectly manicured fairways and greens, all set to the backdrop of the smoky Cascades.

How ironic, then, that the beautiful mountain landscape around me was in such contrast to the hack job that is my golf game—irony that, not unlike many of my wayward drives, was completely lost on me.

Golf balls and contrasting metaphors were not the only things that I lost on my latest golf outing. Jug Mountain, in all its beauty, proved to be an evil, evil place, robbing me of misplaced confidence and, for a good stretch on the back nine, my will to live.

The fact that I actually had high hopes for my latest golf outing was probably a good sign that I was doomed. For starters, I am not a good golfer, and any faint hopes I had of being such were unfounded and incredulous. Lying, even to myself, was never my strong suit.

Also, believing in myself gets me nowhere on the golf course. And by nowhere, I mean in the deep rough or water hazard. Such is life when you have no desirable golf skills whatsoever.

Apart from my talking the talk and certainly not being able to walk the walk, I had other problems, namely a large, black raincloud directly over the course. All day, the rain had fallen off and on, as inconsistently as my long irons find the green in one stroke. We ventured out on the course in the hopes that the worst was over. Unfortunately, the bad weather decided to hang around to see if someone (me) could actually four-putt from 15 feet (I could and did).

Amidst scattered showers, I hacked and slashed my way through the first three holes with a mediocre, yet predictable triple bogey average. The fourth hole was easily the highlight of my day. With a nasty-looking lake protecting the right side of the fairway, I cringed as I approached my drive, the thought of a wet slice at the forefront of my mind. Surprisingly, I hooked my first shot into the fairway, then launched my pitching wedge to the back of the green. Two putts later, I told Mother Nature where to stick it and carded my first par of the day.

My joy was fleeting, however. Only one hole later, I was gardening with my five wood in the midst of what seemed to be a sagebrush, sapling and tree trunk casserole. Safely back into the rough I so often call home, I sent my three wood screaming down the side of the fairway. Literally. It slipped out of my hands. Fortunately, it clanged into a tree several yards in front of me, knocking off several branches and adding several strokes in the process.

On number seven, my five iron and I went camping in the forest for a good 15 minutes, trying to free my poor range ball from the moss and roots. When I reached the fairway five strokes later, the heavens opened up as if I had wronged them terribly in another life. Their revenge was sweet as it took me four more strokes to find the bottom of the cup…and three puts to get there.

The first hole on the back nine tested my grip once more as I sent my driver soaring into a waist-high batch of reeds. The rain had apparently seen enough. It gave up its seat to my sorry symphony of swings so that the sun could have a few good laughs over the final nine.

Two holes later, I was faced with the daunting task of hitting my drive uphill over a patch of wild mountain grasses and trees. I’d like to say that I dribbled my drive several yards in front of me out of respect for the course and because I had a plan for the hole. It just so happened that my plan involved scoring an eleven on the par five.

On the 14th, the head snapped off of my driver. This moment just about drove me to tears as I had a closer relationship to that piece of metal than I did several of my friends. I’m still not over it.

My downward slide continued on the fateful final turn. I sent several good drives off in the distance, thanks to a brilliant relief effort by my three wood, but when I approached the fairway to admire my accuracy, my balls were nowhere to be found (please resist the obvious pun). It was as if the course had changed shapes as my ball was mid-flight, rendering a potential fairway hit moot and out of bounds. As to be expected, I did not recover from these added strokes nor did I manage to maintain any sense of composure.

With my tail between my legs, soon to be joined by some pretty serious chaffing, I drudged toward the car a beaten man. I had nearly doubled par. I had nearly lost every ball I brought. And I had nearly broken down on the tee box. It was a tough, defeating day.

As we piled into the car, I cast a humble glance back at the tormenting course. The willowy aspens and colorful wildflowers danced in the evening sunlight, and it was all framed perfectly by my soggy golf bag, crusty five-iron and sawed off driver shaft.

Finally, I was able to see the irony.

Ooh, and the ball I hit from the fairway on number nine. Sweet!

Scorecard:
Driving: R.I.P: driver; R.I.P: accuracy
Irons: One shot into the rough, three shots out
Short game: Average distance: four feet sideways
Putting: Irrelevant
Lost balls: 13 and then I lost count
Overall: Just like in a blowout, all my clubs got to play