Three's Company

McCall Golf Course, McCall, ID
July 4, 2007, 60 (par 35, nine holes), +25

I live for par three holes.

Their general existence demands that I put my driver away (always a good idea) and knock around my irons for what is designed to be fewer shots than normal. Generally, I let myself believe that I will get a seven on every single hole that I play. For par fives, this is dicey. At par fours, for some reason, this is even dicier. But par threes? Piece of cake.

In some bizarre alternate universe must live McCall Golf Course, for my foolproof system of hackery betrayed itself to the extremes. The par fours and fives played meekly; the par threes ate me alive.

Their torturous layouts and my sheer awfulness at playing them put a generous burden on my exponentially growing scorecard. I had survived the first three holes with relative (for me) success, not losing any balls and not making a fool out of myself in any of my usual ways.

Then the par threes hit, and they hit hard.

The first was an uphill, bunker-laden beauty that played a lot harder than it looked. Of course, most holes play harder than they look when you yak your drive off into the forest. I did just that, only epically so. After my drop, I plopped a weak pitching wedge into the sand trap, tunneled out very nearly into the next trap, then pitched and putted my way to an emasculating seven.

I had put the massacre behind me by the time I got to the second par three. This one looked far easier than the first as there were no sand traps and no water hazards. My tee shot was better than most—a high, fading eight iron that stuck just off the right side of the green. Never mind the flag was on the left; I was safe.

But any good feelings were soon sent packing, more than likely for an all expenses paid vacation with my pride and dignity. My pitch onto the green, often an object of complete disdain, went all of two inches, deciding ultimately to roll back into the hole from where it started. Goodbye par.

I smacked the next one well short of the hole and lined up for a 15-foot putt to save four. I slid it well left and equally as well short. Goodbye bogey.

The penultimate stroke happily found its way to the bottom of the hole, all too content in its utter spoiling of a good score. Hello, two over par.

The course, it seemed, was able to kick me while I was down in all sorts of different ways. The first par three slammed me with its creeping foliage, unnecessary amounts of sand traps, and aggravating elevation. The second one built up my confidence from the tee box and then let me slowly tear myself apart limb from limb, pitch by horrendous pitch.

When I reached the third and, thankfully, last par three, I was eager to see what way the course might choose to torture me this time. Beating me over the head with hazards and impossible shots won in a landslide over watching me self-destruct.

The hole was set up not unlike one of Dante’s levels of hell. It was terribly long, with foreboding marshland guarding the front and right of the green, forcing a blind shot over anal retentive reeds and snobby pines. From the tee box, I could see nothing but forestry, and—not unlike many holes—I had no idea where I was aiming.

It didn’t much matter because I duffed my drive into the weeds 20 feet to my right. My next shot was better if only because it cleared the knee-high grasses immediately in front of me. The pitiful slice found its way to the out of bounds right of the hole where it remains to this day. After dropping, I outright failed on my chip before three putting for an inevitable seven.

Collectively on the three par threes on the front nine, I collected nineteen strokes. The par on the front nine was 35, so going into the final hole—after adding up my demure score on every other hole to the bloated count of the par threes—I was needing to hole out in negative nineteen strokes. I got a six.

It was nice of the par fours to let the par threes tear me apart for a day.

SCORECARD:
Driving: Allowed me to familiarize with Mother Nature
Irons: Hit one beautiful eight iron, equivalent to a monkey spelling onomatopoeia
Short game: Came up short more often than my pants in fifth grade
Putting: Adequate to the point of my not being ashamed
Overall: Two’s company, but three’s a pain in my rear end.