Memories are nice for a season. For example, I have a picture of a golf green in Scotland with a ball sitting four feet from the hole. It has significant memory for me, but when I die picture will likely be thrown away. However, I have taught my sons to play golf, and that will have meaning forever.
I don't want to steal too much of Regi's thunder, but I do have a copy of his book available for purchase at thebyrdstore.
Oh... the memory of that photo? Here it is:
There I was. On the tee box of the most beautiful and interesting course I had ever played. Old Prestwick, in Scotland. It was the home of the first British Open. Old Tom Morris was the greens keeper, and the trophy for “The Open” as it is now called was named after him.
On one side is the Irish Sea. Along the golf course western edge is a walkway used by the residents of Prestwick as they go from the train station to the town’s edge, or as they plan to visit the beach for a day in the sun. It meanders in and out of the dunes, right up onto the edge of the course. If a golfer is particularly bad, they can take out a slower pedestrian.
The golf course is right on the edge of the town, and when you park there, you are able to walk anywhere in the town you would like to go. Pubs as far as the eye can see, full of delightful foods and even a bit of Guinness draught poured the correct way (don’t be in a hurry)! The numerous selections certainly make choosing the 19th hole a challenge for the golfers each day.
From the parking lot you pass by the caddies, waiting for the Americans to arrive, wanting the walking experience, but too lazy to carry their own bags. I of course, was forced to carry my bag, since I was playing with my boss who always carries his. They were nice enough, but you could see in their eyes that questioning look of what kind of skill level these guys from America might have that they don’t need their help.
When you tee off on the first hole, the right side of the fairway bumps up against the railway tracks. Oh yes, over there the trains run all the time, and they are fair game for the errant drive. Fortunately, we were able to get off the first tee without any permanent damage to the community.
The course is not very long. As you might imagine, with the boundaries defined forever, there was little chance of making the course challenging to the professional golfers of today. The old wooden play club, spoons, niblicks and scrapers would have been fun to play and experience the real test of the course, but with our modern technology we were driving over and around much of the historic trouble spots.
My score was pretty good for the front nine – the out. You know, in the old days, the first nine holes went away from the clubhouse and the back nine in, that is why you see out and in on the scorecard. Coming in, I lost my hearing in one ear for a while, carelessly standing right next to it while ringing the bell for the par 3 that indicates all clear.
The match is back and forth through the last few holes until we arrived at the 18th tee box, which is where this story began. The hole is about three hundred and fifty yards, with a slight bend to the right. On the right side of the fairway is the long gorse grass that is the bain of any golfer’s existence. My boss hits a nice drive out to the middle, and is in good position to win the hole and the match. I decide right then and there that I am going for it. The hole was a little shorter if you hit right over the gorse. Anything goes wrong, however, and the match is likely over. I wind up with my youthful limber back and give it the swing of a lifetime. The ball lifts off like a model rocket aimed at the clubhouse (did I mention the green was right by the clubhouse and right in front of the caddie shack?). It is a long moment before the evidence is clear. This shot has a good chance of getting to the green. At last the ball lands and begins to roll. Across the fairway it scoots. Arriving at the green it continues its journey, tracking toward the hole. For one unbelievable moment it appears like the ball might go into the hole. Going just a bit too fast, it hits the flagstick and bounces away about four feet.
Yes, I did do it. I danced on the tee box in front of my boss.
Now we had to walk to the fairway, wait on him to hit and then proceed toward the inevitable praise from the small group of wise, knowledgeable caddies standing by the green. When I arrived, there was silence. Nothing. I guess they needed more proof that I was the world’s greatest golfer at that moment. Only four feet to go for this miraculous eagle and victory.
So, do you think I made the putt?
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