I heard the pop and knew immediately something was wrong. We were on the sixth hole of our fifth match, behind and needing something good to happen. I hit a solid drive on the long par four with the severe left to right sloping fairway and had picked a nine-iron for the next 150-yards to the pin. So the ball was below my feet, which becomes even farther when you’re six feet four.
My partner had already hit a pretty good shot into the green, on the beautiful, tough third hole with the vista of the Arkansas River far below and the valleys that surround it. “Take a few practice swings,” said my coaching partner, brother-in-law Bob. “Get used to that ground below your feet.” So I did, wanting to be polite since he was the one who had invited me. We were in the second flight. I play so little anymore that I don’t have a handicap (well I do now, but not this kind) so we just turned in some of my scores, which I guess are formulized and doctored a bit to decide which is the best flight for my skills.
The number they came up with for me was 6.3. What that basically means is that on that course, for 18 holes, I should average 6.3 strokes over par. Thanks for the compliment, but if I’m a 6.3 then Hitler’s a humanitarian. So to make it all equitable, they take each player’s handicap and give them a stroke, or a pop, on certain holes. So I had six pops per match and Bob had 10.
Friday morning before our first match, I was on the putting green and heard someone make an unflattering comment about my long putter, which I use for many reasons, the foremost being that any putting skills I thought I ever possessed were abruptly and cruelly stolen away a decade and a half ago. But that’s another story and frankly one too sad for me to relive. Anyway, I looked over to see who was calling me out and saw Andy Edwards, a longtime acquaintance and great golfer. I knew Andy from our days at North Hills Country Club where he had been Club Champion. After greeting one another I told him good luck, knowing he would probably need it in the championship flight. “Oh I think we’re playing you guys,” he told me. “What?” I said. He just smiled and walked off. I would have smiled too if I were him and was playing me.
Well we lost that first match as I expected to do. But we won the second one, tied the third and won the fourth, which left us just one point behind Andy and his partner Jim Jones, going into the last match on Sunday morning. Unfortunately Sunday morning wasn’t going well and we found ourselves three down with four to go when I stood over the downhill lie on number three. “Take some more practice swings,” coaching partner said again. But I was ready and he could tell, because he said, “Or just hit it,” which I did.
The click of steel on high performance Urethane Elastomer, was drowned out by another pop in my left hip, which was followed by a sharp pain. “I hurt myself,” I told Bob.
“Yeah, your in the trap,” he replied.
“No, I mean I physically hurt myself, something popped in my hip.”
I tried walking a ways, a sick feeling coming over me as my left leg didn’t seem to care where my brain was telling it to go. I got to the front bunker and saw at least that I had a good lie. I knocked it on the green to about 15 feet from the hole and two-putted for a bogey, not really caring anymore about anything other than my sudden disability. Bob won the hole but we lost the next one and the match. I went home and the Cowboys late collapse didn’t help the day. Monday, after an X-Ray, Dr. Tilley told me I had soft-tissue damage, probably caused by my form. “Take some Aleve and golf lessons,” was his advice. Thanks doc.