If I had written this I would have posted it in the Arena.

My American son-in-law sent me this 'true' story

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About a month ago I was enjoying a pint of barley & hops water with some golfing buddies after a round at Metamora Golf Club. Phil, a good friend of mine with a handicap of 4, was elaborating on an endless story of the complete new set of clubs he had purchased during our winter downtime and how he has just zeroed them in and is comfortable with every club at every yardage.

Phil is your typical American golfer. Every drive must be hit at least 300 yards, four wedges of varying lofts to compensate for the 120 mph club head velocity even on short pitch shots, putter must be new annually because of unknown reasons (they have been explained to me multiple times unfortunately I don’t care), all housed in a bag big enough for an eastern European family to live comfortably.

After a few more pints I let my “alligator mouth get my bumble ass” in trouble by suggesting that with all the new technology in his bag he would still be unable to beat me in match play. I even offered not to take the three strokes he would have owed me (another good idea). The bragging and positioning on both sides started and the only thing left to do was make the wager.

After large sums of money were proposed we finally agreed that a humiliating act would be more appropriate. The act would have to be performed during the member/guest tournament in August.

The act would be videotaped and placed on “You-Tube” for all to see. Now the only thing left was to think of the appropriate act. Luckily a friend of ours with a morbid sense of humor suggested the loser dress in a pink tutu and dance without a shirt on for three minutes to a song the winner propose. To our better judgment we agreed. Phil chose for me “I am little tea pot” (Artist unknown) and I chose “Dancing Queen” by ABBA.

The day came and after nine holes I had fought my way back from two down to one down at the turn. Unfortunately the back nine is longer and tighter. Floundering around the course I was able to get back to all square with two to play. Usually I would feel quite confident at this point but seventeen is a par three playing 189 yards into the wind, guarded by water in the front and left, sand traps to the right, and a big pine tree ten yards right front of the green. This is a big five iron for me and a little seven iron for my opponent.

The final hole is a par four circa four hundred yards up a hill then down a hill. The green slopes violently from back to front and left to right, guarded by bunkers left and right with no chance to get up and down if you go long.

As I stood on the seventeenth tee I was trying to remember the words to “I’m a little tea pot” and hoping that they would be kind enough to find me a tutu that would fit reasonably well. Since I had lost the previous hole to an eagle my opponent had the honors. A well struck seven iron landed twenty feet left and short. I pulled my five iron and spoke a few words of encouragement to it and my ball, stepped up and swung. My ball landed forty feet short, dead on line, relatively straight up hill.

Since all of the club had heard about this ludicrous wager and had completely discounted my chances nobody had showed up for the event until a call was made to the club house “Glogowski’s all square with two to play”. Like sharks to chum the seventeenth was now surrounded. “This may be a match after all” I heard one of the sharks say.

I stalked my putt from all sides, so nervous that it was all really in vain. The putt broke a little left and then a little right hard uphill dropping off severely after the hole. What to do, what to do? Lag it up and take my chances on a two putt from Phil? Be aggressive and take my chances of it going in or rolling well past the hole for a possible three putt? Decisions, decisions. Just at that moment I decided win or lose I wasn’t going to put my destiny in someone else’s hands. I closed my eyes, imagined the line and gave it a good belt. I looked up and miraculously it was heading on line for the hole at a break neck speed.

Clunk, in the hole. Celebration by the crowd, but none by me. This is golf and anything can happen at any time. This I knew all too well after years of wins and losses.

Phil walked around the green like a second hand on a clock stopping every few degrees to analyze every aspect of the green, slope, grain, wind, etc. One thing you must know before I continue, even without Phil’s ,million dollar, state of the art putter, Phil is one of the best readers of the greens and putters I know. As he stood over his left to right, uphill then downhill putt the sharks had again grown quiet. Sometimes the loudest sound is quiet. Calmly over the ball he drew his putter back in his controlled rhythmic motion and stoked the ball to what appeared to be a perfect line. The ball rolled high on the hill slowing down at the apex and gently trickling toward the hole.

It was in……… no a lip out, “around the world”, “a toilet flusher”, and two inches from the hole a conceded three. Hole won, one to go.

We continued on to eighteen and waited for the sharks to gather around the chum. Both sides of the fairway had scattered buggies and a large crowd appeared out of nowhere around the green at a respectful distance. With the honors I stepped up to the tee and my mind went momentarily blank. Then out of nowhere I could hear in the back of my mind the theme to “Jaws”, dump dump, dump dump. I knew with my best drive I would still be fifty yards short of Phil’s so I decided to hit my “go to” shot a little fade.

I don’t know why golfers call a consistently poorly stuck shot their “go to” shot, maybe it is self placating in a game that constantly humiliates without rhyme or reason. Before I knew it the ball was away down the left side of the fairway fading back to the right side. The sharks quietly applauded.

Phil stepped up to the tee box and again the sound of “Jaws” crept into my head. One up and I still felt like chum. Crack, down left center and out of sight even for young eyes. The sharks roared at this great feat of pounding the life out of a little round ball three hundred plus yards down the fairway. A Herculean feat. Additional holes seemed inevitable.

I arrived at my ball some eighty yards behind Hercules, perched high in the hill one hundred and thirty eight yards from its final destination five inches below the green in a little round plot.
Nervously I grabbed a seven iron thinking, “Don’t be short, traps to the right and left.” I came to my senses and momentarily calmed down. Think Steven, think. Wind from the back, hole in front, one up on Goliath. Eight iron, swing with confidence nothing to lose. I stood over the ball and eliminated every swing thought I had ever learned and kept one.

It was a suggestion from my wife Rachel from the day before when I was practicing hundred yard shots in our front yard.

“Steven, relax, stand straight, swing through and trust no matter what happens I will always love you,……..but I won’t be at the outing if you lose”.

The ball was launched straight in line with the flag landing ten inches short of the hole. My fate was sealed. Phil came up short out of a buried lie in the deep grass through the fairway. He missed, I made, game over.

A bet is a bet, but during my conversation with Phil the next day I could sense that this would be no easy task for him. Phil is the kind of individual for whom perception is very important. Phil owns one pair of blue jeans with a crease down the front from years of ironing. Phil is and always has been a good friend through good times and bad.

Phil was released from his commitment because acquaintances are easily found but good friends are always on short supply.