Centennial day 2

Dear Jim:

We are on the last hole of the tournament, 7 blue, a par 3 with a nasty pin placement. I stood on the tee, closed my eyes and whacked a hybrid as hard as I could and what do you know the ball is sitting 15 feet from the hole just on the fringe. All I have to do is sink this, get a birdie and we move in to money making mode. 

 If I screw this up my life will be ruined.

 The journey to this point had been one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life including several root canals and countless prostrate exams.

. My team had gone from concern and encouragement , to pity,accompanied by wincing and head shaking  and finally complete silence while covering their eyes while I hit.  They were taking bets on whether I would just drive off the course or announce that I would never play again.

 After the first 9 holes we were only 1 under, facing Armageddon.  The bulges in our pants were caused by wads of $50 bills we had brought just in case but now  it looked like we might  even have to borrow to meet all our obligations.

 Our thought process  at that moment was that there were 480 people playing this game today. They include for the most part, the fat, the out of shape, the old, the creaky knees and hip replacement crowd as well as  many challenged drunks ( 1000 beer were served at the field bar on Friday alone). The evidence was mounting  that  we were going to be the worst performers of this entire group.

 This is not good for one’s self image and I feared today would leave us damaged for life.

 Somehow in the next 8 holes through some spectacular shot making by three members of our team we had pulled to a respectable 12 under. I thought I had made some contribution ( I heard one team member whisper that “Bill’s contribution is S.F.A. so I don’t know how much but I had done a little.)

 For my part, at the start of Saturday I grabbed the pro and asked him for a quick tuneup. Three shots later all systems were go. This was a dangerous move but  desperation had sunk in.  I explained to him how I had played the second hole of the Red, a par 5 like this. Driver, Putter (not a typo..a fir tree with both legs wrapped around the base should give you a hint), 3X 4 woods, a lob wedge and 3 putts. Put me down for 8. A 9 doesn’t sound right. He knew that emergency measures were called for and helped me out. If only it had carried from the range on to the course but that is another story.

 Now just to put this all in perspective for you. My name  is on the Centennial Trophy twice and our team has come second twice and third once. Furthermore  this all happened before  fancy high performance equipment and hot balls were the rage. We played in regular clothes. No coordinated shorts and vapor sucking rayon shirts with matching shoe laces and multi coloured stripes and squares all over the place. We didn’t have fancy warm up places either…we would take turns swinging the 2 iron that one of our members carried and used…often.’ So we aren't talking about kids here!

At any rate when the chips are down and performance is mandatory, the tough suck it up and get ready to make it happen. The fact that I hadn’t sunk a putt over 6 inches for two days was worrisome. Here was my chance to redeem myself ( a bit). What the hell, a birdie is no big deal .I had one on this very hole in 1986 when I hit out of the sand and smacked the top of the flag dropping straight in the hole.

 I lined up the putt ( I don’t know how to do that very well but I went through the motions.) Everyone got in to position, covered their eyes and turned their backs away from the hole.

I pulled back the putter and stroked the ball towards a spot one cup to the right of the hole. Aiming has never been a strong point for me. 

The ball curled towards the hole and just as it got there, WTF it went in!

Bill Meder

Centennial Golf Tournament..Day 1

Dear Jim:

Well, day one of the Centennial is over. I know you want to know how it went. I can’t give you a blow by blow but let me say that my score for the day was the worst score ever. Not my worst score ever, the worst score ever recorded in the history of Royal Montreal.

When I tried to enter my score the system told me “Please enter one score at a time”.

A little flavor. After a warm up hole I started 10 Red and went 8,8,7 for three holes.

But just a minute you say, 10 Red is a par 3…how is that possible? Well my drive, with a wood..swung at full speed, travelled 16 feet.  The club hit the top of the ball and then proceeded to dig a 6 inch divot a full two feet in front of the tee. The tee was driven so deep in to the ground that mechanical equipment will be required to remove it.

My second shot, done in a hurry to avoid detection by the team following us went dead right in to the bush. And so on…put me down for 8.

Next hole my drive went hard left..but wait.. it hit the tee box deflecting back toward the fairway..but wait.. there is so much side spin on the ball it reverses direction again and heads left in to the bush.  A flight path that would have gone viral if we had thought to record it.

The only fun parts of the day was when some bozo,  came up to our table at lunch and announced that he didn’t like talking to me in person but liked reading my letters.  The other moron, driving on the wrong fairway continued driving up the wrong fairway after hitting rather than returning to his own fairway. He was upset when I didn’t think anyone could be so stupid and hit my shot while he was driving toward me. Dangerous, he said. While he is waving his arms and crying for his mommy,  I’m thinking, if I had killed the jerk I would have been given the Centennial trophy immediately along with a parade of bag pipers right then and there.

I know I had said my team might resort to violence. They wanted to talk to me in the parking lot after dinner but I left by the ladies exit.

The rest of the team was not exactly on fire either. I didn’t watch them much because I was sulking with my head in my hands but we did manage to scratch together a final score of 11 under which means we lost half our bets.

Tomorrow is another day and my team told me we were playing the second round at a course in Hudson which seems strange since I thought the dance was at our club tomorrow night. At any rate they asked me to  leave early because it is a long drive and they want to make sure we are all on time.

More tomorrow ..maybe.

Bill Meder

Getting ready for the big Centennial Tournament

Dear Jim:

I want to report a Murder!

 I’m telling you about it now because I know my team will try to make it look like an accident. I am assuming that there won’t be an out and out strangulation or a Wedge buried in the back of my head. A loose driver head flying off the shaft or an errant golf cart running me over several times is the most likely course of action. I wouldn’t normally care because, and I quote a friend, “I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be around when it happens.” I want you to know this now as my insurance policy  pays triple if I am killed with friends in a social environment. An accident is only a double and I know the kids will like the extra money. The death will occur about 3.30pm Friday after several holes of the Centennial Tournament.

This may sound extreme but take me seriously. Yesterday I went out to practice. I arrived at the Lob Wedge area and hit balls with a competitor/friend for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t stand it anymore and so I left him there, mindlessly hitting shot after shot.

I went to the range and succeeded in getting all my shots to have the same degree of slice regardless of whether or not they are Woods, Irons or Wedges.

I then went to the putting green and spent so much time with my head  over the ball that there was no blood left in the rest of my body.

This was followed by a drink, shower and and a casual stroll to the parking lot. I then saw  my competitor/friend was just coming in from the Lob Wedge practice area. How am I going to compete with that!

 Looking around I saw many people who had been hitting balls when I arrived and were still in the same spot doing the same thing as I drove out the driveway. To top it all off I got a phone call from a team member who was hitting when I began my practice session at 3pm . He had just returned home and it was dark. How do they do it? After 10 minutes of hitting balls I start to hallucinate.

The final and fatal flaw in my game is that I can’t seem to sink a 4 foot putt. I hit them left, right and never center. A blind man pointed in the general direction of the hole would sink 5-10 putts out of 50 tries. I sank none! I hit them hard, soft, with follow through, punched, sliced and with one eye, both eyes and no eyes waiting to hear the ball in the cup. This is bad. I will have to take a gimmie on any putt under 10 feet and I don’t think the people we are betting with will like that.

I have been withdrawing the maximum cash allowed from my ATM machine every morning for some time now to get a bankroll to pay off our debts after the competition. I would have asked a teller for the full  amount but she probably would have reported me for suspicious activity or money laundering. The last time I asked for this much cash she slipped me a note asking if my family was being held hostage.

So with all this in mind you can see how my team mates will probably be suffering from P. T.S.D by the 7^th or 8^th hole on Friday. As you know this happens when one witnesses horrible and unspeakable  events and  often results in violent behavior.

They know they won’t get punished and with the evidence of my playing presented to the judge they probably won’t even have to attend court.

So there you have it. I am doomed.

The Centennial tournament , my last, begins in three days. I have put your name on some of my old trophies that you admired so much. You can have my name scratched off or put a plaque with your name on it. Enjoy. It has been nice knowing you.

Bill Meder

A silent update

Dear Jim

You probably wonder why you haven’t heard from me for some time.  I have been trying to document my ups and downs but this year I am flat with no progress in either direction.

People are thinking  I am very quiet on the course as I seldom talk or make comments during the round. I fear  the impression I’m giving is that I’m not engaged or don’t care what’s going on. In fact I am talking to myself non-stop. Here was the conversation with myself during the last three holes of the blue course the last time I played.

“Now I’m too hot…last week I was too cold..the week before too rainy. As an outdoor sport this has to rank as the worst. My shorts are sopping wet and my shoes are squeaking. What are we doing playing in the heat of the day?..I’m losing 3 quarts an hour!. We need a cart person driving around the course delivering Gatorade..I may be dead within the hour”

“Ok, I know I said “hit” when ready.  You need to get ready!.. I didn’t mean to come so close to you but really you were never in danger…well maybe a little bit …Ok if it bothers  you when I am 50 yards in front of you waiting for you to hit I’ll move over to the side…no I’m not in a hurry.”

“Damn it this sun tan lotion is running into my mouth and I can’t get rid of the taste. How come I can’t wash it out or spit it out? Who designs this stuff anyway? You can’t wash it off with a scrub brush after the game but it runs down your face like hot syrup on a sundae non-stop for four hours. Why doesn’t someone sell lemon flavored sunscreen?”

“Now I’ve got something in my eye, one of those no-see-um’s flew right in there, got to get it out... Christ, now I’ve got sunscreen in my eye. I’ll just take this water bottle and flush it out. Oops now my shirt is drenched and my eye still hurts. I’ll have to hit the next shot with one eye…”

“Are they breeding these mosquitos with steroids? Where is my bug spray?…empty?..why would I be carrying an empty spray can?..someone must have stolen the last few squirts. I have emptied my entire bag and there isn’t one spot of bug spray..WTF.  I can’t concentrate on this shot with all the buzzing in my ears. Now it’s stopped..it must be biting me. Where the hell is it? Jesus, there must be 50 of them. Back off the shot..idiot!..why did I hit that? “

“I wonder what the Speedo lunch special is today?”

“No, I’m not going in that bush to look for your ball. If you find it you can’t play it anyway and it is possible you won’t get out alive. I’ll pretend that I’m coming over to help you  look for it. I can’t walk much slower than this…Ok good decision…just drop one and lets go.”

“Now what?,. a cramp in my left foot. How the hell does that happen? I’ll walk it off. Now my toes are cramping. Why does everyone else seem so comfortable…I’m dying here. I’m never walking again…single carts are the only way to go “

“If I can birdie these next three holes I’m going to break a 100. What a great drive, my best in two years. Easy second shot over the water... How is it possible that shot went in the water... It was a great swing… Ok, I’ll  play for a boggie…Rats, I hate going in the sand..why did that shot go in the sand? I was aiming 50 yards to the left of the trap.”

“Good Out!..now I have sand all over my legs sticking to my sunscreen except for the sand that went down my socks. I’ll give my shoes a good whack with this sand wedge… Ouch!.. I hit my bloody ankle. Boy does that hurt..I have to take off my shoes and socks and get rid of the sand and all that grass that found it’s way into the inside of my socks.”

“A little par 3 over 10 feet of water..my favorite hole…Yikes, straight in, didn’t even bounce off the bank.. OK, now I’m hitting 3…is there no mercy? What the hell, no one will believe I had an 8 on a par 3 anyway , and besides, an 8 isn’t going to change the enormity of my final score at this point. I hate this place.”

“Almost finished…God this is a long and painful exercise. Who the hell decided on 18 holes? I have been counting since the 11^th wondering if this will ever end.  Oh Boy what a drive…now for my trusty 4 wood.. it’s going straight…Mother McCready ….I’m putting!…wow…a 25 footer…it’s in..SOB, What a game. I love this more than life itself.”

These are  the lively conversations I am having while everyone goes quietly about their business. If I spoke out loud they would know I am crazy so don’t pass this around. I just want to let you know that a lot of stuff is happening and you would be proud of me for  dealing with all of it while  appearing normal. I wish I was a mind reader so I could see what everyone else is saying.

Bill Meder