Still in the rough, but sitting up, I flushed a 6-iron that smacked into the lip of the right bunker. I blasted out to the middle of the green, but this putting surface – firmer than a hardwood floor – didn't take the spin. The ball rolled off the back edge. I chipped up to 10 feet and made the putt for a double-bogey.
I was flustered but not demoralized. I'd hit some good shots. And I knew that, on this course, good shots weren't going to guarantee much.
But then I hit the worst of shots. On the 140-yard, par-three 15th, I chose an 8-iron, stepped onto the tee box, got into a comfortable stance and visualized a high draw sweeping in from the right, toward the front left pin location.
Instead, I produced what all golfers fear more than anything: a shank. The ball whizzed between two tall Cypresses and straight toward a TV crew standing next to another tee box.
We all got a good laugh out of it, but inside I was weeping. A shank will do that to you – shatter your confidence, cause you to question what you believe to be true, get into the depths of your head.
And so I did it again on the next hole, the 609-yard 16th. After another drive up the right side and into the rough, I shanked a 6-iron. Lying 2 from in the rough and more than 350 yards away, I bent over, clutched my knees, and stared blankly at the thick turf between my feet.
Now I really was demoralized. And embarrassed. Despite all the time I'd put into becoming a respectable player, I didn't know how to right the ship in this moment. Past accomplishments didn't matter. They were irretrievable. I was in a place no golfer ever wants to be: Cluelessville.
Somehow, I didn't shank one the rest of the day, but the path to a 103 – an unthinkable 26 strokes over my handicap – was set. I drop-kicked a pair of drives, the second of which ricocheted off a grandstand railing and disappeared. And on the rare occasion when I did find the sweet spot, the canted fairways acted like windshield wipers, in one instance sending my ball a good 20 yards into the high stuff.
At the end of the day, I took solace in just two things: Olympic Club's legendary cheeseburger on a hot dog bun, which was indeed as good as advertised; and the fact that, upon reflection, even had I had all parts of my game in order, I'd have taken a beating. I've played all over the world, but never somewhere so punishing and merciless.
Which is why I can't wait to see what Bubba and the boys do come June 14. Having walked what awaits them, I'm convinced there will be train wrecks. And perversely, I look forward to the carnage. Because as they say, misery loves company.
