'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 15. What Goes Around

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the 14th episode, Single Malt owned up to a double hit, defusing the wrath of the sensitive environment. This is the 15th in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the Royal and Ancient Golf Curse.]

Lucky for us, the eighth hole also runs along the coastline. What a spectacular view - links golf at its most glorious.

"Birdie Boy's got honors."

"I like the sound of that," says the Beer dude.

"Hole No. 8 is a 395-yard par-4," the nymph says. "You'll want to put your drive in the middle of that landing area. It's about 200 yards off on the left. You really don't want to go right. Nothing but trouble over there."

"There's that puddle."

"The Pacific. There's a misnomer for you. Peaceful, my eye. One of the worst storms I ever went through," says Wild Turkey. "Felt like I was in a blender."

"When was that?"

"Oh, it was…"

"Guys, if you don't mind. I could use a little quiet."

Beer Boy puts an end to that interesting conversation. His drives have been fading of late. Maybe he's tired. But this one he manages to straighten out. His ball comes to rest safely along the right edge of the fairway.

"Not too shabby."

"Par monkey's up," Beer Boy yells. "Turkey!"

"What's the hurry, Beer dude? You late for an editorial meeting?"

"I just don't want us taking all day."

"All day? How about all life?" I ask.

"He's got a wife and kiddlies expecting him," says Single Malt.

"I hope so," says the Beer fellow. The cart nymph doesn't say a word.

Wild Turkey steps up, hits a massive slice - sliced turkey! - all the way off the bluff, and down somewhere into the foaming maw of the Pacific. He yells at himself with barely suppressed fury: "Turkey!" He's one of those golfers who upbraids himself in the third-person.

If his doppelganger had appeared at that very moment, he would have slugged him. I wonder how that would work? Wild Turkey KO's his evil double with an 8-iron and wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache? (He may anyway.) He tees off a second time and hits a nice shot. He's lying three.

For some reason, I'm on edge. Here's another daunting prospect, narrow fairway, huge ocean, and I never know when my luck's going to run dry. I try to become Zen-like. Swinging not too quickly, not too slowly. Steady Eddy.

Some people recommend the five-beat swing. Some summon up Strauss and the Viennese waltz. ("Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah…") Others prefer Jimi Hendrix. I take my backswing, begin my downward motion, and swing through the ball, singing to myself: "Man-ic-de-pre-ssion." And Jimi Hendrix works some voodoo magic for me from beyond the grave. My shot draws nicely and finds the fairway.

We're all inside 200 yards, so Tally-ho! I manage to put my second shot on the green about twenty feet above the hole on a side slope. The green itself is something of a bowl.

When it's my turn to putt, I give my ball a good rap and don't leave it short. Not by a long shot. It zips by on the high side. And then it continues around the curvature of the bowl and comes back to where I'm standing!

I step out of the way as it rolls by, and so do Single Malt and Beer Boy and Wild Turkey. I might as well have been putting on a roulette wheel. My ball continues rolling back toward the cup. (It reminds me of a dream I once had.) It's headed straight for the hole…

"I've got some bad news," the cart nymph says suddenly. "That's not really a golf shot, Irish Coffee. That's you about to go down the drain."

I don't hesitate. I spring forward after my ball and manage to knock it away with my putter just before it reaches the hole!

"Whoa, dude, that would have been one helluva shot."

"You have good reflexes, Irish Coffee," says the cart nymph. "That's a good sign."

"I'll take the penalty," I say, "whatever it is. I'm not afraid. But, boy, that would have been one for the books."

"Yeah, man. 'What goes around, comes around,'" says Wild Turkey.

"Instant Karma," says Single Malt.

"Instant Coffee's more like it," says the cart nymph. "Freeze-dried. But you dodged the penalty nicely."

"What was it?" I barely dare to ask.

"It would have been pretty bad," she says.

"But, why?"

"You can't go around violating the laws of Nature, Irish. It ain't right."

When not writing about golf, Richard Voorhees is a novelist, filmmaker and lexicographer. His novel, "Shooting Genji," and his dictionary of occupations, "The World's Oldest Professions," are available on Amazon.com and at his website, www.rgvoorhees.com.