'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 3. The Island Tee

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the second episode - http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/the_royal_ancient_golf_curse_part_2_a_water_hazard - Beer Boy made the mistake of bathing in a sacred water hazard. It didn't work out that well for him. This is the third in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the Royal and Ancient Golf Curse.]

I gawk at the lovely woman driving the cart. She looks unperturbed, even amiable, almost lovable. She's wearing a peaceful, amused, beatific smile.

At a bend in the path, she turns hard right and I'm thrown hard against her wonderfully soft shoulder. Our friends are far behind and lost from sight. She slowly brings the cart to a halt. She looks behind us and then she turns to me.

"I know what you want," she says quietly.

"You probably do."

"You want to play well."

"That's true."

"This will help," she says, looking me in the eye. Slowly she bends toward me, and I'll be damned if she doesn't give me a tender kiss, one with all the trimmings. Then she takes a deep breath, turns back to the road, and hits the accelerator. It's a mere shake of the stick before we're pulling up to hole No. 1 and I'm feeling downright chipper. It's a blessing, this ancient game of golf.

Wild Turkey, Single Malt, and Beer Boy are nowhere to be seen. They arrive a couple minutes later, looking less enthused. They're what's known as the drag group. Especially the fellow whose name used to be Mud. His new clothes fit fine, but somehow the starch has been taken out of him. He's even walking a bit gingerly.

Our guide pays no attention to their gloom.

"What we have before us is an island tee," she explains, when we've gathered around. "A 185-yard par-3."

"Don't you mean an island green?" Turkey asks.

"No, no. Island tee. If you look around, you'll see this tee box is a little island."

"Oh, God."

"Hole No. 1's green is an island, too, it's true," she concedes.

"How are we supposed to get over there?"

She laughs lightly. "That's why this hole is so challenging. Though, as you'll see, I'm afraid, the other holes on this 'curse,' er . . . 'course,' are no less so, and some are quite a bit more problematic."

"More problematic?!"

"Good God," Beer Boy grunts.

All I can think to myself is: "Amen."

You may wonder why I'm so blessed when my brethren are finding this round of golf more of a horror show. I wonder also. My sneaking suspicion is that narrators have their privileges. (Caution is probably advisable.)

With trepidation, we toss a tee in the air to figure out the order of play. Single Malt will shoot first, Wild Turkey second, me third and Beer Boy will clean up the mess. As our guide looks on, Single Malt steps up and hits a beautiful tee shot that lands on the island green. He walks off relieved and jaunty.

Wild Turkey's ball looks like it's going to land in the drink. It hits just short and we all groan, but it bounces and catches on the fringe of the green. It starts to roll back and we yelp, but miracle of miracle, it holds on.

I'm not feeling particularly confident when I tee my ball up, but I take a few practice swings and then take my cut. I pull my head up too soon and top the ball and it squirts forward along the ground. It plops into the water in front of the tee. Then it skips like a stone and heads straight for the green, skipping merrily along, finally hopping onto the dance floor in the distance and climbing the slope, coming to rest about 20 feet from the pin.

"Better lucky than good," I say.

"That was definitely not good," says Wild Turkey.

"Unbelievable," says Single Malt.

Beer Boy saunters up to the tee box, quietly confident. He's got a beautiful, fluid golf swing. But sometimes he doesn't know his own strength. He reminds me of Mighty Casey stepping to the plate. He's going with some low iron and when he unleashes his shot, it flies true and fair and unfortunately a little long. It caroms off the back of the island green and we hear the sound of a little splash. Beer Boy's face darkens. His mouth hardens. His stoicism is tested. We all watch silently, wondering what will happen next.

Our guide is the first to dare speak to him. "You can take a Mulligan."

"I can?"

"You're allowed a Mulligan off the first tee. Don't you play that way?"

"Uh, we do, in fact."

"Well, there you are."

The leaden clouds that had gathered part, the sun breaks through like a marching band, and we all breathe easily again. Especially Beer Boy, though he knows perfectly well that a Mulligan is no guarantee. It's only a second chance. He takes a shorter iron out of his bag, carefully tees up his ball, takes one smooth practice swing, and hits the ball perfectly. It flies high and straight and true. We watch agape as his ball lands on the green, bounces a couple of times, and rolls slowly toward the hole. Time slows to a halt. The last few feet the ball seems to be thinking long and hard about its purpose here on Earth.

We're all starting to make a variety of strangled cries of surprise. The excitement is practically unbearable.

And then the ball recollects itself. It knows why it's here. It rolls dead straight and disappears into the hole.

Wild enthusiasm! Shouts of jubilation! Beer Boy can't believe it!

"Omigod!" he shouts and we all chime in.

"What a shot!"

"That was amazing!"

"I can't believe I hit it so perfectly," he gushes. "Man, that felt great!"

"Too bad it was a Mulligan," Wild Turkey says, breaking the mood.

"Yeah, that's a real shame," says Single Malt.

"It's true. That kind of sucks," I say.

"We'll have to give you an asterisk on that one."

"Poor devil. Poor Beer Boy."

But then, time screeches to a halt. Our lovely guide and the beer drinker confer. Just the two of them.

"If you want," she coos, "I can make your friends forget you even took that first shot."

"Really?"

"Really. They'll just remember you making a hole-in-one on the first hole."

"But . . . ?"

"But you'll remember."

"I don't care. Go for it. Do your magic."

With that, the rest of us continue celebrating Beer Boy's unbelievable hole-in-one.

"Some shot!"

"That was the sweetest shot I've ever seen!"

"That's my first hole-in-one ever!" Beer Boy says, rejoicing anew.

"Way to go!"

"But how are we going to retrieve it? We're marooned on this island."

"The ferryman will be coming to pick you up in a couple minutes."

"Will we all fit?"

"Actually, not quite. Mr. Beer Boy. You're done. Only your friends are going to keep playing our game. You get to go straight to the clubhouse."

"Really? Why? I want to keep playing, too . . .!"

"Too late for that, I'm afraid. You made your choice. Now off with you to the bar. I believe you're buying."

Another golf maiden coasts up in her cart and gestures for the beer drinker to join her. She picks up his clubs - they seem light as gossamer - and straps them on the back of her cart. A shimmering mirage of a path back to the clubhouse floats ahead of them.

"Couldn't really do any better than that, I guess," says Beer Boy. "Well, fellows, good luck. Try topping that! Ha! The party will be in full swing by the time you join me."

"Keep that tab open, buddy."

"Sorry to lose you, Ace Monkey."

"Hey," Beer Boy says, "be sure to save that ball for me!"

"Of course! Unless we accidentally drop it in the water hazard . . . hahahahaha."

A bit reluctantly, Beer Boy slides into the golf cart, the cart maiden wheels around, and off they go.

"If one of us three gets a hole-in-one," Wild Turkey asks, "do we have to quit playing, too?"

"Make one and I'll let you know," says our guide.

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.