Who's The Man?

by Darin Bunch

This wasn’t part of the plan.

When I came up with the bright idea to swap tee boxes — and pages — with “Seeing Red” columnist Katharine Dyson, I never dreamed I’d need a final-hole up-and-down par from the fringe to break 50 on the front nine. Of course, I never dreamed I’d go double-digits on a 402-yard par 5 either.

You read it correctly. No typo there. 402 yards.

Par 5. Score: 11. I’ll wager I could find an 11-year-old on the driving range right now who could better his age on a 402-yard hole. At age 39, I couldn’t even shoot my age for six holes ... from the forward tees.

Talk about Seeing Red.

But I should point out, right from the beginning, that the gorgeous Robert Trent Jones Jr. track at Turning Stone Resort near Syracuse, N.Y., is a very difficult golf course. Everything about it is difficult. Tee-shot carries are difficult. Narrow, forest-lined fairways are difficult.

Sometimes-diabolical greens are difficult. Even the name — Kaluhyat — is difficult to pronounce.
And, as you probably know by now, I’m not a very good golfer. Sure, I play to a 10 handicap on the rare occasion, but I’m also capable of a 106 (see the April-May 2006 “Big Finish” for my bush-rummaging round from the tips at Trump National, Los Angeles). I can hit it deep, very deep, but I can also hit it wide, oh so very wide. And the only place I’ve heard deep and wide go together, appropriately, is in Sunday School.

So with a suspect swing and shaky putter, I met Katharine on crisp, dew-covered morning. And as we headed to the first tee, without warm-up, my ego was perhaps the best club in my bag. And the only one I would use reliably. After all, how hard could the red tees be? Hit an iron off every box and a wedge to every green. Even if I three-putted all day, I’d at least post a score in the 80s, I thought.

It was a good plan. And I stuck with it for every bit of the two-minute drive from the clubhouse to the teebox on the nearly straightaway par-5 No. 1, where the scorecard yardage — 417 yards! — flashed in my mind like a neon sign along Las Vegas Boulevard, tempting me to commit the ultimate sin.

And hit the driver I did.

In retrospect, I blame the golf club.After all, my Callaway FT-3, which has served me so well for the better part of the past 12 months, nearly jumped out of the bag and into my hands.

He didn’t want to miss this opportunity.

“A 417-yard par 5 — are you kidding me?” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “If the Wedges and Mr. Putter can hold up their end of the deal, we’ll be making birdies and eagles all day!”

Old plan vetoed. New plan approved.

So much for staying the course. The surge was afoot.

Meanwhile, Kathie kicked off the round straight down the middle, courtesy of her TourEdge Exotics driver — a real man’s man club that she hits better than most guys with whom I’ve played. And that was bad news. Although I was rooting for Kathie to have a solid outing, I also didn’t want to lose to a girl, especially from her tees. I figured we just might see double-par on this day — 144 wasn’t out of the question on a course like this. Did I mention the level of difficulty? And she had to play it from the “real” tees. If she broke 130, I’d be impressed. In fact, bogeys would be her best friend, I figured, with pars a distance relative she’d likely never see anytime soon.

Of course, pars wouldn’t exactly be my BFF either.

Mentally, I put on my gorilla mask and pulled the trigger on a vicious FT-3 salvo, already anticipating the cheers of “You the Man!” from inside my head. Oh, if Callaway poster-boy Phil Mickelson could see me now, firing from the red tees, my Dalyesque backswing wrapping around my head, my knee-kick-powered downswing unleashing ... the Mother of all Topped Shots, tumbling, ever so gently, into the waist-high grass in the front-left of the tee box.

Hmmm. I might need to rethink this plan. Maybe I could back out now. Fake a hamstring pull?

Say that swing did a Fred Couples on my back?

No luck. I was in this for the long haul. The future would record my greatness. It was only one swing. What’s one penalty in a round full of eagles and birdies? When’s it’s all said and done and I’m signing the scorecard boasting my personal best — at this point, I’m dreaming 65 at the worst — I’ll barely remember that topped drive. It’ll be a funny aside I throw in while recounting my dominance of the red tees with the boys over beers and brandy in the men’s clubhouse. “I shot 65,” I’d howl, “and that was with a topper on the very first hole! It should have been 63!” And roars of laughter and toasts in my name would fill the room.

The reload was easy. The swing was hard.

It was a hooker. And not an attractive one.

Welcome to the adjacent fairway.

Miraculously, I made double-bogey 7 on the opener and even managed a push as Kathie’s short-game woes settled in for the long, 18-hole ride.

On No. 2, I did what any man with a chance of making another double-bogey from the forward tees would do. I cheated. You might call it creative scoring. I call it a back-dated provisional, arguing that were we playing in front of a gallery (like any spectator would want to watch this action), my tee shot would have been easily found in the rough before I dropped near the lateral hazard and hit my third shot.

The result was a par, despite whatever revisionist history you might read elsewhere in this issue.
Of course, the only reason I was in this “ethical” quandary was because I once again unleashed the Big Dog, this time on a 339-yarder where the fairway gets quite tight as you close in on the green. My drive was another hooker. I needed somebody to Pimp my Swing.

Kathie’s 9 on the hole gave me a 1-up lead. I was winning the battle but losing the war. I needed a secret weapon, which I found on the very next tee — a powder blue Volvik Crystal nestled in the rough alongside the cart path. After all, it wasn’t enough to just shoot 65 and win this gender-bending battle of the sexes. Using a mocking blue ball — “a girl’s ball” — would make victory that much more satisfying.

It worked. An easy par after hitting a floppy L-wedge to 15 feet put me 2-up and in control of the match.

Out came the driver again on the reachable, 268-yard, dogleg-left No. 4 — a hole I’m sure Jones Jr. built with my draw in mind. But with my tee shots finding their way farther left than Hillary Clinton, every swing was a new adventure. On this shot, my beautiful blue ball resembled a nascar driver rounding Turn 3. It was a crash-and-burn that resulted not only in the loss of my short-lived secret weapon but also in a dejecting trip back to the tee. With 5-iron, pitching wedge and two putts, I made a lost-ball four. The scorecard would call it a double-bogey 6, but it felt vaguely familiar. I remembered something about a previous plan in which I played it safe, hit irons off tees and wedges into greens.

It must have been a dream because after chunking a wedge into the wetlands on the 89-yard, par-3 No. 5, where I made double again, allowing Kathie to square the match, I sent another driver soaring on the 402-yard, par-5 No. 6 ... straight toward the water running along the right side of the fairway. At least I’d stopped hitting it left. The result was not a ball in the pond, but a ball into the forest beyond the pond. It would take a Frodo-led expedition to find this one.
I dropped — and shanked a 4-iron into the trees.

I put another ball into play, thankful there wasn’t a foursome of impatient men pressing down behind us. After some subsequent hacking and the first truly poor putting of the day, I carded an 11. I’m guessing that four wedges and a two-putt would have given me 6.

No, there would be no 65 ... or 75 ... or even 85.

The boasting and back-slapping would have to wait.

At least I could salvage my dignity. After posting par-bogey on next two holes, I bombed a drive — that’s right, I hit it straight — on the 334-yard No. 9. And after coming up short with my wedge, I hit the best chip of the day to tap in for par. And 49.

I played a little smarter on the back nine, wedging my way to a 43 and a big victory. As for Kathie’s score, I’ll only say that she broke 130. Other than that, I promised to keep her score as much of a secret as her age. After all, I’m still a gentleman, even from the red tees.

More importantly, I was reminded of a simple lesson: It’s not the golf course; it’s the golfer — something the great Jack Nicklaus impressed on me many years ago when I told him about my hole-in-one on his redesigned No. 5 at Pebble Beach. “It was just from the white tees,” I said, sheepishly. “I don’t care if you hit it from the front of the green — you knocked it in the hole.

That’s all that matters,” he replied.

For the overwhelming majority of us, the game is a challenge every day, no matter what distance you choose to play. Some days, you get the better of the game. Most days, it gets the better of you. Remember that the next time you’re standing on the tee huffing and puffing at the group of ladies struggling in the fairway in front of you. After all, it might be me trying to break 50. FG