Singing the Blues

by Katharine Dyson

When I agreed to step back to the blue tee boxes for this “trading places” experiment orchestrated by Senior Editor Darin Bunch, I had in mind a gentle parkland-style layout, maybe something like a Stanley Thompson course or a classic Donald Ross track. But glancing at the scorecard of a course I still have trouble pronouncing, Turning Stone’s Kaluhyat (ga-LU-yut), I saw it was a whopping 6,724 yards, while the forward red tees were a mere 5,293 yards.
Obviously Darin knows how to pick his courses.

The course is formidable enough from the reds, with long carries over wetlands and gullies, lakes and huge undulating greens. And, oh yes, designer Robert Trent Jones Jr. — bless his heart — installed a boatload of behemoth bunkers. For a 19-handicapper like me, Fort Knox could not be any safer than the green on Kaluhyat’s par-5 No. 6.

It’s 7:15 a.m. on a dewy summer morning in Verona, just east of Syracuse, N.Y., in the middle of nowhere. Chilly. Clutching my cup of coffee, I meet Darin outside the Pro Shop.

“Ready,” he asks, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“No warm-up?”

“You don’t really need it, do you?”

“Certainly not,” I reply, sliding into the cart.

“So I’ll give you 7 strokes a side?” Darin says.

“No way. I need two strokes a hole.” I had played with Darin before; a power guy.

“Hey, I was up until 3 a.m. playing poker. Give a guy a break.”

We negotiate further, and I get a couple more strokes, 8 per side, but I know in my deepest soul that I would need more, many more.

I plant my tee between the blues, loving the fact that for once, I have the honors. How often do the guys hit then dawdle while I run down to the “ladies” red to tee off by myself? Yes, going first is definitely an improvement. I consider driving the cart right past “his” tee, just to give him a sense of what we ladies deal with every time we tee it up with men. “Oops, so sorry, I forgot,” I would say coming to a screeching halt, gravel flying.

In spite of the cold, the damp and the ugly odds, I drive my first ball quite well, landing in the fairway. Darin, on the other hand, hooks left, over a bunker down to the next fairway. Did I win the hole? Don’t ask. My short game lets me down on the first of many holes.
I need my stroke just to tie.

The next hole rewards me with a stunning look at the countryside from the elevated blues, the first of many holes where I discover the view from the top is much better. Certainly Jones was not thinking of the reds when he designed the course. What architect does?

I carry the first of many wetland hazards (161 yards), while Darin booms his tee shot left. We look and can’t find his ball, forcing him to drop laterally next to the red stakes. A few minutes later, he finds his first ball farther forward, hits it on the green and gets his par 4, but I have to remind him: his drop was technically illegal. My hole, although it doesn’t appear he marked it that way on the scorecard.

On No. 3, a par 4, 394/327 yards, Darin finds a pale blue ball. “That reminds me, I should have played a pink ball today (he’s a fan of the new Maxfli Ice, which come in a rainbow of fluorescent colors).” While I hit a perfect drive, avoiding the bunkers on the right and squeezing past another bunker on the left, Darin’s blue ball soars beyond all trouble. He makes his par; I take a 7. Another short-game burnout.

Our match really gets interesting on the par-4 No. 4 (350/268 yards). The blue is way back in another county, just seven yards from the black, with a narrow opening over wetlands to the landing area. Darin’s whimpy tee is up front with a wide-open landing pad — no hazard to carry. I hit a great drive into “Position A,” as they say. Darin’s blue ball screams as it hooks into the reeds on the left.

“Now I really should have used a pink ball,” he cries, high-stepping through the thick grass, soaking his slacks with every step. “This is when I need Radar Golf.” But he didn’t have a Radar Golf ball, nor did he have his Visiball glasses.

“Looks like a lost ball,” I say, pointing back up the fairway toward the teeing grounds. “Guess you’ll have to, ahem, return to the tee and do it again. He drives back, tees off again and plays it smart, hitting a girlie iron to the fairway leaving a wedge in. But I have to admit: He hit a perfect shot to stick the green. Still, I easily top his double-bogey with my smooth 5 for the outright win — didn’t even need my stroke. Things were turning around. I’m only 1-down, and given Darin’s erratic driver, the match is mine for the taking.

The next hole, a par 3 with a well-protected green, is almost laughable from the reds — just 78 yards. Before Darin even reaches the tee box, my drive, a 138-yard 7-iron, is sitting safely on the putting surface.

Finally finding the well-forward red tee, I say, “Maybe you should putt it.” He ignores me, pulls a 58-degree wedge and chunks it into the wetlands, scarring the turf with a divot long enough and deep enough to plant potatoes.

Planting another ball, he says, “Instead of being cute with my 58, I’m hitting a full 60 this time.” It arches onto the green inside my ball. I three-putt for a 4; he cards a 5. The match is even. I’m smiling. After all, I’m struggling — driving well and able to carry the hazards from the blues but falling apart around the greens. Not good. We won’t even talk about No. 6 (except to mention the lake on the right and the 11 — that’s right, double-digits — carded by my competitor). Even with triple-bogey, I’m now in the lead, 1-up through six holes.

More water on No. 7. Playing 423 yards from the blues, the par 4 would again require some short-game finesse on my part. Defying the large body of water on the left, Darin takes out his driver. “If I go into the water, I go into the water,” he says. He doesn’t. I do.

I take a 10. Darin makes another par.

I’m finding the 4-pars from the blues more than stimulating. At least six are close to or more than 400 yards. Doing the math, I’ll need to hit two shots 200 or more yards to even reach the greens in regulation.

For example, No. 7 is 423 yards. No. 9 is 427 yards with a split fairway, making it even longer if you play down the left side. No. 12 is 422 yards. I’m thinking bogey at best. I’m thinking I need more strokes. I’m thinking I need a three-day course at a Dave Pelz Short-Game School. I’m even thinking that maybe I should lay up to the red tees.

Some of the 3-pars are quite challenging, too.

No. 8, for example, plays 195 yards to a green protected by several bunkers. The smart play is for me to lay up. I do. Darin should have an easy drive at 130 yards, but using his 58-degree wedge, he comes up short. Should be a good hole for me, but I can only manage a push.
Probably most surprising to me is that, except for No. 11, a 593-yard par 5 requiring a 200-yard carry off the tee to get over the bad stuff, I’m able to carry all the other hazards from the blues. Sadly, in this case, I’m lying 7 before I even reach the second hazard, some nasty wetlands crossing in front of the green. For the record, Darin won this hole with a double-bogey, astonishing when you consider his tee was in front of the hazard from the red tee and total length was but 393 yards. He could almost have driven it.

By the time we reached the par-5 No. 13, Darin is on a role — driving, chipping, putting, closing in for the kill. But on the dogleg-right playing around a lake 524 yards from the blue tees, 462 from the reds, I sky my drive. But it is safe ... and dry. Darin powers up for another bomb, trying to figure how much of the lake he can cut off for a decent shot at his first birdie of the round. He bites off more than he can chew. Just short. Splash. I sniff opportunity before rolling a few more wedges en route to a triple-bogey 8. The match is getting out of hand. I’m now 3-down with four holes to play.

My cell phone is speed-dialing 411 in search of short-game help as Darin slams the door on the par-3 No. 15 with a 60-degree dart from his 108-yard tee box to a downhill green. My scorecard of alternating 8s and 9s isn’t getting the job done.

I read somewhere Kaluhyat means “the other side of the sky. You bet. I can relate.
Next time — after some short-game schooling — I’ll pick the course, and it will be Darin who is singing the blues. Just you wait and see. FG