|
Chebeague Island Swatfest - Manchester MA - June 2012 A Good Walk Foiled |
|
|
The Rules The Great Chebeague Island Golf Club Swatfest pits dozens of golfers (and "golfers") against one another in a fun format. The first three holes apply a cutoff score: for men, six or better on the first, six or better on the second, and five or better on the third (add one stroke per hole for the women). Play skips the more difficult holes four through six and continues with seven, at which point sudden death kicks in. On seven and subsequent holes, elimination faces anyone not matching the low score until a winner emerges. The Play To call me not a golfer understates the case. Two rounds of nine holes on Nantucket back in my teens and a pitch and putt course once somewhere along the way join countless rounds of miniature golf. It showed. But not right away. 
After scrawling "TigerW" on my ball in day-glo Sharpie orange, I teed off in the latter half of the group of 40 or so having taken just a few practice swings, none with live ammunition.
My borrowed 4-iron effort on the 262 yard par 4 hole pleasantly surprised me--right side of the fairway, 130 or so yards from the pin.
Halfway there (picture at right shows the look back toward the tee following my first shot).
Play proceeds from the fairway and rough with the person farthest from the hole shooting first. My turn came and I stuck my now-trusty 4-iron shot just in front of the bunker guarding the green. A little luck and I'd be on in three, giving me a three-putt to advance to the second tee. Pitching wedge time. 
Regression to the mean time.
I lined (not lofted) my third shot just over the lip of the bunker and across to the far side of the green (picture at right shows my view of the green in advance of my pitch). Still, I was on. 
Once everyone made it on to the green, the shot order flipped: closest to the hole goes first.
The wait gave me a lot of time to ponder my shot.
More importantly, my position gave me several chances to gauge the break of the green (my ball being the closest to the foreground in the image at near right; Betsy shoots at far right).
I judged the pace correctly, but even with the advance intelligence, not the break. Even so, I ended up a mere two feet to the right of the hole and drained my next shot for a bogey 5 and a stroke to spare in the "six or sit" format. 
I unexpectedly joined an estimated half the original field to tee of on the second.
My second drive (surprise: 4-iron) gained me reasonable distance, but off in the rough to the left.
Unfortunately, the pin lay not only distant on the ~300 yard hole, but directly in line with a tree (see picture at right).
My intent to just clear its moderate girth gave way to my abiliity--my muff of perhaps 30 yards at least found the center of the fairway.
Two strokes down, four to go to stay in the hunt at the third tee.
Sadly, my third attempt failed to live up to even the thin quality of my second--I sliced a grounder at an angle of perhaps 80 degrees to my intended direction.
Fortunately, I narrowly missed a half dozen of my fellow competitors on my way to the right rough.
At this point, yet another tree directly in my path (see right), any chance of making the cut lay in my rear view mirror.
In short, time to bring out the big gun. To this point, I'd only unsheathed the 4-iron, a doubly-borrowed pitching wedge, and the putter. My bag also contained a masssive-headed club inexplicably marked "5." Out it came. Apparently, it required calibration. Following a mighty swing, shot 4 slid under the tree to stop 30 yards ahead. A duplicate swing and shot 5 dribbled ahead another 15. 
Down to my final shot, the hole lay an impossibly long distance away.
I addressed the ball.
(Whatever that means.)
I waggled my hips.
(Elvis would have been proud if not jealous.)
I wound up.
(The PGA has nothing to fear.)
"Grip it and rip it," the saying goes, and I let fly.
"Wow" indeed.
I crushed the shot, carrying the ball with distance (but just a shade too little accuracy) to the left side of the green as bounded by a split rail fence.
Perhaps I imagined it, but I vaguely sensed a carom left off the fence.
A good walk later, closer inspection revealed in that direction the ravine pictured at right.
The best shot of my past and no doubt future golfing career. I never did find the ball. |