The Nineteenth Hole Lament
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
Fore score and seven strokes ago I left the ninth tee. Since then I have seen the wonders of the water hazard, the grim depths of the rough, and suffered the empty wastes of the seven deadly sand traps. Surely the pro-shop has a club that can hit straight, there must be a ball that is not addicted to rolling in the wastes or swimming in the depths.
Do not say there is no caddy who can choose the right club, for I have seen those who bring about the perfect shot. Do not say that there is no pro who can not teach the perfect form, for I have known duffers who have broken par. Do not say there are no perfect gloves, for I have seen the worst slice transformed into the perfect drive.
Oh why must I get the crooked tee that my drives land on the ground in a mere one hundred yards. Why must all my shots land behind the only tree on the fairway? Have I transgressed against the gods, that the only time my ball rolls is when there is a lake in front of it? Is it some cosmic law that my clubs are always warped? That any shot that sails gracefully through the air slices elegantly into the rough.
Yea, though I walk unprotected into the valley of the shadow of bogie I shall fear not, for I have seen the distant spires of the nineteenth hole. Though I brave the darkest deeps of the rough I shall fear no evil, for I know the ways of the jungle. Indeed, the deepest depths of the water hazard and the strange creatures that dwell in its dim recesses are naught to me and my eternal quest to break one hundred. The searing light of the sand trap withers me to a mummy, yet I forge bravely on.
At the last, the endless acres of grasslands of the green, with its distant waving flag appears. Here I pursue an aimless wandering course as my ball, terrified of the darkness within the hole, steadfastly refuses to approach until, in its confusion, it rests too close and I accidentally kick it in.
Now the time has come for the moment of greater truth as I add the drive, the three strokes in the rough, the four penalties in the water, and the twelve strokes in the sand. Three more penalties in the water (it looked easier to go back), eight more in the sand and at last six putts on the green. Discounting one or two for practice, and allowing for a free drop, that comes to six. Let us give thanks to the great Colonel Bogie for the gift of creative score-keeping.
Do not say there is no caddy who can choose the right club, for I have seen those who bring about the perfect shot. Do not say that there is no pro who can not teach the perfect form, for I have known duffers who have broken par. Do not say there are no perfect gloves, for I have seen the worst slice transformed into the perfect drive.
Oh why must I get the crooked tee that my drives land on the ground in a mere one hundred yards. Why must all my shots land behind the only tree on the fairway? Have I transgressed against the gods, that the only time my ball rolls is when there is a lake in front of it? Is it some cosmic law that my clubs are always warped? That any shot that sails gracefully through the air slices elegantly into the rough.
Yea, though I walk unprotected into the valley of the shadow of bogie I shall fear not, for I have seen the distant spires of the nineteenth hole. Though I brave the darkest deeps of the rough I shall fear no evil, for I know the ways of the jungle. Indeed, the deepest depths of the water hazard and the strange creatures that dwell in its dim recesses are naught to me and my eternal quest to break one hundred. The searing light of the sand trap withers me to a mummy, yet I forge bravely on.
At the last, the endless acres of grasslands of the green, with its distant waving flag appears. Here I pursue an aimless wandering course as my ball, terrified of the darkness within the hole, steadfastly refuses to approach until, in its confusion, it rests too close and I accidentally kick it in.
Now the time has come for the moment of greater truth as I add the drive, the three strokes in the rough, the four penalties in the water, and the twelve strokes in the sand. Three more penalties in the water (it looked easier to go back), eight more in the sand and at last six putts on the green. Discounting one or two for practice, and allowing for a free drop, that comes to six. Let us give thanks to the great Colonel Bogie for the gift of creative score-keeping.
