“You finished 19th again,” said K-taak, “not even on the first page of the standings.”
“Gimmeanotherdoublecognac, prosim!” I signaled the waiter . . . we still had to wait for the B-flight results . . . I may as well comfort myself.
It was as I had expected . . . shot 46-46=92, 5 strokes over my handicap . . . you have to shoot your handicap, I believe, to win a tournament. . .
Twice on #2 I had foozled from 70m out, with a wedge in my hand, after a huge downwind-drive, into the front bunker, making doube-bogey.
Twice on #4 I had foozled my approach so bad, it threw off my whole hole . . . twice I lipped out the doublebogey putt from 4 ft.
Twice I made a snowman after a par-3-par.
Twice I wedged into a greenside bunker on #7, once left and once right, and made double bogey there. . .
All day long my wedges had betrayed me, turning routine holes into escapades.
The last 5 holes were the grimmest grind I ever ground. Bogeys – not a sniff of a chance at par – from 4 to 8 ft, but I made everyone. The grimmest was #18, after I hooked into the fairway and the sidehill slope pushed my ball off into the woods. I found it just to be sure, then hiked back and hit another drive properly, up unto the crown of the hill. . .
“That’s the longest drive I ever saw on this hill!” exclaimed K-taak.
“Grrr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r” I grumbled.
I hit a 6 iron, as I had done in the front 9 . . . when I parred #9 for the 3rd time in a row. This time, it took the hook lie, and curved around the woods, rather than flying straight across the dogleg.
“That was a fantastic hook you hit!” exclaimed K-taak.
“Grrr-r-rr-r-r-r-r-r-r” I grumbled.
The sun was in my eyes after I hit my wedge to the green, 81m, uphill. I had no idea where it went. K-taak said nothing. I assumed it was in the bunker, but I found it 8 ft away from the pin on the lower tier of the green. . . I knew just what this putt would do. I made it, for my grim bogey, a virtual birdie. . . I will never eagle this hole, but now I know how to birdie it.
I went home and tucked into my
4th is much worse than 19th . . . . all those bad shots really eat at me. . . not winning the special prizes is bad, but not doing my best, is worse.