A wounded feline theme has emerged this golf season. First it was a fellow named Tiger, who ground out an historic US Open on a bad knee in June; then in July, twelve years of striving culminated with a recently repaired cat on top, as fan favorite, Rick “the Little Cat” Last emerged as champion in Arbuckle XII contested over two days at Hemlock Golf Course and the Manistee National Golf Resort.
Last had undergone knee surgery a mere ten weeks prior to this year’s event. His participation was questionable as recently as the practice eighteen in Big Rapids before the next day’s opening round in Ludington; yet with jaw set and resolution written all over a face that even Greg Norman would have to admire, Last set forth on his annual quest for Dovel grail.
This year he finally broke through; holding off determined challenges from the competition to emerge with a convincing five stroke win and his name on the Cup for the first time. All were pleased with the end result.
Normally, a win after such a long dry spell would be the extent of any reporter’s take on the tournament, yet this year’s doubles match included a bizarre occurrence that must be recorded for posterity.
Arbuckle doubles matches are contested in a scramble format and generally produce a tight match; this year’s match though was the tightest of all and might have been the closest doubles match in the very old and venerable history of golf, here’s why:
For the third year in a row, the teams were Braun-Pesick vs. Last-Straus and as has become the custom, Last and Straus streaked out to an early lead, somehow though Braun and Pesick found a way to hang in there; sinking a 40 foot putt and chipping in from way off the green to save two back nine holes among other acts of heroism.
As the light was waning, the teams came to the eighteenth hole on the Cutter’s Ridge course all square. After a pair of indifferent tee shots, the very tired teams found themselves facing difficult shots into a long narrow green that was guarded along the right by a creek and on the left by a steeply sloping hillside, that unbeknownst to the competitors was almost marshy in its consistency. Pesick hit first from about 200 yards and propelled a fine shot into the gloaming along the safer left side, figuring that his shot would probably fall down toward the green. Last hit next from about 160.
It’s important to note that by this time, 36 holes into a very long day, the Little Cat was worn out. Having lost innumerable balls to the courses barrancas, marshes and ponds, Last was down to his last ball, a dainty little lavender number that he affectionately was calling “Pinky”. The Cat’s shot also headed a bit left but was clearly a clutch shot that seemed destined to at least match Pesick’s shot-making. Little did the players know…
Last and Straus were first to arrive at the green and off they set to find “Pinky”. Straus saw it first, nestled in very deep and thick grass on the hillside, but there was something odd about it. Upon closer examination, it became clear that “Pinky” had come to rest on top of Pesick’s ball which had embedded in the hillside. None of the competitors had ever seen anything like it. Can a match be any closer than one ball on top of the other? Has this ever happened before? Probably it has, but then again, golf history could have been made.
Saner souls would have immediately declared the match a draw at that point, but a series of poor chips and missed putts rendered the final shots moot anyway and the match ended in a most appropriate draw.
By Gregory C. Jones
Published:
Once a year I play a round of golf with my three oldest pals, the only lifelong friends I have.
We played junior high football and drove cross-country together. We were groomsmen at one another's weddings. A few years ago we almost literally killed each other during an oncourse argument.
"That's my ball in the fairway!" one of my buddies shouted.
"But you're playing Maxfli," replied another.
"No, I'm playing Precept!"
"But I'm playing Precept!!"
It caused us to reevaluate our friendship and got me started writing a play about four buddies who wonder why they still get together to play.
The plot goes to the primal heart of the sport, which is what makes golf so dramatic to start with. It's a dangerous combination: men with years' worth of grudges and metal weapons in remote forests with few witnesses.
What other game could conjure such drama?
Sure, a free throw or field goal to win the game can tighten the throat, and the bottom of the ninth or the final lap can rile the stomach acids, but every shot in a round of golf can cut a 41.4-inch hole down to one's essence. It places an unmatched level of pressure on the player; there are no refs, teammates or coaches to blame, no early exit to the dugout, no helmet or windshield to hide behind. The scrutiny can force people into revealing extremely personal, often ugly, character traits.
Remember when Woody Austin attacked a putter with his own head? When Davis Love III smashed a sprinkler head with his club? Or when Sergio spit into a cup after missing a putt?
Golf's truth serum causes even more unpredictable reactions from amateurs. I was 10 years old the first time I played with my dad. It took only two holes for me to realize that this mild-mannered M.D. was one angry s.o.b. (I learned the term "self-loathing" later. from a golfer.)
My friends and I live thousands of miles away from one another, we have less and less in common with each passing year, and, despite our attachment, all we seem to do is argue.
When we play, the nostalgic niceties fall away by the time we reach the 1st green. We remain fathers and husbands with respectable careers, but on the course the bullies, whiners, wiseacres and idiots who live within us come bubbling to the surface.
Why do we do it? Five years worth of rewrites later, I'm still searching for that answer.
Maybe it's because now that we've shared these hidden sides of our personalities, facets that even our wives haven't seen, we feel bound together. We're more and more different from one another, but despite the years and distances, golf has made us closer than ever.
Maybe I'll get some more answers when my play, Men with Clubs, which I finally finished, has its premiere. The guys are flying in to see themselves up on stage.
I made a tee time for the following day.
Jones's Men with Clubs premieres at the HotCity Theatre in
