Everyone should have a hero. You need someone to aspire to, someone to look up to.
Mine is Ernie Els. If you have nothing better to do than watch the Masters (like me), you know that veteran golfer Els six-putted the first hole at Augusta National on Thursday. His explanation? “Snakes in the head.” He shot nine for the first hole, the highest in 80 years.
On Friday, Els beaned an audience member. Sure, Masters leader Jordan Spieth blew a lead on the final nine holes, but even he didn’t six-putt a green.
I have always considered myself the World’s Worst Golfer, as well as the World’s Worst Skier. Anyone worse than I in either endeavor would never set foot on a golf course or place a ski boot on a mountain.
But even I have never six-putted a green, for a simple reason. I hardly ever keep score, so I take one, maybe two shots at the hole, when and if I reach the green. Then I pick up the ball and move on.
I have my pride.
The very first time I teed off on a real golf course (miniature golf doesn’t count) I slammed the ball mightily and sent it sideways toward the clubhouse where hundreds (well, a couple) were watching. I never got over it.
I developed an aggressively casual approach to the game, where one club was pretty much the same as the other. I have been guilty of putting with a sand wedge. It never makes much difference. I bought my clubs a decade ago and some of them still have the cellophane around them. On a windy day on the course, I can hear that cellophane flapping, mocking me.
A reasonable person might inquire why I golf at all. But if you have arrived at a golf club at sunup and teed up for that first drive, you would understand. At least once on every nine holes (that is enough) you hit a perfect shot that feels good from your socks to your hair. The next one might go into the brook, but that one perfect shot will keep you going.
Oh, I am better now, after 50 years of dubbing around the course. I used to bring 10 balls, then quit when they were gone … usually around the third hole. Now I often finish those nine holes with the same ball, a distinct triumph. My lasting problem is I hit grounders, all day long. I have no idea how those pros at the Masters hit those majestic, arcing shots. I hate them.
Plus, if you start at 7 a.m. you can be drinking a beer by 10 a.m. without scorn. If you are drinking beer at the Pickled Parrot at 10 a.m., you are an alcoholic. Sorry. But if you are drinking at the Rivard Country Club in Florida, you are a golfer.
Some people at Rivard take a cold six pack for the first nine holes, and then pick up another at the “turn” for the back nine. I couldn’t even hit the ball after a few beers. I once tried to ski after a lunchtime beer at Sugarloaf and fell all over the mountain. No can do.
But that first beer after nine sweaty holes is the Best of the Year, even at 10 a.m.
Back to our boy Els. He recovered enough to shoot eight-over par for the rest of the course, but did not make the cut. You think that’s bad? Golfer Tom Weiskopf once shot 13 on the Master’s 12th hole.
Thirteen!
Let’s not feel sorry for Els. He made $27,200 at the Houston Open on March 31. He has earned over $48 million on the golf course. That doesn’t count endorsements.
How are you doin’?
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the Bangor Daily News in Rockland for 30 years.