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THE PERFECT GOLF SHOT |
 "The fallout from Fred's shot transcended the game......" |
They say the 'miracle shot' couldn't happen again,
but can we ever really be sure.....?
of TheColumnists.com
I will always remember the shot that Fred Johnson made at the Conway Golf Club, a sand wedge from deep rough that will stay in memory not so much because of the long odds of holing the ball but because of what nearly happened afterward.
The fallout from Fred's shot transcended the game. Our foursome had played together for nearly 10 years--Sunday mornings, rain or shine--and his shot tested our relationship. Looking back, I now know the moment took us to a pivotal point. We became like travelers at a crossroads.
I had driven to the club to play with the usual group: There was Jerry, a restaurant owner; Carl, an insurance agent; and Don, a lawyer. Don could not make it that day. And that changed everything.
The starter assigned us a single named Fred--a tiny, rumpled, older gentleman. Nobody had played with him before. He had a hangdog face, a slouch and a perpetual frown--a minature version of the late actor Walter Mathau. He became my partner and, to be sociable, he agreed to join us in our regular Nassau bet. We bet $10 for the low score on the front nine, $10 for the back nine, and $10 for the over-all. So the most you could lose was $30.
I hated to gamble. But Jerry would not play unless there was a wager. Whenever I balked, he said only a modest sum was at stake. He said it cut short the chit-chat and made us focus on the game.
That was all right with Fred. He turned out to be on the taciturn side. As we rolled along in our golf cart, I tried to strike up a conversation. But I could not draw him out. I did learn that he was in his late 60s and that he was retired and lived in Florida in the winter. He also told me that he played to a nine-handicap. That made him a little better than us.
Still, it was an even match, so close, in fact, that Fred and I were tied with Jerry and Carl as we went to the last tee. Suddenly, Jerry raised the ante. "Let's make it interesting," Jerry said. "You guys willing to double the bet?"
Fred seemed hesitant. He called me over and whispered that he could not cover the bet. I told him not to worry. I would stake him to it. "We're game," I told Jerry. I said it somewhat reluctantly, knowing that I now could lose both my bet and Fred's as well. That totaled $120.
Number 18 was a deceptive hole. It was a straight-ahead par four that measured only 366 yards. But woods and out-of-bounds stakes lined the left side and the hole rose uphill. Its biggest challenge though was its green. It was fast because it sloped sharply to a hole at its lowest point. The grain ran with the slope and that made the green even slicker. You were asking for trouble if you did not get your approach shot below the hole.
Our tee balls reached the fairway at just over 200 yards--except for Fred's which found deep rough bordering the woods. Jerry, Carl, and I put our second shots along the fringe of the green on the high side. We left ourselves lightning-fast downhill putts 30 to 40 feet long.
Fred had an even tougher lie. His ball lay half-buried in two inches of grass about 150 feet from the pin. And he was well above the hole. Once his pitch shot hit the green, it would pick up speed on every turn of its downhill run.
Despite the shot's difficulty, Fred did not seem nervous. He squinted as he gauged the distance, then pulled out a sand wedge and went straight to his ball. He took a slightly open stance. Without a practice swing, he lofted a soft pitch shot that landed on the edge of the rough--just enough to kill the shot.
The ball rolled lazily
onto the green, then started slowly down the slope toward the
hole. It was as if the ball had started from that spot. It took
its time inching along, never wavering in direction. As if pulled
by a magnet, the ball kept coming on and on until it dropped
into the hole.
The magnificence of his effort took us by surprise. There was
a silence, broken by applause and then shouts of "Great
Shot." It would have taken another miracle for Jerry and
Carl to tie us. As expected, they could not pull it off. In fact,
they were so flustered, they struck their putts far past the
hole and did well to finish in three putts.
We all shook hands, but Jerry was far from gracious in acknowledging
Fred's spectacular birdie. As he paid off his Nassau bet, Jerry
said: "Here's your money. But you were damn lucky."
Fred looked at him incredulously. "I think I could do it
again," he said in a tone of quiet assurance.
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Fred did not seem nervous." |
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Jerry rubbed his chin.
"You're hitting out of two inches of rough to a hole 150
feet away on the low side of a sloping green. I'd say your chances
are a thousand to one."
"That so?"
Fred said. "I hear you own a restaurant. If you think the
odds are that great, would you be willing to risk your place
on a second shot?"
Jerry did not answer right away. The remark gave him pause. Everyone at the club regarded Jerry as the ultiimate gambler. He stood ready to make a bet for the flimsiest of reasons. He especially liked to put opponents on the spot by ratcheting up wagers at critical points in a round. Now he was the target. Fred was challenging him.
I would not say that Jerry got cold feet. But he must have had second thoughts. The enormity of the bet almost certainly rose in his consciousnesss. He had put his life's work into his steak house. He had started from nothing and built it into the area's finest restaurant.
People came from miles around. The profits put his kids through college. His success had given him and his wife a weekend beach house, a Mercedes and a Porsche, vacations in Europe, and cruises in the Mediterranean and Caribbean.
On the other hand, his reputation as a fearless gambler was on the line. That tipped the scales. After a slight hesitation, he smiled and said he would be glad to put up his restaurant. To add emphasis to his offer, he wrote the bet on the back of the scorecard, signed it, and gave it to Fred.
Fred started walking to his ball. Of course, his chance of dropping that shot was enormous. The odds of scoring a hole-in-one are something like 14,000 to one. This shot, because it started in the rough--making control of the ball problematical--had to be every bit as difficult. Still, as he watched Fred, Jerry began to have some sobering thoughts. Redness flushed his face. Blood vessels showed in his neck.
"Wait a second," Jerry called out. "You've got to put something down, too."
Fred turned around. "Something down? Like what?"
"I'm putting up my restaurant. Okay. But you've got to put down some money for the chance to repeat the shot."
Fred mulled over the challenge. Jerry had a point. "How much?"
"I figured the chance of your making the shot again as 1,000 to one. Okay. Let's say you put up $1,000."
Jerry obviously thought the money would be the deal breaker. He doubted Fred would try the shot with that much at stake. At first, Fred said nothing. The redness disappeared from Jerry's features. Blood vessels vanished from his neck. He started toward his cart.
"Hold it," Fred said. "You know I just got a tax return for $1,000 in the mail today. I haven't cashed the check. So if I try the shot and miss, I really won't lose anything. We got a bet."
The redness returned to Jerry's face. Blue veins reappeared in his neck. What was he letting himself in for? It was almost impossible for the old man to repeat that miracle shot. But suppose he did, what would Jerry do? What would he tell his wife? How could he get on with his life? Jerry's eyes followed Fred as he turned and walked out into the rough.
We waited just off the green. It was almost five o'clock. The course was empty. The afternoon sun was low on the horizon. Out beyond the club house, we could hear the drone of cars on a faraway highway.
The ball took off on the same lazy arc as the first shot. It flopped on the edge of the rough, then settled onto the green. It was another good effort. Only this time, the trajectory was slightly off. It looked as if the ball was going to roll wide of the hole by a foot or two.
Then, as it made its way down the sloping green, something weird happened. It hit a spike mark. The tiny collision changed its course just enough to modify its direction. As the ball gathered speed, it began turning toward the hole. On it came, on, on, on until we heard the resounding "plop" as it hit the bottom of the cup.
Jerry did not go home that night. I have no idea what words he used when he broke the news to his wife. To nobody's surprise, she was beside herself. She could not believe Jerry could have been so foolhardy. She reminded him that by rights as his wife, she owned half the restaurant. He had never consulted her. The whole affair, she said, was unspeakably revolting.
Their marriage barely lasted another month. Jerry said it was already coming undone. No one at the club believed that.
Jerry attempted a settlement, offering to pay Fred $1,000. But Fred held Jerry to the provisions of the bet. He wanted the restaurant, and, in the end, the matter wound up in court. I had to testify. So did Carl.
The key bit of evidence
came when Fred produced the signed scorecard on which Jerry had
written the wager. The verdict went against Jerry. He left the
area soon afterward. His departure marked the end of our foursome.
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low and hard." |
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Jerry rubbed his chin. "You're hitting out of two inches of rough to a hole 150 feet away on the low side of a sloping green. I'd say your chances are a thousand to one."
"That so?" Fred said. "I hear you own a restaurant. If you think the odds are that great, would you be willing to risk your place on a second shot?"
Jerry said he would but only if Fred put up $1,000. Fred threw up his hands and started to put his sand wedge away. It looked like the bet was off.
Then, something unexpected happened. Carl came forward. He remembered that he had once holed a chip shot from the fringe, and, when challenged, repeated it. It was only a 25-footer from a level lie. But he also recalled that some golfers dropped a second ball after scoring a hole-in-one and he read stories reporting how a few had duplicated the feat.
Carl said he would cover the bet. He said he had just won $1,000 playing blackjack at a casino last night. His wife would only spend the money anyway if he brought it home. Carl's covering the wager meant that Fred got a chance to hit another shot, and, if he made it, Carl would get the restaurant.
Jerry shook his head. He was stunned to see that his longtime friend was not letting him out of a sticky situation. But he pretended there were other reasons for Carl to stay out of it. "I don't know," Jerry said. "Suppose your wife found out you won $1,000 and then threw it away on a bet?"
"Listen, Jerry, I'm a big boy. Besides, what she doesn't know, won't hurt her. If Fred misses, we'll keep what happens today in our foursome. I know how long the odds are. But I've got those same kind of vibes I had last night at the casino. I think he might make it again."
Joe reluctantly agreed, and Fred trudged back out to the rough. He dropped his ball. Again, he sized up the distance, positioned himself, drew back his wedge slowly, and struck the ball.
This time, the high grass grabbed his clubhead, twisting it so that he hit the ball on a sharp angle. The ball shot out of the rough low and hard. It streaked across the green, missing the pin by at least ten feet. It kept going past the fringe, and ploughed 25 feet into the rough on the far side of the hole.
Carl took out a wad of cash and peeled off ten $100 bills. Jerry said he would not take the money. He told Carl to forget it. It was a sucker bet. The feat was virtually impossible. Carl would not be deterred. A bet was a bet. This was different, Jerry said. Too much was involved, and they were old friends. Carl wouldn't be dissuaded. He talked about honor among thieves, or something like that. In the end, he put the money in Jerry's bag and walked off.
Things were never quite the same. Even though nothing was said, Jerry could never forgive Carl for allowing the bet to go forward. Carl was ashamed that he had jeopardized their friendship for the chance, however remote, of winning Jerry's restaurant.
Jerry and I kept quiet about the incident. But we couldn't control what Fred did. When Carl's wife heard about it, things started turning sour. She berated Carl not only for the money he lost but for his lack of interest in his home and children. She scolded him about the time he was putting in on golf, how it was taking over his life, changing his priorities.
The incident did not break
up their marriage. But Carl's golf game deteriorated. So
did his interest in our foursome. His started canceling his weekly
round. Within two months, he stopped playing golf altogether.
We never saw him at the club again.
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of the pole into the hole." |
Jerry rubbed his chin. "You're hitting out of two inches of rough to a hole 150 feet away on the low side of a sloping green. I'd say your chances are a thousand to one."
"That so?" Fred said. "I hear you own a restaurant. If you think the odds are that great, would you be willing to risk your place on a second shot?"
Jerry said he would. But then, after thinking about it, he insisted that Fred put up $1,000 for his part of the wager. That was too much for Fred. He started walking away. Then, Carl surprised us. He said he would pick up the wager. Jerry tried to get him to change his mind. But nothing he said could dissuade Carl.
Fred started walking out to the rough to try to duplicate his miracle shot, and as I stood next to Jerry and Fred on the edge of the green, I saw only trouble ahead. It was a no-win situation. Somebody was going to get hurt.
Fred was almost certain
to miss the shot, but that would leave Carl owing $1,000.
On the other hand, if Fred pulled off a double miracle and made
the shot, Jerry stood to lose his restaurant. Even if Carl told
Jerry to forget the wager, their relationship would be severely
strained.
Fred sized up the shot. As he addressed the ball, I ran out on the green. "Hold it," I said. "This is ridiculous. Somebody's going to be hurting when this is over. Let's scrap the whole thing."
Jerry and Carl would not back off. "Stay the hell out of it," Jerry said.
"Look," I said, "if you want Fred to try to make the shot again, that's fine. But let's keep it a sporting thing. Let's cancel the bet."
"You're not involved," Carl said. "Shut up and get out of the way."
The situation was heating up. But I was determined. I was not going to stand by and see it develop into a disaster. I put myself between the pin and Fred. My body became a barrier blocking his shot.
"I'm not going to move," I said. "I'm going to stand right here in front of the pin. You'll have to drag me away."
That gave Jerry and Carl pause. They did not know how to react to my maneuver. They could remove me physically. But that would be unseemly. Golf was still a gentleman's game. There had never been a fight at our club. They stood there without answering.
"Make up your minds,
guys," Fred shouted. He was out of the bet now. He could
care less about who won. But he was not going to stand over the
ball much longer.
Jerry and Carl were still silent.
"Tell you what," I said. "I'll step away. But only on one condition. Before the ball hits the green, either one of you can cancel the bit. You just have to call out, 'Bet's off.' That ends it."
Jerry and Carl looked at each other. That gave them a way out. Neither one could be accused of being a wimp. I was the one--not they--who came up with the bail-out idea.
"Okay," they said almost at the same time. I stepped away.
From his lie in the rough, Fred checked the distance. A breeze ruffled his pant legs. He paused to let the wind die. Then, he moved over the ball, and, without a practice stroke, took a slow back swing and stroked the ball.
It went high and straight. But he hit the ball a bit too firmly. It flew over the rough and started its descent over the green. That meant it would not have the deadening effect of landing in the high grass. Even if it were on target, its roll would almost certainly be too fast to hold the cup.
Carl saw this and knew
that his $1,000 was all but gone. He exercised his option.
"Bet's off," he hollered as the ball started down.
You could see the signs of tenseness leave his face and Jerry's
face as well.
They watched the ball land in the middle of the green. Then, something unexpected happened. Instead of rolling, the ball took a huge bounce. The bounce carried it high in the air in the direction of the pin. It hit the stick about three-quarters of the way up, made a clunking sound, then ran straight down the length of the pole into the hole.
The enormity of the shot stunned everyone. We stood without moving. Suddenly, Fred started laughing. So did Carl and Jerry. Fred walked to the green and Carl and Jerry ran over and hugged him. "You old scoundrel," Jerry said. Carl said: "How the devil did you pull that off?" Fred's eyes misted over and so did Carl's and Jerry's.
We all had beers in the club house and paid for drinks for everyone else. Carl told the story to the pro--leaving out the part about the bet. Jerry repeated the account to anyone who would listen. Someone called the local paper, and the sports editor wrote a column on the feat.
Fred, who few people had known up to now, became a local hero. A few weeks later, Don, the fourth man in our Sunday group, bowed out permanently because his law practice had grown much larger. We asked Fred to take his place. And he did.
Fred never made another miracle shot. But to go along with his newfound notoriety, he changed his appearance. He stopped looking as if he slept in his clothes. He took to wearing plus-fours and became one of the club's most stylish dressers, but without airs or affectation. We asked him to become a regular part of our foursome. And he did.
There were two other changes. We cut our Nassau bet down to three dollars--$1 for the front side, $1 for the back nine, and $1 for the over-all. And Jerry stopped goading his opponents to put up extra money at key points in a round.
And there was a footnote. Jerry never thanked me for blocking the hole that fateful day or for coming up with the bail-out idea. But from then on whenever my wife and I ate in his restaurant, we never got a bill.
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was inspired by a miracle shot by one of his golfing partners. It's one of 21 of his stories in an upcoming book-length collection, "Games of Life." |
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