Part of the human condition is making mistakes and learning from them. In most cases, you can use these lessons to become a better person as you move through life. In rare cases, you get an immediate opportunity to erase the mistake and improve your outcome. In golf parlance, we call this a mulligan. And I was fortunate enough to be offered one at Winged Foot.
I am sure you’ve been on the first tee and witnessed some horrific opening tee shots. In most cases, the poor soul will be offered a shot at redemption and encouraged to pull a second ball from his pocket and try again. In my particular case, I had toured one of the finest courses in America, Winged Foot West, and tallied more putts than full swings over the course of my round. I didn’t just need a mulligan on the first tee–I needed a mulligan for an entire round.
Winged Foot East is much like its brother, but perhaps a bit nicer and more fun. West is a massive bully that will smack you and take your lunch money. East might apologize or crack a joke during the process, but he is still taking it. Visually, the courses are very similar, but the East is a little bit shorter, more tree lined, and the greens are trickier. Considering I had 43 putts on the flatter greens over at the West, my readers can probably imagine my concern on the “trickier greens” part of the previous sentence. But I had my trusty Odyssey Jailbird in the bag today–even though she still hadn’t forgiven me after I abandoned her on the tarmac at Heathrow. And wouldn’t you know it–due to the aeration process on the West–every practice putting green at Winged Foot was closed on this potential Day of Redemption.
My first birdie of the day came before the round began. I was playing with my two sons, who both mash it. Our host would be Ian, a flat-bellied 22 year old intern who is finishing up his PGA degree at Ferris State. When I saw the wrist fracturing lag he possessed on the driving range, I made the immediate (and emasculating) decision not to play the blue tees with these dudes. If this was a pickup basketball game, I was a slow footed, 12 inch vertical guy (which I am) and they were playing above the square.
I had invited the same two caddies that witnessed my beatdown by the West. I did this for a couple of reasons. First off, Randy. and A-Mac are great caddies and solid dudes. Besides the normal banter, Randy and I are of similar age and have had similar experiences in golf. A-Mac is a jovial Jamaican that has a penchant for nicknames like Captain and Pro. He even nicknamed my oldest son The Archer for his occasionally accurate iron shots. My second reason for the return invite was that I did not want to be a permanent part of Winged Foot lore as the “visiting pro” that whacked it 43 times with his putter. I needed to erase that nonsense and prove I could roll the rock.
I hit a nice opening tee shot and a slightly pulled 8 iron to about 30 feet at the first. The hole was cut in a bowl in the back right of the green. With no practice putts, I was being asked to trickle my first putt over a buried Volkswagen and stop it on the hood ornament. I had some adrenaline going early and I juiced it about 8 feet past the hole. This was the make or break moment–if I open with a three whip–here we go again. But my 2nd putt found bottom and I had a confidence boosting par. Randy gave me a nails read on #2 and I rolled in about a 20 footer for birdie. Then I hit perhaps my best putt of the week on #3 that just slid left at the end. The Jailbird had come to play.
Meanwhile, I am watching the three young bucks play a game with which I am not familiar–a game called bomb and gouge. Massive drives, cloud-seeding irons shots, cannon shot compression, and enormous chunks of turf flying in every direction. The young dudes just play a different game now. Everyone under 35 is long and full throttle. The three fingered knock-down 9 iron to a back right pin is no longer cool. Just gimme the lob wedge and throw me my divot.
The East demands good control off the tee, with doglegs curving in both directions and fairway bunkers bottling up traffic. Iron shots must have good distance control and directional accuracy because the greens are raised. And once you get to the green, the real work begins. Normally, in these conditions, I’m your huckleberry. I was a couple over thru 11, but was giving myself good looks on most of the holes. Then I had a five hole stretch where I spent some strokes. I jacked a three footer for birdie at the 12th, three putted the 13th for bogey, burned the edge at the 14th for another bogey, and left my par putt just short on 16. I was now 5-over par and on 80 watch.
The 17th, which Randy had informed me as we were playing the 12th, is a beast. It is a a very long par 3 with a thin sliver of green raised 10 feet above the surrounding turf. Although it has no bunkers, it is an extremely small target for a hole of this length. And of course, the pin was jammed about three paces from the back of the green. Ian almost ended his promising golf career by wiping a massive slice into the group in front of us on the 18th tee. Evidently, this group included one of the owners of the San Francisco 49ers. Tragedy was avoided fortunately, but my sons decided to wait until the coast was clear. They, being the polite young men that they are, then wiped their own long irons next to their host.
From the white tees, the 17th was still a beefy 193 yards into a stiff breeze, which we guessed was playing about 205. I reared back and hit my best 4-iron this year which never left the flag. The ball pitched about 4 inches from the hole, hit the flagstick, and stopped stone dead for a much needed birdie. I then parred the 18th for a respectable 76, in which I played 5 holes with the boys from the blues. Most importantly, I had improved my putting performance by 12, carding 31 putts for the day.
We are off to The Ridge at Back Brook in northwest New Jersey for an early round with my friend, Scott Franzblau. Thank you New York and everyone that joined us on this unbelievable four course rotation. The memories will last a lifetime!
