This term was originally coined by Theodore Roosevelt to describe how he would preach and rally people around big ideas. “Bully” actually meant “first-rate” or “superb” in those days. In today’s slang, a “Bully” is an aggressor who threatens or intimidates. I think both of these definitions are applicable because I played the pristine Pulpit Paintbrush Course today and had my lunch money taken.
Originally known as Devil’s Paintbrush and designed by Dr. Michael Hurdzan and Dana Fry, this course is a Scottish Heathland track featuring rolling terrain, wrist-cracking native grasses, aggravating green roll-offs, and very annoying, often hidden pot bunkers. I think the reader can see where I’m going here. It is a fantastic layout wrapped by stunningly beautiful autumn colored trees and panoramic views of the Toronto skyline. In this respect, it reminded me of Baltusrol Upper where players are treated to splendid views of Manhattan.
After loosening up the full swing, I headed over to the practice green to warm up the one-handed chipping motion. I was concerned because I hit a variety of chunks, blades and drop kicks off the tight turf. No problem–I’ll just putt from off the greens. But as I scanned the horizon, I saw nothing but raised green complexes and cavernous hollows that would decline that option. That’s ok–I’ll just ball-strike this place into submission. But there was a freshening breeze as the previous night’s storm blew through. Before I could come up with another strategy, we were called to the first tee. And The Paintbrush was about to drop the gloves and pull my jersey over my head. Let the record show the beating began at 9:10am.
I started like I’ve started most of my rounds on the Where’s William Now adventure. With a very soft bogey off some very soft turf. I recovered with a couple easy pars to settle down. But then we moved to the 4th, which is a very reasonable 132 yard par 3. It was still a little chilly, the wind was in my face, and the flagstick was tucked in the left corner. As I choked up on my 8-iron and settled into my stance, I mumbled something about my skill in flighting my irons. I’d shamelessly bragged to Charles about a couple of wind shots I’d delivered at Plainfield last week, so this was the moment to walk the talk. I hit it solid, but it came out left. And as we’ve discussed many times on this journey, it’s difficult to play a golf course for the first time because you don’t really know where the trouble is. Well, let me confirm there is trouble left on the 4th at The Pulpit Paintbrush.
We found my ball at the bottom of a swale about 40 feet below the surface of the green. To make matters worse, it was a collection area that was filled with old divots (some sanded), broken turf, and soggy soil. I had about 10 feet and the recent memory of head butting multiple chips on the practice green to work with. I reluctantly brought the 60 degree but I knew there was no chance that was tool for the job. And it was too wet to putt. So I decided on a shot I have perhaps practiced for 5 minutes over the last few years. I removed the head cover from my 5 wood and surveyed the situation. Maybe I imagined it, but Charles’ facial expression spoke volumes. It was a combination of curiosity and concern–like he was about to watch something disturbing and chaotic. Unlike the flighted tee shot, I definitely delivered this time.
My first attempt crested the hill and returned to my feet. My second attempt was a carbon copy of the first. My third attempt got caught up in some longer grass and never had a chance. I considered picking up, but grabbed the 60 degree in a fit of rage and flipped it up to about 15 feet. I made the putt for my first triple bogey of the trip. Charles, again possibly imagined, had a smirk on his face as he rolled in his birdie. Later, when we relived it at lunch, Charles said that was too bad–too bad he didn’t have his camera rolling.
I reached 6 over par after 6 holes, but then I reminded myself of how I coach my sons when things aren’t going well for them. I call it “buckling the chin strap” or “biting down on the mouthpiece.” I recalibrated my scoring goal from breaking par to breaking 80. After a birdie barrage on the back nine, I recalibrated again to breaking 75. And that’s where I finished–playing the last 12 holes in 3 under par. But no one is going to remember the back to back tap-ins at the 15th and 16th. The memorial plaque will forever honor the stabbed 5 woods from the left of #4.
Charles, Sera, and I head north tomorrow to Rocky Crest Golf Club. I hope there’s more cushion around the greens for me there.
