A Test of patience on a windy day.

                       A test of patience on a windy day

                   It was a lovely, late April day in Southwest Florida. We had been to the gym and the library earlier in the morning. A stop at the Old Survey Café, in Bonita Springs for breakfast, had made for an enjoyable morning.

Our golf club had been closed for the day. Spring Run Golf Club members had generously agreed to let the PGA hold one of its PAT contests. (Professional aptitude test) on the course. Aspirants, for membership in the PGA, in addition to passing a detailed written test, had to shoot two rounds of golf, with a total score no more than 157 strokes. To those not familiar with the vernacular, this means a 77 and a 78 score on the course. That is pretty fancy golf for players, most of whom had never laid eyes on the course before.

We stopped by the Pro shop and chatted with head professional Jeff Carter, who had made all of the arrangements for the tourney. I mentioned that “There were a lot of hopes and dreams out there today.” Jeff nodded sagely. He too had climbed that difficult ladder, as a youngster, on the way to earning his professional PGA card. He knew how difficult the road was and how much these youngsters had on the line. Most of them were tall, impossibly slim and possessed of good manners, courtesy and a sunny smile, that would help them weather whatever storm they encountered that day. Many would need that inner resolve to get them through this trial in the afternoon sun.

Mary and I sat on the clubhouse veranda and watched a series of these hardy aspirants launch their spherical, surlyn-covered missiles, down the length of the ninth fairway, onto a small green surrounded by sand. In addition to the sand traps, the entire length of the right side of the hole is a water hazard. And, midway down that length is a sand and gravel patch of coquina, that is pure evil to try and hit a ball out of. It might look nice on the architectural rendering of a golf course architect, but anyone who has to play off of it roundly curses those who had anything to do with placing this silly obstruction in their path.

In that this was a windy day, several of the missiles were carried into their watery grave, much to the chagrin of the hopeful player. Some friends joined us in our small cheering section. We observed all levels of play during our two-hour watch. Many of these youngsters were down right impressive. The elastic, smooth perambulation of a high-arced swing in the afternoon sun was an exercise in physical exertion that we watched and admired. Many of these players will go on to become PGA professionals and teach others their craft. 

One young player, ensconced in the hated coquina, swung with the liquid fluidity of falling water and launched a surlyn-covered missile into a high, parabolic arc that screamed across the sky, vectoring in on the tiny expanse of green like a pre-programmed mortar shell. The ball struck the green, like a laser guided dart, and stuck still, some seven feet from the upright flag. The tiny gallery of Mary, myself and friends rose and clapped in adulation. That was a shot to remember. Maybe we will watch this lad on the PGA tour someday.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the clouds rolled in. Even a roll of thunder pealed across the sky. Players anxiously looked skyward. Any strike of lightening would end the match and their hopes for that day. They all wanted to finish and get off the course.

In one of the last few groupings, a player launched a mighty strike that carried his ball down the length of the right side of the hole, past the coquina patch and near the newly constructed rock wall of the water hazard. Unfortunately, the ball bounced from the earth and sank to a watery demise in the hazard. Still, it was possible to par out with some nifty shooting. It wasn’t to be. Perhaps the tensions of the day had worked on the player. He took relief and a penalty stroke and then launched his fourth shot towards the green. It caught the sand bunker on the left, front-side of the hole. It was bad, but not awful. He could still get it up and down for a double bogey. The other players in his group had played out, waiting patiently for the man to finish.

The fourth strike sailed across the green, landing in the front right-side bunker. Ouch ! From there, the man hit the ball back across the green into the original bunker. Oy vey. I think I would have already sailed my wedge into the air towards a watery grave. But not this intrepid player. He walked back across the green and launched his sixth shot. It caromed off the green to the top right side and embedded itself in the bushes. It was becoming hard to watch, a scene like that of reigning Master’s champion Sergio Garcia, who hit a thirteen, on a par five, of his second round at Augusta.

The group on the fairway was probably antsy as heck, but patiently they waited, portraits of professional courtesy. The errant duffer then launched his 8th or ninth shot (we were losing count) It ran back thirty yards into the fairway. This was becoming uncomfortable for all of us to watch. His tenth shot was a shank that ran 15 yards to his right. Even the good lord himself would have screamed in frustration. But this plucky lad did not. His eleventh shot finally found the green. Two putts later he found the hole. We cheered for him. It was reminiscent of the 18th hole scene in the movie "Tin Cup,” when the hero takes a thirteen on the final hole of the U.S. Open.

We had been cheering the lads on as they passed the veranda, with raised fists and words of encouragement. They all were of good temperament. One lad said he had missed the cut by a single stroke when his put lipped out on the final hole. He would be back and with assurance in some future PAT.

We didn’t really know what to say to the errant duffer whom we had just watched impale himself on the ninth green. But, as he rode by us, we smiled and waved. Gamely, he smiled back and said “Boy am I ever glad I am done with that hole.” Considering what he had just been through, we thought the lad showed admiral poise and aplomb. I hope he comes back someday and shoots a much better round. Perseverance like that needs to be rewarded.

                                                  - 30- 

                                        (1,145 words)

                                  Joseph Xavier Martin