Talk Story
On the golf course,
as in religion, miracles
sometimes happenTALKING about golf is like discussing religion. Both are subjects of intense personal interest, commitment and concern -- but please spare us, right? Once in a while, however, something happens on the golf course that's almost miraculous.
For example, years ago I was on the sixth hole of a par four on Maryland's eastern shore, a 380-yard dogleg to the right around a pond. I hit a great tee shot, a curving, left-to-right fade of at least 260 yards.
At almost at the same instant, an osprey dove into the lake and nabbed a frisky brown trout. As we set off to find our balls, the fish hawk flapped and wrestled with its catch above the fairway. It was interesting -- especially when the fish escaped and fell to the ground -- but we were concentrating on our upcoming approach shots, not the wildlife.
I paused a couple of times to wait for my playing partners to hit and finally reached my ball. Although it was in the middle of the fairway, it wasn't in what's called a "good lie," an easy-to-hit position.
The fish, still gasping and twitching, had landed right on top of it. I've been unable to find anything in the Royal and Ancient Rules of Golf that addresses how to handle a fishy lie like that one.
The trout was still alive, so I couldn't remove it as an obstruction, which is, under the Rules, "anything artificial." At an all-too-genuine 12 inches, it was also too big to just whack with the hope of advancing the ball. It was too stunned to get off the ball on its own. What to do?
GOLFERS inevitably face such questions. At Olomana Golf Links two weeks ago, a twosome was on the 12th hole. Both hit decent approach shots but when they walked up the hill there was only one ball on the green.
Let's call the players Tom and John. Tom used to be a surfer, but now he's a contractor who sets his own hours and has become a regular twilight golfer. He's spare and lean, with a scratch handicap, or close to it. John doesn't get out as frequently. If he'd played football, he'd have been on the line, not in the backfield -- a strong and substantial specimen. The missing ball was his.
After scanning the rough around the Cook's pines next to the green, John decided his ball had bounced out of bounds. He was going to declare it lost, take a two-stroke penalty, drop a new ball and chip onto the green.
Tom looked up into the smallest tree -- about a 25-footer -- and saw a ball. "Wait," he said.
It was nestled in a branch about 12 feet up. John had his pitching wedge, but the ball was out of reach. So he threw the club to knock it loose.
The club went up. The ball stayed in the tree. So did John's wedge.
A two-stroke penalty for a lost ball was no longer at issue. There was a $50 golf club in the tree. John went to his bag and got his putter.
SOON, there was a $2 golf ball, a $50 wedge and a $90 putter in the spindly pine tree. John tried again -- this time with a rake from the nearby greenside bunker.
With two golf clubs, a ball and a rake in the tree, it was time to start climbing.
As the foursome behind them hit to the green, John began his ascent. Cook's pines are hard to climb because the branches grow in layers every 18 inches or so like the spokes of a wheel. There's no opening between the branches to squeeze through.
A pile of tree limbs began to collect at the base of the tree as John pulled his 200-plus pounds up the trunk, clearing an opening as he went. Ten feet up, a branch snapped under his weight and he was back on the ground.
Tom had stayed on the sidelines, but as the next foursome arrived at the green there was a danger he'd have to let them play through.
Moreover, the Rules allow only five minutes to find and identify a ball. So, with John giving him a boost, Tom went up the tree, squeezed through a narrow opening and knocked everything -- ball, putter, wedge and rake -- to the ground.
John dropped his ball, took a one-stroke penalty and chipped onto the green. He and Tom putted out and headed to the 13th tee.
According to the Rules of Golf, the penalty was for an unplayable lie. Unplayable and unbelievable.
John Flanagan is the Star-Bulletin's contributing editor.
He can be reached at: jflanagan@starbulletin.com.