Play by the Rules

Play by the Rules

by

Burt Sage

“My Doctor says I’d be a fool to try,” Grandpa says. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someone to fill in for me.”

That’s my Grandpa, Ed Haskell, founder of Ed Haskell Cadillac. He sprained his ankle three weeks ago and, at 85 years of age, the healing has been slow. The thing he would be a fool to try is playing in the Annual Chamber of Commerce four man best ball charity golf tournament scheduled in three weeks. In a four man best ball format each of the four golfers plays their own ball on each hole, but only the lowest score is recorded for each hole.

Every year for the last decade or so Ed Haskell Cadillac has fielded a team for this tournament. Our foursome has usually been Grandpa, my father Tom, my brother Tim, and myself. If we don’t win, we at least come in second or third. Over the years a rivalry of sorts has developed between our team and the Sinclair Chevrolet team. One of us has won the last six tournaments.

Preparing for this year’s tournament has been a real problem for us. We have always prided ourselves in fielding a team of only Haskell family members and Ed Haskell Cadillac employees. But this year my brother Tim is out on the PGA tour. So he won’t be playing—the tournament is for amateurs only. Fortunately, we have a new employee, Jerry Butler, who is learning the game very quickly. He’ll be a solid replacement for Tim. But we don’t have a good replacement for Grandpa.

“So, you’re definitely not playing?” I ask.

“Sorry,” Grandpa says. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Well, we’ve got to field a team,” I say. “We can’t withdraw and let Sinclair win by default. Any ideas?” I ask.

“There’s really only one choice,” Dad says. “Ernie Spencer.”

Grandpa and I groan.

“He carries a 4 handicap,” Dad says, optimistically. “At least that’s what the handicap database says.”

“I know what the database says,” I say. “But is it real? There’s a lot of rumors floating around that he doesn’t take the rules of golf seriously.”

“And he doesn’t play difficult courses,” Grandpa says.

“Course strength isn’t so much of a problem anymore,” I say. “The golf handicapping system now includes course rating and slope difficulty.”

“Maybe so,” Grandpa says, “But if what you enter isn’t right…”

Dad speaks up. “I don’t know that much about him. I have no reason to say yes or no. But we have to ask someone.”

“Why don’t I invite him for a round at Eagle Valley,” I say. “I can see for myself whether we want him on our team. After all, you can learn more about a man by playing 18 holes of golf with him than you can by working with him for a decade. And he’s hinted around that he would like to play the Eagle Valley course. It’ll be good to find out early if he’s what we’re looking for.”

“Good idea,” Dad says. “Go ahead.”

Ernie jumps at the chance. “That would be great,” he says. “And to do it on company time? What could be better.”

Right away I wince. “Do it on company time?” I think. “Is that really appropriate?” I guess that goes with the territory. Ernie is one of our sales guys. And a good one, too. Always makes quota. And his customers return to buy again. But there’s something about him that’s a little off-putting.

We arrive at the club an hour before our tee time so we can hit a few practice shots and get a feel for the speed of the greens. While we’re warming up I have to admit he’s got a good swing, plenty of club head speed, and good direction control. Maybe his four handicap is real.

The round of golf goes as I hoped it would, that is, I learn what I need to know about Ernie. As we ride the cart to my car to unload our clubs before turning in the cart, Ernie turns to me and asks, “Can we talk for a few minutes before we go back to work?”

“Of course,” I reply, surprised and pleased. I say to myself, “We definitely do need to talk.” But I say out loud, “We’ll grab a table on the patio and order something cool.”

Once settled, Ernie starts the conversation anxiously, “Phil, I need you to level with me. Just the honest truth. I need to know.”

This is not what I wanted to talk about, but it works for what I need to say. “What do you need to know, Ernie?”

“Phil, I’ve been a sales guy at Ed Haskell Cadillac for 12 years now. I don’t want to imply that I’ve been mistreated. In fact, I’ve been treated quite fairly. But I’m not going anywhere. It’s always the other guy that gets the promotion. It’s never me. Why, Phil. Why?”

“Gee, Ernie,” I say. “Are you sure I’m the right guy to ask? Shouldn’t you ask your Sales Manager?”

“I have,” Ernie says. “And all I get is, ‘Your time will come.’”

“It’s been that way for several years,” Ernie continues. “I’m not getting any younger, Phil. If I’m not going to move up in this company, then I need to start thinking about a change.”

I pause a few seconds, trying to phrase it the right way. Then I ask, “Can you take bad news?”

Stunned, Ernie slowly says, “I guess I have to.”

“OK,” I say. “I’ll tell you what I think. You have very low self esteem. And it comes from deceiving yourself. Sure, you’re always bright and sunny. But it’s not authentic. People can tell. And quite frankly, I think it partly stems from your approach to golf. You think of yourself and portray yourself as an excellent golfer. It’s what you want to be. It’s your self image. So you do a lot of little things that reinforce your self image. Like improving your lie. Like not counting penalty strokes. Like trying a putt until you make it and then claiming a score based on the putt you make, not the ones you missed. Your score card for today reads 74. Your actual score was at least 78.”

Ernie doesn’t say anything. But he’s actually listening to me, not shutting me out. So I continue.

“You think of yourself as an excellent golfer. But you’re not. An excellent golfer respects the rules of golf and learns to play well obeying the rules. You have no respect for the rules of golf. And it shows up as a lack of respect for yourself. That lack of self respect shows up in everything you do.”

“Sure, everybody lies to some extent,” I continue. “Most are little white lies so that someone’s feelings don’t get hurt. Those are kind of OK. But the worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves. The scores you wrote on your score card were wrong, and you knew they were wrong. You’ve been deceiving yourself. You can’t respect yourself when you know you’re lying.”

I pause again. “I’m sorry, Ernie,” I say. “You asked, no, urged me to tell you. This is just my opinion, and I may have been too rough. But I will tell it like I see it.”

Ernie doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Then, “That bad, eh?”

“I know you can’t see it,” I say. “But everyone you work with can. Ask yourself, ‘How many close friends do I have?’ Sure, you have lots of casual friends. But how many close ones. Who will drop everything to come to you if you need help? Not that many, right?”

Still more silence from Ernie.

“The good news is your problem is fixable,” I say.

Finally Ernie looks up and looks me straight in the eye. “How?” he asks, but there’s an edge to his voice.

“It starts right now with the most overused cliche of all time—‘today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ Just stop lying to yourself. Take ownership in what you do, both the good and the bad. We can start tomorrow with another round of golf if you like.”

“You’re willing to do that?” Ernie asks, surprised.

“Hey,” I say. “You didn’t hit me, did you? You brought the subject up. That means you’re willing to try.”

The next day we play another round. He’s trying, but it’s clear he doesn’t even know some of the most basic rules. I’m standing close by when he grounds his club in the sand before hitting a bunker shot.

“When’s the last time you looked at the rule book?” I ask.

“I haven’t actually ever read the rule book,” Ernie confesses.

“That’s obvious,” I say. “When you’re in a sand trap, you aren’t allowed to touch the sand with your club like you just did. Doing that will give you information about the texture of the sand that you’re not supposed to have. The penalty is two strokes.”

“Looks like I have some reading to do,” Ernie says. “Where can I get a rule book?”

“Here,” I say, reaching into my golf bag. “Take mine. I always have one with me in case something comes up where I need to know something about a rule. I have several more copies back at the house.”

“At least you’ve stopped improving your lie before you hit a shot,” I continue. “And you did take a penalty stroke when you went into the water on the last hole. You’re trying.”

When we finish the round, Ernie totals up his score. It’s an 81.

“How does that feel?” I ask. “That’s your actual score. You counted every stroke.”

“I feel like a beginner,” Ernie says. “So much to learn. I never thought I would feel good about shooting an 81 and admitting it. But I do.” And he’s looking me straight in the eyes, something he’s rarely done.

That evening at dinner, I say that I think Ernie will do just fine as a replacement for Grandpa in the upcoming tournament.

“Really?” Grandpa asks, oozing skepticism. “Why do you think that?”

“He knows what his problem is, and he’s working on it,” I say. And I go on to describe the several key moments of the last two rounds.

“He’s also reading the rule book, and he’s stopped the stupid stuff like lie improvement. He’s even counting penalty shots. And besides that, he hits the ball pretty well and he putts really well. He’s had four birdies in his last two rounds. He could easily contribute a couple in the tournament.”

Grandpa leans back. “Well, it’s not like we have a bunch of other options. If you say he’s worthy of being on a Haskell team, then he’s in.”

So it’s settled. I ask Ernie to be part of our team for the tournament and he’s delighted.

I play two more rounds with Ernie before the tournament. He shoots 78 and 80 with zero questionable episodes. He gets two birdies each round as well; my confidence that he will contribute a hole or two in the tournament increases.

And he does. In fact, all four of us have a good day. Jerry, of course, is our rock. He gets two birdies and saves par eight times. Dad gets a birdie and saves par twice. Ernie gets two birdies and a par save. I get a birdie and a save as well. All in all we post a clean 66, the lowest score in the history of the tournament. It’s going to be a lot of fun walking up to get the trophy as the Sinclair Chevy team looks on at the awards banquet.

We’re gathering at our table for the banquet, drinks in hand, when Ernie walks up. He looks like his world has imploded—head down, not looking at anyone. He plops in a vacant chair, sighs, and says “I’m sorry. We’ve been disqualified.”

“Whaaat?” all of us say. “Disqualified? How the hell did that happen?”

“I signed an incorrect scorecard,” Ernie admits. “That’s an automatic disqualification.”

“No way! We all signed it,” I say. “It was good,”

“It wasn’t,” Ernie said. “You know my birdie on 17, where my approach wound up just inches from the hole?”

“Who could forget that shot,” I say. “What about it.”

“It wasn’t my ball,” Ernie says. “Oh, I checked it before I hit it. Black Titleist 3. I was sure it was mine. I’d played the whole round with it. But it wasn’t, and I didn’t discover it wasn’t until I was putting my clubs in the car. The ball was in my pocket where I had placed it after we finished. As I was putting it into the ball pocket in my golf bag I noticed a mark on it. At first I thought it was a speck of dirt, but when I tried to wipe it off, it didn’t come off. When I looked more closely, I saw that one of the dimples had been blackened by something like a magic marker. Right in the center of one of the 3’s that Titleist puts on their balls. And it was the only mark on the ball. It must have been on the bottom of the ball as it lay in the fairway when I checked it before my shot. Clearly it wasn’t my ball.”

“I now had information that I wished I didn’t have,” Ernie continued. “But I had it. And there was only one thing I could do. To not do it would mean I would have to live the rest of my life knowing that the tournament trophy on my dresser wasn’t really mine.”

Silence. Stunned silence.

It was Dad who finally spoke. “I know exactly how you feel, Ernie,” He said. “About 20 years ago something similar happened to me. I was on the twelfth hole in a stroke play tournament playing really well when I discovered I had 15 clubs in my bag. I had purchased a new wedge and put it in my bag, but I had forgotten to take the old one out.”

“I could have finished the round and nobody would have ever known. But I would have known. I know what you mean when you say there was only one thing to do. I took the maximum 4 stroke penalty because I carried the extra club for more than two holes. It knocked me out of contention in the tournament.”

“The Sinclair boys will probably try to rub it in that we didn’t even come in third,’ Dad continued. “But they’ll also know that they weren’t the best team on the course today. We were.”

“C’mon, Ernie,” Dad says. “I’ll buy you a drink, and we can chat. I’ve seen you around for some time now, but I haven’t had the chance to get to know you. I’d like to change that.”