Six Feet, Uphill

Six Feet, Uphill

by

Burt Sage

I’m standing on the 18^th tee of the Eagle Hill Country Club. It’s the final round of our golf championship. It’s match play, and it’s down to two guys—me and Stan. We’re all even; whoever wins the next hole wins the championship.

We shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be me and Stan. It should be Tim and Frank. Stan and I are also-rans, like the horses in a horse race that don’t win, place, or show. But here we are.

As usual for these matches, a small group of spectators follow us around the course. There’s my family, Stan’s family, and some of the other golfers who lost their match earlier in the tournament. Frank is there, too. He’s a better golfer than me, but I beat him in the semi-final match. He had had one of those days when the wheels fall off. Every golfer has had one of those days. Nothing works. He didn’t make a putt over three feet all day. His makeable putts would either lip out or stop just short of the cup. I know he had expected to win this year, with Tim away. Tim had won the last three championships, and I know Frank would have sold his soul to win, to finally beat a Haskell. I kind of feel sorry for Frank, to have had one of those days when what he really wanted was on the line. But that’s golf. So he’s watching. Knowing him, I’m sure he’s rooting for Stan.

I’m surprised that I still have a chance to win. Stan was up two holes after the front nine, but he’s blown his lead. A ball in the water on Number 12 and a four footer just two inches short on Number 15 have gained back the two holes. Perhaps it was his fear of failure that caused him to falter. It’s his first championship, and he is playing against a Haskell, after all.

We Haskells have dominated golf at Eagle Hill for decades. Grandpa won the championship 10 times when he was in his prime. And dad is still playing to a 6 handicap. He has 8 wins to his credit, but failed to qualify for the match play finals this year. Tim, my younger brother, plays to a plus 3 handicap. He had easily won the last three club championships and most likely would have been in the finals this year. But two weeks ago he qualified for a Korn-Ferry tournament and made the cut. So he missed the club’s medal play qualifier to get into the match play rounds this year. Unfortunately, he didn’t make this week’s Korn-Ferry cut, and so he’s home to cheer me on. I play to a 4 handicap; I qualified easily.

With my par at 15, and the ties on 16 and 17, I still have the honors so I tee off first. It’s a long par 4. I need to find the fairway, and I do, about 145 yards to the green. Stan hits a good drive as well, and is in the fairway 155 yards from the green. Since he is away, he will hit first. As I walk down the fairway to my ball, the reality of the situation finally sinks in.

Sure, Stan is feeling the pressure, but I am feeling it more. The Haskell reputation is on the line. For the first time it’s up to me. In the past I’ve always been in the spectator group, cheering on either Tim or Dad. I would have either not qualified or lost in a quarter or semi-final match.

This time it’s different. The spotlight is on me, and I hate it. This is where I fail, when the prize is right there for the taking. The pressure always gets to me. As I walk to my ball in the fairway, I can feel the pressure building. Memories of the past keep popping into my mind. Memories of the times in high school when winning the game depended solely on me. Like when I had the chance to win a soccer game by making a penalty kick. Just me, the ball, the goalie, and the net. What had I done? I missed high. I kicked it over the net. Or that time when I could have won a baseball game. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, score tied with a team mate on third. I popped it up. Or that time in a basketball game. With ten seconds to go, I was on the foul line with a chance to take the lead. My free throw hit the front of the rim and bounced away.

I know I’m going to fail again. I will have a makeable putt to win the championship, and I will miss. Miss with Grandpa, Dad, Mom, Tim, and the others watching from the side of the green. I’d never hear the end of it from Frank.

Stan hits his approach to the green. It’s short, and lands in the trap that guards the front of the green. He has short-sided himself. Even with a great bunker shot he will have a long putt for par.

I let out a slight sigh of relief. I don’t have to go for the pin and a birdie. Almost certainly a par will win the hole. So I club up to make sure I cover the trap. I do. My approach winds up on the back fringe some 35 feet from the pin.

As I approach the green, I’m sweating more than usual. I’m realizing that the prophecy of my missing a makeable putt to win the championship is now even more likely. I can hear Frank laughing. Images of the ball sliding past the cup flood my mind.

Stan hits a good bunker shot, but it was impossible to keep the ball from rolling downhill some 25 feet past the hole. It’s a tough par putt.

All I have to do is chip the ball close. If Stan misses his putt, I’ll have a tap-in for a close-out par. But it’s an uphill chip. The last thing I want to do is leave the ball above the hole. That would mean a treacherous downhill putt. I can’t hit it too hard.

My practice swings are perfect. But when I hit the shot, I hit it just a hair fat, and I wind up well short of the pin. “Damn,” I sigh. My head sags. But at least I am below the hole. It’s a makeable putt, though certainly not a tap-in. I’m in exactly the situation I feared..

My ball is on Stan’s line, so I mark it.

Stan is talking to himself as he reads his putt. He looks at it from behind the hole, behind the ball, and from each side. ‘Straight-in’ I hear him whisper.

Stan hits a good putt, but it’s not straight-in. About 5 feet from the hole the ball breaks slightly left, narrowly slips past the cup, and finishes two feet behind the hole.

It’s my turn to putt. My prophecy was right. Winning is solely up to me. The win is right there—staring me in the face.

I stalk the putt, considering it from every angle. I read it straight-in. But Stan’s putt broke to the left just enough to miss the hole. The uncertainty of what it’s going to do paralyzes me. “Here we go again!” thoughts saturate my mind. “Why me?” I think. “Why am I always in situations like this? Why am I always the one to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory?”

I stand over the ball. My putter feels as heavy as a sledge hammer. I’m so nervous I can barely lift the club off the ground. I take a final look toward the hole and there’s Frank. He has positioned himself on the fringe directly behind the hole. He’s staring at me.

“No,” I suddenly say out loud. I step away from the ball. “Why not ME to win this time?” I shout to myself. “I will not clutch. I’ve made putts like this hundreds of times. I’m going to make this one! That cup is not a thimble, it’s a bushel basket!”

I straighten myself up, throw my shoulders back, and address the ball again. It’s 6 feet, uphill. Stan’s putt broke a couple of inches to the left. Even though my read is straight in, it really isn’t based on what Stan’s ball did.

“Aim for the right lip of the cup and hit it like an ordinary straight-in uphill 6 footer,” I tell myself. And I do. It starts out straight at the right lip, gently bends left, and falls directly into the middle of the cup.

For once, a smile breaks out on my face. I’m finally a winner. And the Haskell streak is intact. Dinner will taste great tonight.