Call me Tiger

J's World, by Jeremiah Bartz

In the past few years golf ,has been a sport that I have wanted to get into. For one reason or another getting into the sport has been a slow process. Since I originally got the idea to get involved in the sport, I have only been down to the course a few times. Before last Sunday I had never even completed a full 18 holes.

Other than the occasional trip to the driving range, my entire basis for the sport has been "Tin Cup", "Happy Gilmore" and the Caddyshack flicks.

But last Sunday I got the opportunity to break out of my golf shell.

Like everything else in my life, what would seem like a simple golf outing, was just not that simple.

A good friend from college, Nate, has been visiting the area. Before he arrived he mentioned that he would like to get a best ball golf tournament together. Just a casual tournament among friends.

Always up for competition, and the excuse to gamble, I gladly accepted the invitation.

I had no idea when Nate was planning this little adventure. I had spent most of the weekend on a little adventure of my own, doing my part to rid the Nancy Lake system of pike.

I arrived back in town Sunday afternoon about 2 p.m. and got a message that we had a 3:20 tee time -- in Anchorage.

Once I heard this I frantically traded in my fly rod for a set of golf clubs. In a hurry, I laid the golf clubs I had borrowed from my brother against the door of my pickup as I shoveled fishing gear out of my truck.

After hauling the cooler out of the truck I looked at my watch and realized that I had just over a half hour to get to Moose Run Golf Course, the site of our little tourney.

Knowing that I would have to drive about 80 miles per hour to make the tee time, I jumped in my truck and backed out of the driveway.

Just as I was about ready to storm down the road, I heard a loud crunch. In an absent minded moment, I had no idea what could have made the loud noise-- until I jumped out of my truck and found my brother's golf clubs lying underneath the cab of my truck.

It was at this point that I shouted a few words that are probably not appropriate for publication.

With only about 30 minutes until tee time I shoved the pieces of clubs and the slightly torqued bag into my truck and headed for Anchorage.

Thankfully the only club I sacrificed to the Chevy Gods was the five wood. When I first realized my road hazzard, I thought sure that I would be playing 18 holes with a rake, shovel and Louisville Slugger.

Though most of the clubs were saved, the bag was a bit mangled, resembling a soda can that was just stepped on by an elephant.

Clubs are often broken, it happens in the sport. But it takes a real genius to break clubs before you leave your house.

Thankfully the group that was to tee off before us was running as late as I was. Running over the golf bag and going about 10 miles the wrong way, thanks to Nate's brilliant directions, set me back about 20 minutes.

I finally made it to Moose Run, 20 minutes late, flustered a missing the five wood.

Once I got to the course I saw everyone decked out in fancy golf shoes, horrid golf shirts and carrying bags that looked like they just had not been run over by a truck. By the looks of things, I could have been in for the butt-whoopin' of my short golf career.

I showed up in hiking boots, jeans and oval-shaped golf bag. Attire more suitable for the lakes of Southcentral Alaska, rather than the fairways of the local golf course.

But once the first of the eight-member group took a swing and sent the ball slicing 30 yards to his right, I knew I had a shot, not to be the weak link of this awful eightsome.

It took me a while to get into my groove and reach my goal of mediocrity. On the first two holes I sent balls flying in all directions. Right and left, but seldom were they straight. The first balls I did hit straight were like soft grounders in the infield of a baseball diamond.

In the best ball format, I was paired with Nate's father, the elder statesman of our group of golfing wanna-bes. That is the only thing that kept me from shooting a plus 20 on my first hole.

Once I settled down and figured out that swinging a golf club is different than swinging a baseball bat, I was able to make contact. I even surprised myself a few times and at least for one stroke, I felt like a true golfer.

On the third hole, a par three complete with a water hazard I notched the shot of my short golf career.

After two players before me lofted the ball off to the left and right and my partner, the closest thing to a talented golfer in our appalling eightsome, hit the water hazard, I drove the ball 190 yards on to the green.

As I watched the ball sail over the water hazard onto the green, I felt like Kevin Costner in "Tin Cup", like Adam Sandler in "Happy Gilmore". I felt like Tiger. Granted a white, and slightly chunkier version of Tiger, but Tiger none-the- less.

As I high-fived all four people surrounding the tee, the people in the group behind us and some guy just standing there I felt like I just won the Masters. Where is my green jacket?

That one shot made up for the club I had broken with my truck, the bag I had mangled, and the other club I broke swinging on the eighth hole.

I can now make my own VISA commercial. Forty dollars for a round of golf, $260 for a new set of clubs feeling like a white, slightly chunkier version of Tiger Woods-- Priceless.