The Shot

I had hit my tee shot two hundred and eighty five yards with a slight fade of maybe ten yards.  It was just enough to hug the right edge of the fairway.  It barely cleared the large oak tree that was guarding the manicured grass about two hundred and fifty yards away.  The scuffed up Titleist  hit the fairway, and with some slight top spin, rolled about twelve yards right past Kyle's ball.  His practice had been paying off.  He had learned to play his natural fade shot to his advantage.  I had to work at mine since I typically hit a slight to heavy draw.  I looked back at him as he made his way back to the cart.  He congratulated my shot as he placed his tee into the back of his hat.

"You would have gotten a bit more out of that shot if your ball wasn't so scuffed up."  His jab was welcomed and I countered with, "Well, seeing we are on the last hole and I have been using the same ball since the first tee box, a few scuffs are to be expected.  Besides you have a few new balls taking a bath in the water on seven."  I smirked and he shook his head.  A good game of golf is not a good game without a little jawing back and forth. It was our ritual.

Kyle walked over to his ball.  He was lucky to have it laying in the shade.  Shade was a precious commodity on a Houston golf course. Not only does it help the grass maintain some of its fluffy appeal and provide a better lie, it also helps cool the golfer down a bit.  Walking eighteen holes in the Texas humidity and heat in the middle of July took guts.  We didn't have guts nor did we have brains, at least according to our wives who could not find understanding as to why we brave this weather to play this game.

He stood over his ball.  I could see the sweat dripping from his forehead as he began his waggle back and forth.  He had more of a waggle than Kevin Na.  Suddenly he stopped, began his back swing and swung through the ball for a picture perfect follow through.  He knew, as did I, that he hit it pure, right on the sweet spot.  We watched as it bounced about five feet short of the Bermuda green, bounce and roll about fifteen feet short of the pin. He was left with a desirable up hill putt that would move left to right about eight inches.

It was my turn. I had it in my sights.  It could not escape me. It could not run nor hide behind a tree or duck for cover.  I was the hunter and it was the hunted. It's sometimes hard to pull the trigger.  I found myself hesitant although knowing that I had taken this shot hundreds of times before.  I could hit the target in my sleep.  I was money from  a hundred and thirty five yards away.  The wind...I had to account for the wind.  It could take my projectile and nudge it left to right ever so slightly. Even the slightest breeze could blow enough to effect it's trajectory.  I needed God to hold his breath right now, as was I.  I also needed one hundred other things to fall in place as well.  The ball needed to land on the green short of the stick and move to the right. I set up aiming a bit to the right, playing my draw shot.  Then I heard, "Do you breath in or out as you come through your swing?"

The youngster wasn't going to let me have a shot without trying one more mind trick but I had ice in my veins.  Even the blazing Texas sun couldn't melt it.  I smiled, blew the drop of sweat from the tip of my nose and began my back swing.  I knew as soon as contact was made that it was going to be a good shot.  The sound of the soft core ball hitting the head of my eight iron and the feel of the divot being removed from its natural habitat was the final chapter in this game.

We both watched as the ball took its predicted flight path.  We both loved the anticipation of this game.  Watching a well hit ball is like watching ballerina or a graceful bird soaring through the air. With the ball still in  flight and taking the perfect angle, we both thought this one may go in.  It hit ten feet short and left of the flag, leaving a much desired ball mark.  Repairing a ball mark is a badge of honor in this game.  It is a reward for a well hit shot into the green.

This four hundred and twenty yard par four was a tough hole, in fact, it was the number three handicap on the course.  I was always lucky to par this hole in the past. I would score the occasional double boogie if I  hit the bucket shaped bunker on the left side of the green or ended up in the small tributary of West Lake Houston than ran along the right side.  Today was not that day.

We stared as the ball made it's way closer to the pin and eventually fell to the bottom of the cup.  I swear I could hear that familiar noise of the ball hitting the bottom of the cup from a hundred and thirty five yards away.  We both jumped up and high-fived each other.  The birds flew from the trees as our shouting disturbed their efforts to hide from the sun.  It's funny how competition moves to the side when one of the players hits a great shot.  Still to this day, we refer to that shot as, The Shot.