Tales from my first, and extremely rewarding, taste of quasi-competitive golf
Marcus’ driving range PIN code was four digits, and because two of those digits were 6 and 9, he turned to me and said, “Today’s going to be a good day, Pete.”
He then proceeded to hook his bucket onto the machine before turning around to see if anyone was in the bathroom over his shoulder, at which point — unbeknownst to him — the majority of his range balls spilled onto the ground because his receptacle got snagged and therefore wasn’t in position to catch them.
And that is how my first experience at a (fairly) competitive golf tournament began.
I got an email earlier this spring that included a link to a two-man scramble championship at Northwest Golf Course in Montgomery County, Maryland. The price was $125 per player, and paying that granted you a spot in the tourney, a cart, lunch, six Titleists and the aforementioned range balls.
I smashed the sign-up button quicker than a Swiftie trying to land tickets to Taylor’s Eras Tour.
And, despite his inability to comport himself at the range, Marcus immediately came to mind as my ideal partner. I’ve known him since we were both freshmen at Rockville High School and he’s the one who first got me into the sport; he stuck with me during my early days where I’d wear baggy cargo shorts and Sperrys on my way to shooting horrific 114s. Plus, and this is a very technical phrase: He can drive the shit out of a golf ball. As far as scrambles go, that is an insanely useful attribute to possess.
(Quick explanation: For the non-golfers out there, a scramble is a tremendously entertaining format. The way it works is each player on the team hits a tee ball and the best of that bunch is chosen. Then, everyone gets a chance to hit from that new spot and, again, the best of that bunch is chosen. That process is repeated until the little white orb is sitting at the bottom of the hole, and it leads to lots of birdie looks and plenty of fun)
So, there we were on Saturday, placed into the third flight (otherwise known as, cough, the last flight, cough) of the early-morning get-together. Marcus’ handicap is about a 17 while I’m a 12.6, so we avoided having to tussle with the studs at Northwest (the winners of the championship flight posted a 61!). Even more importantly, the third flighters got to hit from the white tees (the whites play at 6,325 yards compared to the blues at 6,827, a nearly 500-yard difference that benefitted us greatly).
Despite the nearly 5-and-a-half hour duration of our round, it was one of the best experiences I’ve had in my golfing life.
I play an obnoxious amount and have been for roughly five years now, yet I’ve never paid money to enter a field that also had prize money for the top finishers. That made this the first true taste of meaningful golf in my (and Marcus’) career and — as sad as this is to admit — both of our hands were shaking a bit ahead of our first swings.
Those nerves disappeared, however, after I found the fairway with an A-minus drive, which allowed Marcus to blast away with his trademarked power fade that power faded a ridiculously long way. I flipped in a sand wedge just over the flag from 97 yards away, and following two decent birdie tries, we walked off the 10th hole (it was a shotgun start and we were lucky enough to begin on a friendly par-4) with a par.
That would, both fortunately and unfortunately, be a theme of our 18-hole excursion.
Three more pars ensued, but another Marcus mash set us up nicely to notch our first birdie on the 380-yard 14th. We were within wedge distance once more — and it stayed that way when Marcus grounded one that would’ve been gobbled up by a shortstop on the baseball field and I stubbed one, like, 35 ugly yards. I swear I heard a fart sound effect after my putrid effort. We each chipped once more from where my chunk ended up and got stuck with a bogey.
To fast forward, we parred out from there on that side. We frustratingly couldn’t cash in on a couple of promising birdie opportunities and were even thinking eagle on the par-5 16th (Marcus and I had 7- and 6-iron respectively when going for the green, but he badly-sliced his out of bounds and I less-badly-sliced mine behind a bunker, so another par was etched onto our card). In all, we made the turn at +1 37, figuring we were holding our own while estimating we likely weren’t in the money.
On Northwest’s actual first hole and our 10th of the tournament, I knocked in a clutch eight-footer for par to keep our spirits intact. The next three holes went par-par-par, thus sending us to the tree-lined, straight, 495-yard par-5 still at +1. Luckily, our birdie thirst was about to be quenched.
As was our routine, I hit the first drive (our strategy was for me to hit a safer one and for Marcus to unleash all hell on his attempts) and pured a fade that had me wanting to smooch my Titleist TSi3 right on its clubface. Marcus blasted his as well, though miraculously, mine was a few yards further once we parked alongside the two beauties.
With about 220 yards separating us and a back pin, Marcus busted out his recently-purchased Ping 9-wood and smoked a soft-landing approach that parked itself right on the green (I’d roast him for carrying a 9-wood if he didn’t deploy it so well). I lagged a challenging first putt to maybe seven feet and, thankfully, Marcus guided it in from there for our first chirper of the day.
We were back to even overall and that’s where we’d wrap up (a true blue-collar par on our third-to-last hole that involved punching out from the wilderness and getting up-and-down for a four was the highlight), so we settled in the clubhouse for lunch with our 72. We had no idea how that would hold up against the others in our flight, until the other numbers were slowly posted on the wall as we ate and we began to realize we had a sweat.
Eventually, a 70, a 71 and an additional 72 were written down, and due to a scorecard tiebreaker (essentially, the dude in charge put our 72 versus the other 72 and went from hole-to-hole beginning with the hardest one until seeing where one pair bested the other) we officially missed out on the podium. Marcus and I, at that juncture filled with an ungodly amount of macaroni and cheese, weren’t that sad — until we learned that third place captured $100 apiece in pro shop credit. Our one stupid bogey cost us a mini spending spree. DAMN IT.
Even so, we ambled to our cars — seven or so hours after we initially parked them — proud of what we showed. We performed solidly — so, so, solidly — and produced an even-par round, something that we almost assuredly will never do on an individual basis. It was a grind of the most pleasurable kind, requiring a lot of thinking, communication and execution.
The best part? Apparently the demand for this event was so high that Northwest intends to hold another in the fall. I’ll be monitoring my inbox for the link, and when it mercifully arrives, we’ll make sure Marcus properly installs his range bucket under the machine. Maybe we’ll be responsible for a score in the 60s, too.
FINAL STATS
One bogey, 16 pars and one birdie
10 Marcus tee balls used, eight Pete tee balls used
Two transfusions and one Michelob Ultra consumed (pathetic showing here, must be improved)
One tied-for-third finish that I guess goes down as a fourth but will be counted in my mind as a tied-for-third and I don’t care what you say
