[Benjamin Litman]

Members of this Discussion Group certainly don't lack for experience, so what better place to compile individual stories from St. Andrews as the golf world returns home this week to the Old Course. I'll begin with one from my only trip, in early September 2012.

Following a whirlwind six-round tour of five courses in three and a half days in the Highlands, my two best friends and I made our way to St. Andrews late on the night of September 3, 2012. Lawyers by trade, we adopt the moniker "Squires" on golf trips. We had no tee time--our multiple attempts at the ballot had failed--but we were determined to play. So we awoke the following morning at 3:00 a.m. and made our way to the starter's hut, a mere 200 yards down the street from our three-single-beds-in-a-small-room hotel behind the R&A Clubhouse. We were not alone. A young husband and wife from Quebec. Two 30-something men from Germany. And an elderly man from New Zealand, together with his local host family's dog. Forty degrees would be a generous recounting of the temperature. But we waited, taking turns sitting on the cement with only our breath to warm the dark morning, walking out to the Himalayas and back at dawn to restore energy, gazing skyward after sunrise while reclining on the slight hill behind the first tee and eighteenth green. Our times would come. My law-school roommate was first to tee off at 11:00 a.m. I followed two hours later. And my college classmate, having graciously opted to go last, deferring to the two of us who had never played the course before, teed off in the late afternoon, just as my law-school roommate was putting out on the home hole. Not quite the historical import of the Tiger-Jack moment of 2000, but far more memorable for my two closest friends. My round produced its own share of memories--my Ian Baker-Finch moment on the first tee (i.e., when a natural fader of the ball aims more left than normal and hits a double-cross), making solid contact with a gorse-suspended ball to the right of the third fairway, finding a perfect lie, and an unexpected view of a wide-open green, from right of the seventeenth fairway, near out of bounds. But what stays with me most are the stories (and relentless straight hitting) of the three 60-something North American R&A members I played with, the gasps from the casual onlookers behind the eighteenth green as my birdie putt from right of the hole (who knew a green with that much slope could look so flat on TV) grazed the right edge and stayed out, and the two-hour phone call I had with my other best friend while sitting on a stone wall after my round waiting for my fellow Squire to finish.

I played St. Andrews during a difficult time in my life, and golf's meaning changed for me. It had long been a respite that I preferred to experience alone, surrounded by nothing but nature and my thoughts. Learning the game at Yale, I was fortunate to have that respite whenever I wanted or needed it. But now I needed a respite of a different kind, one where the company of others ensured an escape from myself. I found it at a course that inspired Yale and in a country where the game, for all the reverence of linksland, seemed less about nature than about man. Perhaps in routing courses that left from town and returned to it, the Scots were giving a nod not only to the practicalities of life, but to the psychology of the game. Escape into nature, if you must, but don't forget too much or for too long--nine holes is plenty--from whence you came. People, I learned that day, are what make this game. You get nowhere in life, or on the course, without them.

I look forward to reading what others, I hope, will share.

[Mark Bourgeois]

Love how you get into the minutiae. But enough stories about Lilliput, let's discuss our rounds on The Old Course at Brobdingnag GC.

[Ken Moum]

In case Benjamin doesn't get back soon to fix the glitch, here are his words


Members of this Discussion Group certainly don't lack for experience, so what better place to compile individual stories from St. Andrews as the golf world returns home this week to the Old Course. I'll begin with one from my only trip, in early September 2012.

“Following a whirlwind six-round tour of five courses in three and a half days in the Highlands, my two best friends and I made our way to St. Andrews late on the night of September 3, 2012. Lawyers by trade, we adopt the moniker "Squires" on golf trips. We had no tee time--our multiple attempts at the ballot had failed--but we were determined to play. So we awoke the following morning at 3:00 a.m. and made our way to the starter's hut, a mere 200 yards down the street from  our three-single-beds-in-a-small-room hotel behind the R&A Clubhouse.


We were not alone. A young husband and wife from Quebec. Two 30-something men from Germany. And an elderly man from New Zealand, together with his local host family's dog. Forty degrees would be a generous recounting of the temperature. But we waited, taking turns sitting on the cement with only our breath to warm the dark morning, walking out to the Himalayas and back at dawn to restore energy, gazing skyward after sunrise while reclining on the slight hill behind the first tee and eighteenth green. Our times would come. My law-school roommate was first to tee off at 11:00 a.m. I followed two hours later. And my college classmate, having graciously opted to go last, deferring to the two of us who had never played the course before, teed off in the late afternoon, just as my law-school roommate was putting out on the home hole. Not quite the historical import of the Tiger-Jack moment of 2000, but far more memorable for my two closest friends.

My round produced its own share of memories--my Ian Baker-Finch moment on the first tee (i.e., when a natural fader of the ball aims more left than normal and hits a double-cross), making solid contact with a gorse-suspended ball to the right of the third fairway, finding a perfect lie, and an unexpected view of a wide-open green, from right of the seventeenth fairway, near out of bounds. But what stays with me most are the stories (and relentless straight hitting) of the three 60-something North American R&A members I played with, the gasps from the casual onlookers behind the eighteenth green as my birdie putt from right of the hole (who knew a green with that much slope could look so flat on TV) grazed the right edge and stayed out, and the two-hour phone call I had with my other best friend while sitting on a stone wall after my round waiting for my fellow Squire to finish.

 
I played St. Andrews during a difficult time in my life, and golf's meaning changed for me. It had long been a respite that I preferred to experience alone, surrounded by nothing but nature and my thoughts. Learning the game at Yale, I was fortunate to have that respite whenever I wanted or needed it. But now I needed a respite of a different kind, one where the company of others ensured an escape from myself. I found it at a course that inspired Yale and in a country where the game, for all the reverence of linksland, seemed less about nature than about man.

Perhaps in routing courses that left from town and returned to it, the Scots were giving a nod not only to the practicalities of life, but to the psychology of the game. Escape into nature, if you must, but don't forget too much or for too long--nine holes is plenty--from whence you came. People, I learned that day, are what make this game. You get nowhere in life, or on the course, without them.

I look forward to reading what others, I hope, will share.

[Bruce Wellmon]

Played it with my daughter.
A really good day.

[John Kavanaugh]

My brother had a tee time for a foursome on his 50th birthday.  From what I understand his threesome had a great time.

[Ken Moum]

Well, I generally don't have transcendental moments like Benjamins's I do remember distinctly the first view of TOC.  My wife and were in Scotland with another couple in July of 2006, about the time Tiger was winning The Open on dry, dusty Hoylake, and the temps were record high.

Anyway, we'd been in the Highlands, stay in Nairn and drove to Dundee on a Saturday afternoon.  On Sunday morning we drove into St. Andrews on the A91, turned left at Grannie Clark's Wynd and parked on The Links road just down from the 18th green.

When we got up to the green, I looked at my friend Sue and realized she was crying.  Although she wasn't, and isn't, a links golf lover, she was emotional because her husband was getting to see the Home of Golf for the first time.

A couple of days later, Larry and I got to play at 5:10 p.m.  with the head greenkeeper and his boss, who also gave us a quick look into the trophy room at the R&A clubhouse.  (Getting to play with them is a longish story, but it was related to my job at the time, with GCSAA. We still had to pay, unlike the old days when Eddie Adams could comp visitors)

The highlight might be that we ended up playing a four-ball match against them and only got beat 3 and 2. Oh, and Gordon's putt from in front of #11 went past the hole and rolled back in for two, while my pitch from about six inches closer did the same thing, except it stopped on the lip.

K

[Benjamin Litman]

Sorry for the glitch--I hope I fixed it now. (The new DG look appears to prohibit cutting and pasting text of any kind prepared elsewhere.) Thanks to Ken for reposting my text when he noticed the problem.

[Mark Woodger]

5 years ago in april as they were preparing for the open i played the old course with my dad. we had all 4 seasons in one day and the grandstands were going up around the course so it felt as close as i will ever come to playing in the open. as we played the 17th my fiancé (now wife) and mum sat on the bench by the green drinking coffee wondering when we would finally arrive. when we did i had hit two average shots onto the green and then much to my surprise rolled the 20ft putt in for a birdie. i gladly bore anybody in the family with that story but what it brings back is not memories of the golf shots, a faded driver off the heel and a toey 3 hybrid but what a wonderful thing it was to share that day on the old course with my dad.


everything about the day was wonderful. the course, the caddies, the company and they are memories i will cherish forever.




ps - the rest of the round was filled with some big numbers for an 11 handicapper but the 17th made up for all of that.

[Rob Marshall]

5 years ago in april as they were preparing for the open i played the old course with my dad. we had all 4 seasons in one day and the grandstands were going up around the course so it felt as close as i will ever come to playing in the open. as we played the 17th my fiancé (now wife) and mum sat on the bench by the green drinking coffee wondering when we would finally arrive. when we did i had hit two average shots onto the green and then much to my surprise rolled the 20ft putt in for a birdie. i gladly bore anybody in the family with that story but what it brings back is not memories of the golf shots, a faded driver off the heel and a toey 3 hybrid but what a wonderful thing it was to share that day on the old course with my dad.


everything about the day was wonderful. the course, the caddies, the company and they are memories i will cherish forever.




ps - the rest of the round was filled with some big numbers for an 11 handicapper but the 17th made up for all of that.

Great story, I played Pebble the year after my father died. Birdied 18 for a decent round. The next day I played Spyglass. I can still remember standing on the 18th tee at Spyglass talking to my father about what a magical place it was. My wife was waiting by the 18th green. We got in the car to drive in to town for lunch before heading to SF and all I wanted to do was call my father and tell him how great it was. I almost broke down in the car. You are so lucky to have experienced that with your father.

[Jud_T]

I think I've told this story here before previously but it makes sense to recount it here.  I played the Old Course about a decade ago on one of our then annual trips which alternated between the U.S. and GB&I.  Had a great round with all kinds of weather.   I also had a phenomenal caddie who helped immeasurably in winning my match.  Let's call him Mike.  We had another guaranteed time the following afternoon for the other foursome in our group.  Turns out one of them had injured himself and offered me his time so I got to play the Old Course a second time!  I was hacking so badly in the morning at Kingsbarns, giving back virtually all my week's winnings (I've never agreed to play automatic presses since!) and wouldn't have even played in the afternoon had it not been TOC.  Anyway, I set my buddy up with Mike in the afternoon as he had a big match against the guy who'd fleeced me at Kingsbarns.  Well my friend David wasn't going along particularly well and wasn't getting on with Mike either (I somehow managed to right the ship and bunt it around reasonably well).  David managed to win 17 with a par and came to the 18th tee all square.  His approach on 18 came up short in the valley of sin.  As we walked up to the green, the sun had come back out and the fence was lined with locals and tourists alike.  We were all grinding in our matches at this point.  David's opponent had knocked his short approach to about 8 feet for birdie.  David had a putt of about 100 feet from the Valley to a back left pin for Birdie.  Getting down in 2 from here would be yeoman's work.  Mike paced off the putt intently and gave him a spot right of the pin to aim at, but of course it was mostly about pace since he was putting from downtown for his lag.  He proceeded to drain the putt.  He got a standing ovation from the gallery lining the fence and he tipped his cap to the crowd as he walked up to retrieve his ball.  After all the hoopla and high-fiving his opponent had virtually no chance of making his putt.  He missed his birdie to tie and David won the match.  So what had been a grinding match that hadn't been particularly enjoyable turned into the single greatest moment of his golfing life.  He still tells the story to this day to anyone who will listen (I've heard it literally dozens of times).  Between his tip and the side action with the other loopers, Mike had a pretty good day as well....

[Benjamin Litman]

These are wonderful to read; thank you for sharing, and please keep them coming.

I thought I'd include this paragraph from an article just posted on golf.com by Michael Bamberger:

It’s strange, when you get out of town two or three miles. When you’re up high at that point, looking down, and you can see the farm fields and the town and the church spires and the sea, but you can’t see the Old Course, or the New Course either, for that matter. True linksland is flat, sullen, hidden. The Old Course is just a rumpled field, mown tight, with a burn running through it and 18 holes and 36 tee markers. Golf is a simple, cross-country, outdoor ball-and-stick game. Everything else you’ve heard about it is marketing, and commentary.

[Michael Whitaker]

May of this year I had the joy of visiting St Andrews with the great Ace McBride. He sat out our group's round on the Old Course, but met us on 16 to escort his pals and take a few photos. As we played the 18th he snapped this memorable photo that will always bring a smile to my face.

[Frank Giordano]

In July of 1997, right after my son married his "Princess of Wales," a lovely Welsh woman he met while both were students at Oxford, my wife and I headed north and east to play The Old Course at St. Andrews and, eventually, Royal Dornoch, where I had a commission for an instructional story.  It was less than a year since I'd suffered a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage in the night after playing Bay Hill and preparing another story about their sixth hole.  I'd recovered very well from the attack, thanks to my wife's hearing me hit the floor when it happened and her calling 911 at once.  But feeling that I was living on somewhat of a shorter leash, this old dog was determined to get in as much grand golf as my shaky frame and agreeable editors would enable.

Having found one of the hidden fairway bunkers after what seemed a pretty good drive, I was confronted by an impossible approach and my only choice was to play my next shot back towards the tee.  This was a first for me, even though I'd seen better golfers through the years experience the same fate.  As my wife was my photographer on this journey, I'd set her up to shoot me as I played out.  When my caddie saw what I was contemplating, he was quick to try and stop me, as he and Margaret had got along very pleasantly up to that point, and he clearly did not want to see her skulled by an errant shot by what he must have considered her brain-dead husband.  If he only knew!  When I sternly informed him that I would hit that shot, and that she would snap the photo so as, hopefully, to record the ball's flight from the hidden hazard, he stepped aside slowly, shaking his head, hoping his pace would give me enough time to come to my senses and send my wife off to a safer location.

I'd actually been playing fairly well that day and, channeling my earliest golf hero Julius Boros, lifted my ball softly into the air, giving my wife the opportunity to secure a  treasured souvenir of our round over TOC.

[MCirba]

In 1985 I flew to England to visit my college roomate, an expatriate American living in London.   He had some time and even though he rarely played golf, suggested we spend some time touring through Scotland where we might play The Old Course.

We drove up through Liverpool, and then northeast towards Edinburgh, staying at B&B's along the way.   One lovely summer evening about 75 degrees he suddenly stated, "it's so nice out I feel like playing golf.  Let's stop at the next course we see".   Sure enough, and even though I knew little of the course at that time, we pulled off the road into the North Berwick West Links, quite by happenstance.   After playing the odd first hole we rose up to the green and then, Voila!, looked out upon those magical links and had a wonderful evening, even joined along the way by a single local and his dog.

Two mornings later, after failing to qualify for the lottery, we woke to a heavy, sideways downpour and 50 degree temps.   My friend told me, "you're on your own", and while he found the warm,dry confines of a pub I ventured to the Golf Shop for some rentals and down to the starter's shed.   

I soon learned that the protocol was simple.   If less than a foursome was on the tee it was incumbent on a single to ask the foursome if one might join.   Given the weather that day, it wasn't long before a somewhat unfriendly twosome from the south of the US were on the tee and another single (from San Francisco) and I joined along.   It was so dark that morning that the streetlights were still on as we teed off, and I recall hitting a nine-iron beyond the burn and making par at the first, still shaking.

By the second tee two local caddies approached, and although eschewed by the twosome, were quickly hired by me and my new friend from the city by the bay.   Umbrellas were useless, and these were the days before rain gloves so the slippery grips of my rental set made the challenging course near impossible.   I remember on the 2nd hole I hit my approach about 40 yards left of target only to be told by my caddy, "That should be on the green".   Sure enough, when we got up there I was on, about 25 feet from the 16th hole, and I could see the top half of the flagstick about 50 yards away.   Still one of the best three putts of my life.

I had a few pars and some "others" and by the time we reached the Eden hole the wind seemed to be gaining in strength, blowing dead into our faces the entire way out to the turn.   Our grumpy friends from the south decided they were going to pack it in, even though we were at the furthest point from the clubhouse.   My new friend from San Francisco, at least as crazy as me, looked at me in desperation and said, "You're going to keep going, right?", to which I replied, "I can't get any wetter or any colder, of course I'm going to keep playing!"

Into the teeth of the gale, I took a three-iron and hit a low screamer that just got beyond the Strath bunker on to the front of the green.   With the hole located steeply on the right rear, I hit a putt that was going well too fast, only it hit the center of the hole, jumped a foot into the air, and settled into the cup.   I let out what could only be referred to as a primal scream!

On the way in I was struck by the oddities, such as the blindness and lack of definition on the 12th and 13th, the pervasiveness of the Hell bunker on the par five 14th, the principal's nose, and as we progressed, dense fog started to settle across the course giving everything a sense of mystery and a dreamlike quality.

I hit my best drive of the day on 16, right on the correct line and standing in the fairway with my caddie he started to recount the previous year's Open and how Tom Watson had ended his chances on The Road.   Taking a six-iron, my left-handed draw was overcooked just slightly yet bounded across to much the same fate.   Taking the club from my hand, the caddy said, "Nice shot, Mr. Watson", with a bit of a knowing grin crossing his face.

Coming up the last, across that timeless bridge, through the fog and seeing the hulking shadows of the clubhouse and town in the distance, I felt a sense of deep relief and gratitude.

[Jason Topp]

I have played the course twice.  In my second visit I hit a horrific grounder off the 18th tee that somehow managed to go under the Swilican Bridge and over the water.  I am not sure that shot complied with the laws of physics.

[Pete Lavallee]

I have told this story on GCA before, but since everyone is busy watching the Open an not posting I'll tell it again.
 
My wife, who was born next to Lytham and I were on our honeymoon. We had a reservation to play St Andrews on day two but decided to put our name on the list on the day we arrived in hopes of getting a game. We waited quite a long time and as we were walking off thinking we wouldn't be called our names came up at 6:00 pm. We were assured that we would easily finish as sunset wasn't until after 10:00, so we joined an American father and son who had enlisted caddies. We told the caddies we didn't need help with our bags but would be happy to tip them if the clubbed us and gave us reads. Sure enough we finished before 10:00 which gave us time to hit the Niblick for a quick pint before the then obligatory 11:00 pm closing. Billy decided to catch the last bus back to Dundee but wee Les had a plan. Since we were staying at Russacks we could keep the bar open as long as we liked as paying guests. We had quite a few and when we finally wrapped up Les realized it was too late to find a place to sleep in St Andrews or get back to Dundee. No problem we said you can sleep on the floor of the Honeymoon Suite! When we awoke the next morning he had quietly slipped out of the room. I'm sure he's the only caddy to this day at St Andrews who can say he slept in Russack's Honeymoon Suite. We hired them for our scheduled round that day and after golf over a few pints they asked: How much ya spendin for expensive hotel room? You must come and stay with us! So we checked out of Russacks and bunked in Billy's 2 bedroom flat in Dundee. They treated us like long lost relatives and even gave us a beautiful Stuart crystal decanter as a wedding gift! We became lifelong friends and had chances to get together since.

[David_Tepper]

A friend of mine has just published a new book, "Links to St. Andrews - Love Letter to the Home of Golf." The book contains a good number of stories and reminiscences from a wide variety of people.   

Geoff Shackelford has given it a nice review:

American Josh Evenson attended St. Andrews University and has used his connections in the art and media world to compile one of the most stunning golf books ever produced. He has called on a wide variety of figures in the game to pen essays and contribute important St. Andrews art old and new to produce a museum-worthy volume that celebrates the Home of Golf. On production values alone, this one will probably put every coffee table book you’ve ever seen to shame. Evenson is debuting the book this week at St. Andrews and for now is only available at various stores in town, but will be available to a wider audience soon. More information here.   

 

[Tyler Page]

I had the best day of my golfing life last summer in St. Andrews. It was my first and only visit.  I got a hall pass from the family for two days and booked a b&b in town with a round booked at Elie and high hopes for getting on the Old as a single.

Like a 6-year old on Christmas, I couldn't sleep, so I walked down to get in line and arrived at 2:48am. I was third in line. The weather was perfect, and at 6am, I received the remarkable news that the day's first foursome had cancelled and that the first four in line would lead off.

So, with little sleep, cold muscles, fifty people watching and visions of Ian Baker-Finch, I led off the day of golf by swinging a very slow tempo driver that managed to split the fairway.  A 7-iron to five feet and an opening birdie left me thinking that life couldn't get better.

I played pretty well and was just drinking it all in making pars, a couple bogeys and another birdie.  On 12, I had my first bad miss when a chunked wedge left me 60-yards off the green with a fairway that undulated like a rough ocean in front of me and a tight, hardpan lie. I decided to putt. After swinging my putter waist-high, I watched the ball go over each hill and disappear into each valley for what seemed like minutes. It rolled across the green and made a loud thud as it hit the pin and dropped for birdie.

I jumped up and down like a total clown and pushed it too far with the golf gods when I looked at my scorecard for the first time all day and realised I was at even par at that point (I carry a 12-handicap).

Needless to say, the run home fell apart with some wayward drives and some doubles on the card.  Still, it was amazing. After finishing and buying breakfast for my caddy, I dragged him out to the New.

The New was going decently well, and I had a nice conversation with my caddy on the eighth hole about that ridiculous putt from the morning and that I thought that was the best shot of my life (I had no hole-in-ones, and the drama of that putt's journey just made it more remarkable that any hole out I've had).

With a slight breeze coming off the estuary on the next tee box, I hit my 3-wood to the 225-yard ninth and held the follow-through as we watched the ball sail. We both swore we heard an odd "clunk!" come from the direction of the green, and looked at each other thinking wonderful thoughts, but afraid to speak them. (As the hole itself was blind behind a ridge fronting the green, we had no idea where the ball finished.). The twosome on the next tee box had turned around at the noise and came wandering down toward the green to look.  They leaned over the cup, spotted the ball and gave us a thumbs up from the green.   I had just supplanted the best shot of my life from the morning.  An ace!

Lots of pictures and high fives followed, and the back nine was a blur. I realised I had no one to celebrate with.  As such, I told my caddy to tell all his caddy buddies that there would be a tab opened promptly for all St Andrews caddies at 1 Golf Place to celebrate.

If you ever want to test your drinking limits, open a tab for a bunch of Scottish caddies to celebrate a hole-in-one. We ended up with about a dozen caddies (some right out of central casting...) drinking and telling stories about golf, families, growing up in Scotland, past Opens, John Daly, Seve, and too many other things to recall. I vaguely remember stumbling out with my clubs on my back for the walk home to my B&B around 9 (don't forget I was first on the tee, so the tab had been opened about about 3).

To say the trip was magical and surreal would not do it justice. It really was a dream, and whenever something doesn't go well in life, all I have to do is think of my brief time in St. Andrews, and I smile.

[Andrew Simpson]

I'd played just about every course in Fife numerous times and avoided St A, due to who you could be paired with, front tees, etc.
Played a practice round for the Links trophy when I was caddying for my buddy in 96. Nerves got to me on the 1st in front of the R&A CH and chunked my 1 iron VERY short and right, as 2 caddies walked past heading to the New I asked for clubbing. Lay up with a 3 iron I was told laughingly, I said a 2 iron then and promptly hit it to 15 feet (missed the putt!)
 The breeze chopped and changed and on 8 we couldn't hold it within 40 yards hitting 9 irons!
Highlight was 1 iron to the middle of 17th fairway and a 5 iron to 10 feet with the wind into off the right, holed the putt for bird :-)
Also hit in 2 other balls to 6 feet with the 5I and splashed out of the RH bunker to 6". The biggest boost was we were watched by 2 groups in front of us who were Amateur Internationalists for England + Ireland and when we finished they asked my buddy who was a Scotland player, Who was that was hitting it close all the way in?
You should have seen their faces when he said my caddie :-)
PS never played the course that well since!

[Dave McCollum]

Many memories of a Sunday stroll followed by a Monday round on TOC and several other sunrise walks with a camera.  I’ve told some here, but a couple of caddie quips come to mind. 

Standing on 17 tee, he said “pick an O.”

On 9 tee, he pointed right and said “hit it here with a hook.”
Or, pointing left, “hit it here with a fade.”
“But whatever you do, don’t hit it here,” pointing down the center line of what looked like a glorious inviting fairway.

I chose left.  We had what may have been a 20 mph tailwind playing from the member’s tees, maybe 300 yards or so from the green.  I hit the drive, shrugged, turned and handed him the driver.  I’m an old guy, not long, an average hacker.  He took the driver, uttered not a word, and handed me my putter.  Sublime moment.  I three putted for par.  Still, a fond memory

[Doug Siebert]

Probably one of the most memorable and satisfying pars of my life was on TOC's 17th back in 2001.  I hit a little draw over the 'O' in HOTEL and ended up in the long wispy rough left of the fairway with a bit over 170 left facing a right to left wind.  My caddie advised me to play out 20-30 yards to the right, since the pin was cut directly behind the Road Bunker, and the greens were like concrete that day, but hell if I went all the way to Scotland to play safe!  I aimed directly at the pin and played a super high hold cut with a 7 iron.  Hit it perfectly, right where I aimed, and couldn't have landed it in a better place....just past where the downslope over the Road Bunker flattens out.  For a glorious moment or two it looked as though I might do the impossible and hold that green.

In the end it trickled off the back and finished on the blacktop, about 20 feet from the hole.  There were about a dozen people standing around behind the green, so I had a little audience as I sized up my shot.  I chose a 4 iron and bumped it into the bank, leaving it a foot away for a tap in par, to the polite applause and compliments from the 'gallery'.  Since even the pros end up averaging over 4 1/2 strokes on that hole, a par is pretty good anytime, but especially when I didn't chicken out and play safe, and managed to make the clutch shot in the Scottish way instead of my then-typical "if it is off the green and inside 80 yards it must be a lob wedge shot"

My dad and I were staying at the Rusacks for five days as we played various other courses in the area, and I spend an hour or two on several early evenings after we finished standing behind the blacktop watching people play in.  Interesting seeing the various golfers from the ones just trying to finish to the ones playing for par to the ones who found their way into the Road Bunker and left me biting my tongue to avoid laughing at the sight of them flailing away again and again.  Didn't see anyone come closer to holding that green than I did, even playing from the fairway.

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