International Shorts Rule Now in Effect

Posted on November 5, 2014 by David Owen

The Sunday Morning Group gives an extra handicap stroke to anyone who wears shorts after November 1 (and two strokes after December 1). It was so cold and windy on Sunday that Gary, our terrific superintendent, lit a fire in the clubhouse for us after he and his crew had finished mowing the greens. Only two guys wore shorts: Fritz and Mike A.—and Mike didn’t get anything for it because we played off zero that day and he already gets fourteen shots, the S.M.G. maximum. But he believes in not letting the weather boss you around.

The wind was blowing so hard that it kept tipping over the rocking chairs on the S.M.G. patio:

Still, eleven guys showed up, including Corey, our terrific pro:

Nobody had remembered the Jägermeister, the official cold-weather intoxicant of the Sunday Morning Group, but Corey found a bottle of something in the clubhouse, left over from the member-guest. There were fruit flies lying on the bottom, but not that many, and they weren’t moving.

The wind blew so hard while I was hitting a shot on the sixth hole that my pushcart took off like an iceboat, ran full speed down the steepest part of the fairway, and crashed nose-first into the creek. The front wheel buried up to its hub in the opposite bank, but the cart didn’t tip over, and nothing fell out:

Afterwards, we did skins in the clubhouse, which was still warm from Gary’s fire.

Then five of us went out to lunch.

Check Out Our Revolutionary New Rainproof and Sweat-proof Golf Scorecards

Posted on November 4, 2014 by David Owen

Hacker (real name) was questionable for our Friday-morning game, because he’d broken the middle finger on his left hand while using his wood-splitter:

Also, it was raining. But he played anyway, and so did Barney, Tim, and I. We had the course to ourselves:

Barney and Tim, in the rain, Friday, October 31, 2014.

Hacker discovered that his finger didn’t hurt nearly as much if he used a baseball grip. Here’s a perfectly square divot he took on the fourth hole (that’s his tee in the middle of it):

The rain wasn’t a problem, because we were using one of our new waterproof scorecards. (You can watch a video demonstration at the bottom of this post.) Our waterproof cards look exactly like our regular scorecards, but they don’t get soggy or fall apart, and you can write on them when they’re soaking wet, using a regular pencil—and then you can erase what you’ve written, using the same pencil. In fact, the wetter they are the better they work. Here’s the card we used on Friday, strapped to my pushcart:

Our field test went great, and I double-checked the result by driving home with the card stuck to my windshield:

Our waterproof scorecards were printed for us by PrintWorks, the official stationers of the Sunday Morning Group. We didn’t actually invent them; we stole the idea from Todd Petrey, a caddie at Bandon Dunes. Petrey graduated from the University of Florida 1992 with a degree in sports therapy, and tried to play golf professionally for a while. He began caddying when he was short of cash, and one of the places he worked was East Lake, in Atlanta, where the weather is so disgustingly hot and humid that scorecards sometimes dissolve in perspiration. To deal with that problem, and also with rain, he invented Drycards. (“Like a normal scorecard, only better because you can use it as a coaster.”) Petrey also invented Signsocks, temporary road-sign covers used in highway construction projects.

Ray, Tony, and I first saw Drycards while playing 10 rounds in the rain at Bandon in 2007. Last year, I tried to get in touch with Petrey, to order a batch for S.M.G., but as near as I can tell he’s no longer in business. (He doesn’t seem to be selling Signsocks anymore, either.) So I took an old Bandon Drycard down to my basement and reverse-engineered it —which is to say, I ordered a supply of synthetic paper (the secret ingredient) from Amazon, and Hacker and I took it to PrintWorks. Here’s how it works:

Two Important New Golf-Course Classifications

Posted on November 3, 2014 by David Owen

During the Sunday Morning Group’s recent golf-only trip to Atlantic City, we played one course that made me extra sympathetic to women golfers, because there were so many houses right next to the fairways. It wasn’t as bad as this course in Las Vegas:

Still, on most of the holes there was virtually no covering vegetation. I suppose that, when houses are that close to golf holes, you can always ring a doorbell and ask to use the powder room—or maybe just let yourself in, in case the people who live there are busy. Anyway, the other two places we played were a lot more accommodating, and it occurred to me that courses that look out for beer drinkers and middle-aged men deserve official recognition. So at our next editorial meeting I’m going to suggest that we begin awarding these:

I’m also going to suggest that we do something about golf courses that don’t offer pushcarts or pullcarts for rent—sadly true of all three courses we played. I hadn’t been able to bring my pushcart because Reese’s car barely had room for me. I’ve never played a golf course in Scotland, Ireland, or England that didn’t have “trolleys” available. Isn’t the whole thing about the United States that we have more of everything than anyone else? Get with the program, golf courses, or I might have to give you one of these:

Reader’s Trip Report: Bandon Dunes in a Hurricane

Posted on November 1, 2014 by David Owen

Mike Goldman, a reader, recently spent several days at Bandon Dunes with seven friends. Here’s the local forecast from part of their trip:

They played every day, naturally, even though the Speed Golf World Championship, which was supposed to be held on Old MacDonald while they were there, was canceled because of the weather. Here’s what the wind did to the speed-golf scoreboards:

From Goldman’s report:

While the entire trip was a home run (mainly because my team won), the lasting memory will be our trudge through the hurricane on Saturday, on Bandon Dunes. What started as a light mist and a stiff breeze quickly regressed into a wind and rainstorm so dramatic that one member of our group said, on the second tee, “We’ve already passed the point of bringing all the animals inside and duct-taping the windows.”

I’m not an agronomist, but my understanding is that gorse is a hearty plant and that it’s unusual to see it rolling down fairways like tumbleweeds. At one point, on the sixth green, we suspended play and hunkered down in a catcher’s stance, and leaned into the wind to keep from blowing off the cliff. We were a little nervous, but, mainly, we were laughing hysterically at what we were going to have to do to complete the match. Here’s one of our caddies climbing uphill into the wind:

On the seventh green, as we were trying unsuccessfully to mark our balls, one of the caddies said, “Whatever you do, do not get within 10 feet of that cliff.” No. 9 at Bandon is a straightforward par 5. On a normal day, it’s two good shots and a little pitch, and then you’re putting for birdie. Playing dead into he storm, I hit driver (hard), 3-wood, 3-wood (again), and then a torched 8-iron to the front fringe, 50 feet from the hole. I’m more pleased with that result than hitting it in two on a normal day.

At the end of nine holes, much to the relief of our caddies, we suspended play for a burger and a beer, and strategized about how best to complete the matches. We settled on the Preserve, Bandon’s new 13-hole par-3 course. The longest hole is only about 160 yards, but many holes turned out to be unreachable. On others, you’d hit a simple pitch shot and watch the wind whisk your ball over the green and into the gorse. At the end of the day, we were tattered, wind-damaged, and in possession of a golf experience we’ll all remember for a lifetime.

Here’s the winning team. (Marty Hackel: note the wardrobe.) From left to right, they are Mike Kemmet, Trevor Dyer, Mike Goldman, and Steve Harry. Dyer (a.k.a. The Captain) organized the trip, and kept everyone up to date with a website he created for that purpose —an excellent idea.

Here’s Dyer during the hurricane. It looks like he’s swinging, but he’s actually just being bent into a pretzel by the wind:

And here’s a picture of Goldman during a round once the storm had passed:

And here’s a golf quiz: when you read Goldman’s account of their Saturday rounds, did you wish you’d been there, too? I did. (That means I passed the quiz.) I visited Bandon back in February 2007 with Tony and Ray. We played ten rounds in five days, all in the rain. During lunch between eighteens each day, we parked our rainsuits in some industrial-strength dryers in the clubhouse. Here are Ray and Tony with our caddies:

During that trip, a starter told me that, several winters before, on a day when the wind blew hard and Bandon received almost seven inches of rain, all eighty-five golfers on the tee sheet played—and so did two walk-ons, who were passing through and thought the day looked reasonable for golf. They were right!

Golf and Condoms in Atlantic City

Posted on October 27, 2014 by David Owen

This year was the crystal anniversary of the Sunday Morning Group’s annual end-of-season golf-only trip to Atlantic City. The first A.C. trip was organized by Barney in 2000, when, for some reason, everyone looked younger than they do today:

Four of the guys in that picture went on this year’s trip, too: Hacker (real name), Rick, Tim, and me. (Hacker and I are the only ones who have been on all fifteen.) Two of the guys in the picture are dead: John and Uncle Frank. John’s son, Mike, was on this year’s trip, and when he laughs he sounds almost exactly like his father. Our main A.C. competition, the Attardi Cup, was named in memory of Uncle Frank:

We always open our A.C. trips to friends from outside our club, and even to friends of friends. This has beneficially expanded our acquaintance with overweight middle-aged men from beyond our immediate geographical area, and has led to some interesting matchups. This year, six of the twenty guys on the trip were from other clubs— including Richard. He and I lived on the same floor of the same dormitory for two years in college, but didn’t meet until last year, at our thirty-fifth reunion. Now he’s an honorary member of S.M.G.:

Our guest policy has occasionally led to problems. One year, one of the guys invited an old high-school friend of his, whom he hadn’t seen in a long time. The old friend, who began drinking as soon as he got into Hacker’s car, bought a dozen condoms at a convenience store during a refueling stop. “I don’t know why I buy these things,” he said. “I never use them.” Then he stashed the box under his seat and forgot all about it. A week after we got back, Hacker’s wife discovered the condoms and—here’s the problem—didn’t believe, even for a minute, that they belonged to any of us. I guess she knew that, even in A.C., our bad behavior is limited to things like ordering beer with breakfast:

And playing as a ninesome:

Speaking of condoms: the first time I bought them I asked for seven, a number that, after virtually endless reflection, had struck me as the sort of nonchalant-sounding quantity that a seasoned purchaser might request. (I was sixteen.) The pharmacist replied that they were sold in either packages of three or boxes of a dozen. I said that, in that case, I would take nine. He said that, in that case, I might as well take a dozen, since the cost was about the same. I said oh, all right, sure, why not, hell, let’s make it a dozen—but I came very close, at that moment, to going back to just being a kid.

The Frost is on the Jägermeister

Posted on October 20, 2014 by David Owen

Google Now is an app that automatically displays certain useful information when you launch Google on your phone or other mobile device. Exactly what it displays depends on a number of factors: your current location, data you’ve provided to other Google services, and subjects that you’ve asked the app to follow for you, such as professional golf. It knows where my house is, because I’ve entered my home address on Google Maps, and it knows I’m interested in the results of certain post-season baseball games, because I’ve looked them up, and when I’m traveling it suggests nearby activities. It still has a few bugs, though. For example, it thinks I “work” at my golf club—presumably because when I leave my house each day that’s the place I’m the most likely to go. Come on, Google! You sound like my wife!

Last Sunday, we had our first frost delay of the year. Reese, whose turn it was to bring lunch, also brought two bags of apple-cider donuts and a bottle of Jägermeister, the official cold-weather intoxicant of the Sunday Morning Group. The bottle made a handy weather gauge, because it was as frosty as the greens. While we waited for the bottle to clear, we putted on the floor of the golf shop, which, unlike the clubhouse, is sort of heated. Addison jammed a red plastic beer cup between two golf bags full of demos, and we aimed for that.

Our golf shop closes for the year at the end of the month, and if you have golf-shop credit you have to spend it before then. Now is a good time to do that, because everything is on sale.

Stanley wears size-thirteen-and-a-half shoes. The biggest ones Corey had in stock were thirteens, but Stanley almost bought them, because he figured he could stretch them. Then he came to his senses. Meanwhile, Gary, our terrific superintendent, was mowing the practice green, which had finally melted—almost time to tee off:

Lester’s Wheels Come Off, Plus a Contest

Posted on October 12, 2014 by David Owen

Actually, it was just one of Lester’s wheels. His car had been in the shop the day before, and something hadn’t been put back correctly, or something. He made it to the golf course, though, and the wheel didn’t come completely off until he was in the parking lot. (He made a deep gouge in the gravel.) If all that had happened at speed on a highway, he probably would have missed his tee time:

Recently, I spent a week in Colorado on a New Yorker assignment unrelated to golf, and while I was there I took two flights in a very small plane. I saw many golf courses from the air, including the one in the photo below. I assume that those orange things are target greens on a driving range. The first person who identifies the course and explains the orange things will receive a disappointing prize. (I myself don’t know the answers.)

While you think, you can watch this video I shot from the plane. We were maybe a thousand feet above the ground:

Two Golf Dreams, Featuring St. Andrews and Stevie Wonder

Posted on September 13, 2014 by David Owen

I’ve often wished that I’d taken up golf twenty years earlier, not only so that I could have wasted my physical prime on golf courses instead of in classrooms, libraries, and bars, but also so that I could have attended the University of St. Andrews instead of the college I did. I’d have bought a student golf ticket, which would have enabled me to play virtually free rounds on the Old Course and all the other Links Trust courses until I flunked out—and I still could have ended up in my current profession, since writing about golf requires no education at all. Instead, I’m forced to live vicariously through Slade, whose granddaughter Katie (in the sharp red gown in the photo at right) just matriculated at St. Andrews. As far as I’m concerned, she’s living the dream. And I know that the rest of the Sunday Morning Group shares my conviction that no one ought to pass her college career without frequent visits from her grandfather and his friends, who will be happy to camp out on the floor in her truly awesome-looking dormitory, which is barely a thousand yards from the first tee:

Closer to home, my friend Ellis recently had a golf-related dream, which had nothing to do with the Old Course but is of special interest because Ellis doesn’t play golf. Here’s his account:

My wife or girlfriend is Naomi, who is a real person I dated in the 1970s. She’s present when I’m approached to take part in some kind of TV event during which I’m to pretend to be Stevie Wonder. No singing, no makeup or disguise, just regular white old me, saying I’m Stevie Wonder. I say OK. We go to this big motel room, where there are a lot of TV tech people and others, plus broadcast equipment. I am given two golf clubs (a putter and an iron), and there is talk of a saxophone. Everyone behaves like this is an ordinary event, and nobody says, Hey, wait, you’re not Stevie Wonder.

There aren’t even any formal questions, or even a host. I kind of stand around, with the golf clubs, chatting with people. And that’s it. I realize that the event is over, and the crew starts packing up. One tech guy complains to me about his device and I nod as if I know what he’s talking about. I have a general sense that nobody really knows what they’re doing. Finally, Naomi and I leave, traverse some distance to “go home,” and end up at a wall covered with fabric. At the base of the wall is some sort of concealed hatch. She goes through it, I push down on it with whatever object I’ve been carrying, and prepare to go through it myself. And then I wake up.

And I hadn’t known Stevie Wonder was a golfer. The things we learn from dreams.

The Sunday Morning Group Conquers All

Posted on September 10, 2014 by David Owen

Yale University has an undistinguished student body and a miserable football team, but it does have a tremendous golf course , which the U.S.G.A.—mysteriously but somehow characteristically—lists under “T,” for “The Course at Yale.” I’ve played two rounds there this year: one with Richard (a college classmate, who for two years lived within two doors of my own dormitory room but whom I didn’t meet until our thirty-fifth reunion), and one with Shep (an honorary member of the Sunday Morning Group) and his dad, Dick. Before I teed off with Shep and Dick, I visited the men’s locker room and discovered that the shelf above the sinks—mysteriously but somehow characteristically —held just a single toiletry item, a hair preparation I’d never heard of:

My two rounds at Yale, I’m pretty sure, “softened up” the course for Ray and Addison, who played there not long afterward, in our state golf association’s annual four-ball tournament, and won it by two shots, at seven under par. (They had no bogeys, and were one shot from tying the all-time tournament record.) They didn’t win a car, contrary to the clear suggestion in the photo below, but they did get their names engraved on a big trophy:

A few days later, our club beat our Enemy Club in our annual two-day home-and-home grudge match, which has been held every year since 1948. Each club’s team has ten players—in our case, all from S.M.G. Todd and I were partners the first day, and Ray and I were partners the second day, and when it was over the two teams posed together for a photo:

The very next day, Todd and Addison played in our state’s qualifier for the U.S.G.A.’s new national four-ball championship—and were the medalists, at five under par. (One stroke behind them were Ben D., an honorary member of the Sunday Morning Group, and his brother, Daniel—and just a week before that Ben had won another state event, the Tournament of Champions.) Because of their victory, Todd and Addison will be going to the Olympic Club, in San Francisco, in the spring, raising the possibility of a cross-country S.M.G. road trip.

One explanation for S.M.G.’s remarkable success in these things is that our locker room —despite being small, and equipped with just a single toilet, urinal, and shower—offers a rich selection of useful toiletries, plus a clock:

Another is that hardly anybody went to Yale.

Head-to-Head Match Play Against Mosquitoes and Ticks

Posted on September 9, 2014 by David Owen

Last month, at the men’s member-guest, I noticed that Michael U. had a cool-looking gadget attached to his golf bag. He told me that it contained a battery-powered fan, which enveloped him and his golf cart with a cloud of mosquito repellent. I was extremely interested, because I don’t like being bitten by mosquitoes, and I’ve been trying extra hard to protect myself against ticks, ever since coming down with Lyme disease for the fifth or sixth time, back in June.

The device is called a Clip-On. The manufacturer—Off!—sent me some to try, along with a couple of other goodies.

I had high hopes for the Clip-On, but it’s actually not well-suited to golf. “If you move,” the instructions say, “allow a few minutes for the unit to rebuild its personal protection.” Any golfer who isn’t moving more often than every few minutes shouldn’t be playing golf. I attached one to the back of my hat, thinking it might keep bugs from circling my head, even while I was walking, but the fan, at that range, was annoyingly loud. And that’s probably just as well, because, according to some virtually invisible fine print on an easy-to-miss part of the packaging, you’re not supposed to inhale the stuff, a chemical called metofluthrin:

Good luck getting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from the Sunday Morning Group. And then there’s the cost. A single unit, which is supposed to last “up to” twelve hours, sells for ten bucks on Amazon. Each package includes an envelope labeled “refills”—but it contains just one, and it’s really a “fill,” not a refill, since it’s the only one in the box. Off! does sell actual refills, at roughly $4.25 apiece, but metofluthrin is pricey stuff, since that works out to more than $2,600 an ounce.

I also tried Off! Explore, a miniature aerosol can of insect repellent in a “crush-resistant” aluminum case. The case has a built-in carabiner, which you can attach to your golf bag:

It’s very handy. Here’s Addison loading up his hat — and that’s Hacker (real name) in the background:

And here’s Hacker himself:

And Explore works great, like all of Off!’s DEET-based insect repellents. But it costs a fortune. A single unit, with case, sells on Amazon for twenty bucks and contains just 1.2 ounces of bug juice. You can buy refills, but they’re expensive, too. So I shopped around and invested instead in some DEET-based repellent sold by Coleman. It doesn’t have a carabiner, but each can has a locking top, so you can keep it in your golf bag without worrying that it’s going to leak. It’s stronger than Off!, and Amazon sells six-ounce cans, in two-packs, for just a bit more than a dollar an ounce:

My Usual Game: David Owen

ADVENTURES IN GOLF

Category Archives: Sunday Morning Group