Once arriving at the 10th tee box, the heart rate begins to rev up again. Only this time it’s pushing the limits of cardiac arrest. The cliché, overconfident thoughts of “the back nine is mine,” or “finally settled in, let’s get some birds on the back,” are instantly shattered as you see this serpentine fairway drastically sloping right to left on this monstrous 437 yd par 4.
Body: “There’s no shame in hanging up the cleats for today and flushing down a couple pork missiles with an ice cold beer, we’ve done our best captain.”
Brain: “We paid good money to be here! You wake up and play every bit of that 11 handicap ass off you have left in you, or else I shut this whole thing down then send you into a crippling depression for 8 months.”
Mid downswing the lower half completely bailed out. Luckily, my shoulders smothered the ball as a last ditch effort to not completely swing and miss, which resulted in a boomerang hook that, by the grace of God, managed to stay in play on the lower tier of the left rough. There is a gully of death bunkers lined along the left side of the fairway leading up the green protecting a sucker pin just 20 paces from edge. I go with a 6 iron from 185 yards playing it safe to the fat part of the green and completely flare it 20 yards right. So far, two for two in the luck department on 10 and hit a high, 58 degree to about 10 feet behind the pin. I barely breathe on the ball and somehow sink the par putt. Ego rejects the three for three luck notion and there’s a tingling sensation of arrogance starting to inject rocket fuel through my veins. On to 11.
The 11th tee box feels like a breath of fresh air until you look down at the yardage book and it begins working your mind into a pretzel on each scenario you could potentially do. You could leave it short left in the fairway but have a long second shot carrying a transitional barranca into the elevated green nestled along the right. You could try to bomb one straight up the middle, but the fairway runs out about 250 yards and if you hit it too far, you have no real good look into the green. If you go right, it becomes a three shot hole and by doing so you will dishonor your entire family with humiliation for turning a 390 yard par 4 into a 600 yard par 5. I go 4 iron, assuming the rocket fuel is going to propel my ball into a smoldering launch angle that carries 230 yards of pure self assured Pollyannaism. Unfortunately for me, the ball decided to run into the heel of my club resulting in a wet fart 195 yard fairway in regulation. I have a choice, lay it up short since I still have about 195 yards playing about 205 uphill, or flex in the mirror and go for it.
Brain: “You sure about this? I’m a little in between.”
Body: Elton John voice “Rocket maaaaaaan, burning out his fuse up here alone!”
The brain wins this battle and my second 4 iron winds up somewhere between going for the green and laying up. My ball is short right of the green flirting with a flurry of bunkers that prevent your ball from falling to a tumbling death of penalty strokes into the barranca. The rocket fuel gauge is tiddering somewhere between empty and never existing in the first place. The accelerated heartbeat begins pumping so deep I can feel it in my hands as I try to cut through thick rough avoiding the bunkers blindly finding myself just short of the green on the skirt. Flat stick to a tap in 1 putt bogey. Never had a doubt.
There is a borderline of arrogance and ignorance that I tightroped mentally before absolutely flushing a driver through the right side of the fairway just short of the barranca protecting the green on this 370 yd par 4. Position A, check. Step 2 is to hit a 60 percent 58 degree without letting the thoughts of skulling it 200 yards over the green, or worse, fluffing it 5 yards into the barranca.
Brain: “Tightrope mode locked and loaded sir.”
Body: “Roger. Foxtrot one, 60 percent 58 degree wedge en route.”
Clipped it beautifully to about 25 feet. Two putt par. +1 through 3 on the back.
The walk from the 12th green to the 13th tee feels like I’m Lance Armstrong cruising to another Tour de France victory. I’ve put in the work, I’ve set the expectation, I don’t deserve to be this good, and the anxiety of the world finding out is starting to feel like testicular cancer. A dog left 532 yard par 5 is just another obstacle in the way before crossing the finish line, as a true imposter. The slight draw over the target bunker in the fairway turns to a wispy cut that nestles just left of the cart path in the right rough. Ball is sitting above my feet and I’m about 280 yards, so I elect to go with a 6 iron to lay up to a nice 100-120 yards.
Brain: “Elected 6 iron? I’m the one calling the shots here and you shall be punished for badmouthing a cheating true American hero.”
Body: “Abort! Abort! Boss said revert back to self humiliation!”
Luckily the hosel is firmly attached to the club head, otherwise my 6 iron would have been split into two. The combo of the ball above my feet partnered with a horrendous over the top swing produced a 180 degree shut clubface swallowed by thick rough. Somehow, the ball managed to skip along the sea of rough, lining the cart path, burrowing next to the only trees right of the fairway. The beautifully placed valley of bunkers shielding the green from big hitters trying to reach in two never came in question. My only option here is to punch out to about 100 yards with my 7 iron then get it up on the green with my 52 degree. Check and Check. Only thing left to save some dignity is a tumultuous two putt from around 40 feet to save bogey. 3 putt double. Another notch on the Mackenzie belt of souls he’s taken over the years.
A sense of urgency is beginning to build within myself as I grasp to the last stretch of 5 holes. The walk to the back tee box on the 426 yard par 4 14th is becoming more like the hike up Machu Picchu. With every step, my breaths get shorter and shorter. I continue surfing brain waves of stark score differences from the last two holes while the gauntlet of tree infested gulleys left of the fairway begin summoning my ball during my pre shot routine. The fairway is wide enough right that the left should not be considered, yet the sorcery that lies within each hole starts whispering my name as the wind lightly dances between every blade of grass. "Joshhhh... Joshhhhhh...." softly caressing my ears. The whispering evolves into a hypnotic melody of hymns consuming every atom within me, gaining full control of my body.
Brain: "Don't listen to the grass sirenes... You're better than that!"
Body: "I need it... I want it..."
Brain: "Lock! It!! UP!!!"
Body: "The melody... It's so beautiful... I must be with them."
Brain: "Your self confidence... Remember the rocket fuel... What is all this for?"
Body: "It's for self deprecation... My sacrifice."
An ultimate snap hook of snap hooks. The ball started left and abruptly turned more left. The ball would have boomeranged back to the tee box if it wasn't for the gauntlet swallowing it whole. I sat there paused for a minute as I awoke from my trance then a sudden rush of emotion took over me that could only be described as sadnessangerdissapointmentlaughablepain. To avoid public embarrassment I sucked a tear back into my body from the left tear duct that landed on the last warm part of my heart. What once was rocket fuel pumping through my veins has turned into a chilled darkness of self realization.
Brain: Impersonating Denny Green, "You are who we thought you were."
Body: Impersonating young Simba, "Help... Somebody... Anybody... Help."
To avoid further punishment and assuming my ball is unplayable, I take an illegal drop, at the point of each entry into the abyss, for a one stroke penalty. The next shot finds itself rolling into the left greenside bunker. My corpse reeks of defeat as I go through the motions. Up in 4, two putt double.
Brain: "If I could, I would kick you square in the nuts right now."
Body: "I think I feel a hernia developing."
The long rope of good breaks and timely shots I have been playing with is slowly wrapping itself into a noose. It starts slipping through my fingers and slithering its way around my neck. With every step up to the 15th tee box, the faint smell of rope burn evolves to a strong stench of flesh burning as the noose tightens, wringing my neck like a wet towel of flesh. My head beginning to sever itself from my body but with my last look at life I peek over my left shoulder and see the beauty of 15 resembling that of Augusta's 12th.
144 yards of elegant mastery that takes into all considerations of a fair and demanding golf shot. The barranca acts as Rae's Creek which flows into a trio of steep bunkers proceeding the left to right angled green that is wider than it is deep. Too short and you're fighting an uphill battle potentially stumbling into a multitude of bunkers. Too long and you're in the back bunker hitting into a severely sloped back to front green hoping you don't end up in the front bunkers or barranca you tried to avoid with the first shot. To top it off, there is a vacant area of trees right of the green that permits the wind to dance with your golf ball as it flutters over the green. After a few drams of whiskey you may be able to squint yourself to Amen Corner.
Brain: "Commit to this 9 iron."
Body: "Commit to my ass. I've had enough of your shit."
Brain: ... radio silence
Absolutely flushed it. It's like this hole was made for me. I have risen from the dead!
The hairs on my arms start to rise as goosebumps cover from my waist to my neck underneath my shirt.
Brain: "Is this what it's like when I don't interfere?"
Body: "... is that... the wind..."
At the peak height launch angle, my ball hits the imaginary wall of defeat fluttering to a negative descent angle. Front left bunker...
Brain: "HA!! Did you mistake wind for an orgasmic golf shot?"
Body: "Don't feel ashamed... It happens to the best of us."
The brain body barrier could not be farther from one another. Splash out to the long left side of the green avoiding the back bunker by a few feet. Empathetic two putt. Bogey.
I'm officially skipping out on reality. My mind wanders to an unlocked superpower of meditation that health professionals call Schizophrenia. I'm Tom Hanks floating in the middle of the Pacific. I'm shirtless, burnt to a crisp, and watching Wilson float away... As he continues to float I question, "What is there left to live for?" My gaze darkens between each blink of my crusted eyelids before the metaphoric fog horn of the cruise ship teleports me back to the beauty of the16th tee box.
MacKenzie put two large tilted whiskey barrels underneath the 392 yard par 4 fairway shielding a narrowed landing spot ahead. I wield the driver from the bag and low toe a 230 yard draw fueled by desperation that catches the right side of the rough. The walk from tee to the unveiling of this green is like watching your first sunset over a vast ocean, experiencing the dance of dangerous beauty awakening an oxymoronic sensation of isolated togetherness. Tiered in 3 sections gradually stair stepping in elevation as you walk from front to the back. The pin is tucked into the back right location luring you into a mistake of bunkers or barranca.
Brain: "It's so beautiful here, let's not do this. Can we talk?"
Body: "I've been so alone and scared without you..."
Brain: "Let's hit a golf shot and put all of this behind us."
Body: [Eggplant emoji]
Stock 7 iron clipped clean lands just past the pin and rolled long before halting a few inches short of the back fringe. A slippery, 30 foot downhill putt raced about 10 feet past the hole which may have ended in the front barranca if the greens played at their normal pace. Next putt, bottom of the cup. Par.
17 runs parallel to the10th fairway and weak minded individuals like myself use that to our advantage. I line up as if the middle of the fairway is the edge of the right rough and send a high faced balloon cut that clears the trees on the right giving me a decent look into this green. 8 iron from about 150 yards out sticks on the green. Two putt par.
Brain: “This game is easy when we work together.”
Body: “Together is my happy place.”
Walking off 17 and I realize the ride is almost over. My pace is consciously slower as I take one last gaze at the back nine from the top of the ridge. Taking it all in through one last breath before stepping up to the 18th tee box. Only 173 yards stood between me and finishing +1 on the last 4 holes, mirroring the first 4 of the front 9. From the box the 173 yards evolves into a fear based impossible endeavor. What once was an easy 7 iron is now a 155 yard carry over death valley waiting to swallow the last bit of soul I have left. I begin to wrestle in my mind with the slope changes around the green while a trio of talking heads swirl around me perpetuating negative callouts like “don’t be short,” or “can’t be long here,” and “get it close or you’ll risk a three putt.” My 7 iron thinly clips the ball to the back of this drastically back-to-front sloped green. The touchy second shot is a fluffy chip that leaves about 50+ feet of three putt hell. I took one last dance with the devil for a double bogey on 18.
I finished the round at 19 over for a net +3 on the day.
Mackenzie’s Pasatiempo is a must play once in your life. The journey is a beautiful and enduring journey that tests your mental fortitude. A true test of a golfer's skill. The subtle twists and turns that weave in and around the barranca will challenge your mind and body. A challenge that must be accepted.
