Tees: Gold | Rating: 141 | Slope: 72.5 | Handicap Index: 11.1 | Course Handicap:16 | Architect: Alister MacKenzie
Do you ever dream about playing Augusta? Of course you do. You dream about Augusta like you dream about sipping a pour from The Macallan Fine & Rare 1926. You want it, but you know you will never taste the sweet nectar of those rolling lush greens. Do you ever dream about Augusta’s 1929 single barrel bourbon Pasatiempo? Didn't think so... But now you will. Once you play Pasatiempo you will be satisfied that you've tasted fruit from the MacKenzie family tree.
First tee... Nothing beats standing at the elevated first tee ready to embark on an Alister MacKenzie journey. Two members, one being the 14 time women's champ, watching with a keen eye to see what side of your 11 handicap you fall on today. That sweet feeling of your throat sinking into the back of your gooch when you step up to your tee'd up TP5x with the big stick in hand. Bang! 315 yard draw down the left side of the fairway taking the perfect approach into this elevated green that slopes from left to right.
Members: "Greens are slow today.”
Brain: "Take all the help you can get today, bud!" Up on two. Two putt par. Heart rate has settled from 180 BPM to a cool casual 120 BPM.
Second hole tee shot will take your lunch money if you go errant here, but who has time to think about that when you're even through one and you all of a sudden start to think you have a chance to break the course record at one of the most legendary courses in the states. Good thing I left my ego back in Arizona after I striping my second tee shot with the big stick down the middle.
Member One: "How are you an 11 handicap with that swing?"
In true Chad golf fashion I gave him the ol' [insert playful joke about how I've already hit all my good golf shots for the day.] Tee to green is on fire through 2 as I squeeze a nice wedge to about 15 feet into a pin tucked behind a front left bunker. Down hill knee knocker misses right edge on the amateur side. Stress free par. Easy game… Right?
Hole 3 is the type of hole MacKenzie really wants you to overthink. Not only does he want you to overthink your golf shot, but he wants you to overthink where your life journey has led up to this point. Uphill 222 yard par 3 that slopes left to right surrounded by death bunkers begging you to curl a little pillow fade. Pull it left, and you’re in a bunker hitting downhill into a sloping green that runs away from you faster than your 23-year old conscious on a weekend bender. Miss right and you’re calling on the pope to Hail Mary the ball in the bunker so you’re not hitting over it on your second shot.
Brain: “Play it smart... 5 iron lay up. Bogey is par here.”
Body: “Yeah, we’ll give it a go Brain. Fuck it.”
Tee shot is 30 yards short. Fat chip. Clean chip to 3 feet. 1 putt bogey. Stole one there and I feel like breakdancing through 3.
Feeling good at the number 4 tee box. Short 375 yard par 4 and the driver takes all bunkering out of play, but driver is the worn sheaves in my elevator golf game. However… I’m on my Mac Dre game today... I'm at the course and I’m feelin’ myself.
Brain: “Full send?...”
Body: “I’ll allow it."
The old classic Cudi power fade that shows up right when I need it. Leaving me about 85 yards just right of the fairway hitting into a green that is longer than it is wide from my angle. It's calling for a crispy wedge to a middle pin that plays in between two bunkers. Someone picked up the call. 40 feet for bird. 2 putt par. Hello love.
I’m one up through 4 going into 5 feeling like I'm Michael moonwalking into Mowtown 25. 190 yard par 3 with the pin in the back right nestled between the three bunkers daring you to attack right at it.
Brain: “Hit that nice low 4 iron draw at the pin then let it run just left of the hole to the fat part of the green”
Body: Forrest Gump voice “YES DRILL SERGEANT!!!”
Brain: mid downswing “I hope you’ve had fun so far Mr. 11 handicap… Let’s bail out bruh!”
The ol’ overconfident, overcomplicated, over this game called golf, golf swing showed up to enter my extraterrestrial body that was playing the first 4 holes and unleashed the Neanderthal. Luckily, I clipped the one dimple on my tee’d up TP5x that allowed the ball to trickle about 15,240,000,000 nanometers into a nice lush thick patch just in front of the next tee box.
Member One: “Oh… That’s why you’re an 11 handicap”
Brain: “Welcome back to 2nd grade, you’re on the playground with 6th graders and it’s your turn for tetherball pipsqueak”. I casually laugh it off while chunking the 2nd shot just far enough to take a quick breather to stop myself from passing out on my true reality that’s ahead of me for the next 13 holes. Just a cool 100 yard shot left to get up and down for a mental stabilization bogey but my jello arms turn to concrete just right above the bottom of the swing sending a thin Lizzy into the back right bunker. At this point I can feel the tension in the air building a cloud of shame as everyone sends laser eyed judgment through the back of my skull. The ball nestled just enough up into the bunker so my downhill lie feels more like a comedy routine rather than punishment. The green runs back to front which of course results in just enough ball clipped to roll off just about 10 yards off the front part of the green.
Brain: “Don’t even think about touching a wedge you shaky hand bastard.”
Body: Caveman voice “Flat stick good."
Putter gets me to about 7 feet, 2 putt quad.
Frustration is not an option as I walk up to the 6th tee because Dr. MacKenzie used to live on the fairway of this hole, so I must play it like a gentleman, swallowing the hate inside my soul. At this point I’m trying to muster up copious amounts of fake confidence to put a good swing together as every negative intrusive thought begins to grow like a fungus in my subconscious. It’s either overswing then pray, or hit an eighty percent shot to get some rhythm back. I chose the former because 1. Faster means less time to think during the swing and 2. This tee box looks like you’re trying to roll a bowling ball down a dime sized alley. Tall trees are lined up on the right of the right to left sweeping fairway protected by a tall mound on the left obstructing your view of the fairway. Luckily, I hit a nice 200 yard hook low off the heel that squibbled over the mound which engaged the flow of oxygen to finally reach my brain.
Member One: “We need to pick it up a little.”
Brain: “This guy was shocked about my 11 handicap 4 holes ago and now he's seen the true me… unfiltered… raw and scared…”
I go with the 4 iron to try and bite off a few more yards of the 567 yard walk along the cart path leaving me about an 8 iron into the green right of the original Mackenzie residence. As I walked along the path to my third shot I came across a plaque embedded into the concrete with a quote from Dr. Alister MacKenzie himself which reads, “It is the successful negotiation of difficulties, or what appears to be such, which gives rise to pleasurable excitement and makes a hole interesting.” It’s like he was speaking to me, as I felt nothing but mental negotiation going on between my brain and body all throughout the round so far. 8 iron short of the front right pin avoiding the death bunkers surrounding it. Up and down in two. Bogey, and onto the next.
Walking up to 7 brings the tree lined fairways into view resembling somewhat of an airplane runway compared to the 6th hole tee box. The confidence building bogey from 6 brought out just enough delusional thoughts for me to reach for the driver, then put it back in the bag. Instead, I go with the modest 4 iron because I’m hoping this will be the club that pulls me from the depths of spiraling out of control on this getable 347 yard par 4. Not the best swing I could produce, and equivalent to a swinging bunt but as they say in baseball, it’s a base hit in the books… FAIRWAY. I’m sitting 185 yards out on the left side of the fairway after my wet newspaper 4 iron and I’m feeling good about a silky laced 6 iron into the pin that is tucked into the back left part of the green. Pick the club, brain is calm, and put the best iron shot I’ve probably hit in the last 30 rounds. It’s an absolute full send piss-missile that sends the ball flying about 15 yards over the flag. I spend about 2 minutes searching for my ball, still remembering that “we need to pick it up a little comment” and then decide to take an illegal drop before the shot clock violation hits my mental. Up and down double that felt like a par.
Number 8 is such a great par three that gets a little lost in the sauce from the ramp up leading to this moment. Slightly downhill playing 176 yards to the middle with the distracting number 9 fairway looming in the background. Lucky for us the pin was front left taking away the contours and gnarly bunkering protecting the back part of this green. 7 iron short sided and left. Up and down in two putts. Safe bogey.
The 9th tee box felt like a whiskey neat after a long day of work. It was something you needed, but if you let it consume you, you’ll wake up the next day with a hangover and in search of a new job. Big boy driver decided to show up flying the left fairway bunker nestling up in the middle of the fairway taking the right fairway bunker completely out of play. There was something about my 3 wood whispering in my ear with a Scottish accent saying “Come on lad, you got a back stop on that green, but do you have the balls to do it?” that made me feel invincible… Until, I wasn’t. Put a great swing on that ball with a slight pull draw which landed about pin high, left of the greenside bunkers ricocheting into the black road abyss of the dreaded white stake. Meanwhile, I awaken from my drunken whisky neat and realize the right side of the hole was the safe bet and my Scottish relatives were always assholes you never listened to. Rather than filling myself with true regret, I do the normal thing any 11 handicapper would do and take another illegal drop where the ball crossed the OB. Up on 5 and two putt double bogey.
One over through four started to feel more like a magic trick than playing golf. As golf normally does, it snapped me back into reality where I finished 10 over on the last five for the front nine. As I reflected walking past the 9th green across the road to the 10th tee, I was elated to know I walked the works of a golf godfather architect. I couldn’t wait to see what the back nine had in store.