Lee Geiger

Golf is a game that is played on a five-inch course – the distance between your ears.

Bobby Jones

We interrupt this broadcast of pandemics and protests to bring you a very long yet very simple story of complete and utter nonsense, i.e. golf

Saturday, May 30- 9:45 am

The misty rain was nagging and persistent, like a baby whining at the back of the plane. The damp conditions were a drag, as was the sorry state of my golf game. I had just butchered the picturesque 3^rd hole, a squatty par three considered one of the easiest holes on the course. My indifference toward my swing, advertised by the pitiful effort I put into a 9-iron, resulted in a tee shot that missed the green short and right. My subsequent pitch shot had the tempo of a broken guitar string, the ball ending up in the thick greenside rough. Thanks to a Mickelsonian chip shot, I managed to get up and down for bogey. Next.

With a mindset focused on the dark side of par, I pushed my bag of weaponry toward the most painful thorn in my golfing paw – #4 at Spyglass.

Four Weeks Earlier

Preciously at the stroke of seven o’clock in the A and M, I dial up the reservations desk at Pebble Beach Resorts and am placed on hold. The music is calm and soothing, exactly what you’d expect from a seaside Central California oasis considered by many to be the Tiffany of golf, the most expensive Bucket List item on any hacker’s to-do list.

The day before, the resort’s website announced that while the hotels and restaurants would remain closed until mid-June due to COVID-19 restrictions, their two world-class golf courses, Pebble Beach and Spyglass Hill, would be opened for discounted play with special social distancing restrictions, such as no caddies. So, instead of only being granted access to the resort’s lush fairways and tiny greens after forking over $1,500/night for a hotel room, $500/day for the privilege of eating their food and drinking their booze, and having a caddy lug your bag around their hallowed grounds with the most jaw-dropping of views for a C-note plus tip, you could simply make a tee time, throw a bag over your shoulder (or pay $45 for a one-person-only cart), and show up on the first tee as though it was Pebble Beach Muni. Never one to say “no” to a sale on premium golf experiences, I was on this program faster than white on rice.

I end up booking four tee times spread over the month of May; two at Pebble Beach and a pair at Spyglass. I rationalized to myself, and as well as to my bloated credit card, that I was taking advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a Faustian bargain to satisfy my last temptation of Pebble Beach. Upon the completion of this grand slam, the next time I paid for golf inside the confines of 17-Mile Drive would be on my children’s dime (most likely Ross, who enjoys golf. Keith has much nobler pursuits).

Truth be told, I’ve had my fill of the reigning prima donna, a.k.a. Pebble Beach Golf Links. Thanks to growing up in the area, including a stint living next to the first green, I have played Pebble in one form or another no less than fifty times. Yes, I realize that’s a first-world issue, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. The reason I booked two rounds at my old stomping grounds was, 1) to satisfy a commitment corresponding with a Penserra coworker’s birthday wish, and 2) to satisfy a desire to play with a few members of the Moraga Mafia who rarely, or have never, played the course.

Spyglass Hill, on the other hand, is my favorite public golf course on the planet. There are golf courses that fit your game, as well as your mindset, and Spyglass (or “Spy” for short) does it for me. I could literally play this course every day if I had a billion dollars to spare. Pebble Beach gets all the acclaim and accolades, but to me Pebble consists of nine jaw-dropping holes of “OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M HERE” paired with nine holes of “meh.”

Spyglass, meanwhile, is eighteen challenging journeys of unadulterated golf, a layout requiring every strategic shot in your bag of tricks. And while both golf courses are easy on the eyes, Pebble Beach is akin to the homecoming queen, the glamorous blonde with her hair and makeup professionally done, dressed in a ball gown saying, “Look at me, everyone, aren’t I pretty?” Spyglass, in contrast, is the enticingly buxom brunette, a vixen wearing nothing but an unbuttoned man’s dress shirt and a pair of spiked stilettos, seductively whispering into your ear, “Come and get it, Stud.” Works for me.

Tuesday, May 19- Pebble Beach

Round one of the Grand Slam tour begins with a par on the no-brainer first hole. Playing with a pair of Penserra coworkers, one of whom was generously granted a round at Pebble by virtue of a 30^th birthday collection from his peers, the round is light and fun, especially given the fact we haven’t seen one another in weeks due to the coronavirus. I really miss these guys.

The volume of pictures taken is roughly equivalent to the number balls lost. I slap my ball around well at times, including hitting my best drive EVER on the dramatic 18^th hole, but my focus for the day is more on making sure my friends are having the time of their lives. That being said, no round of golf is worth $450, even if it is marked down from $575.

Final Score:  93

Friday, May 22- Pebble Beach

The lowest score I’ve ever posted at Pebble is an 82, a feat I accomplished during the Carter Administration. With today possibly being my last round ever at the historic track, I want to make a serious effort to beat that. Or at least break 90. My focus is high, thanks to playing with three members of the Moraga Mafia, each of whom knows his way around a fairway bunker. One is Sir Lag-a-Lot, my golf-obsessed next-door neighbor who has spent more money on golf paraphernalia than Tin Cup.

The key to posting a good score at Pebble is to take advantage of the opening seven holes. To that end, I manage to par four of the first five holes. I nearly drive the green on #3. I knock my drive to six feet on #5. But reality bites the rest of the way. My swing is a mess, and so is my scorecard. I deposit two balls into the Pacific Ocean on #18. If I never play Pebble Beach again, it will be too soon.

Final Score: 95

Monday, May 25- Spyglass

A picture-perfect, chamber of commerce day awaits. It’s Memorial Day 2020, and the drive down from Moraga flies by. With the cruise control set at 85, there were times when I could not see a single car in front or behind me. It’s a highway to heaven.

I can’t wait to play. I love Spyglass; I even bought a golf bag from the Spyglass pro shop years ago, their logo of a pirate peering through a periscope emblazoned across it. I know the course well, having played it two or three dozen times since the late 1970’s Then there’s this: At $250 vs. the normal rate of $425, Spyglass today is a relative bargain.

My opening drive splits the fairway. I couldn’t have placed it any better. But while walking to my ball, the fairway sprinklers suddenly come on, and I’m forced to do the Macarena in order to hit my next shot. I manage a textbook par on the first hole, but I can feel the bad mojo rising. I spend the proceeding four-and-a-half-hours forgetting how to play golf. My driver completely deserts me, and my irons don’t like me very much either. I finally ascertain that my problem is that I’m standing too close to the ball…after I hit it.

Final Score:  98

Friday, May 29- Boundary Oaks

Sir Lag-a-Lot has convinced me a warm-up round at Boundary Oaks, our home course in nearby Walnut Creek, will cure what ails me. I acquiesce, figuring I’d get the opportunity to work out the kinks of my game on friendly turf. I par the opening hole and shot a near-normal 43 on the front nine. I then spend the next two hours throwing up on myself, shanking a smooth half-a-hundred shots over the final nine holes. Thoughts of slicing my wrists and giving up the game for good seem more than reasonable.

Final Score:  93

Saturday, May 30 – 6:00 am

My Yahoo weather app says there is only a 30% chance of rain in Monterey. But the app sucks, and I should know better. Driving down, I’m truly angry with myself. I haven’t broken 90 all month, and my scores are starting to flirt with triple digits. I ask myself over and over why I’m spending all of this money for all of this agony? I’m playing like crap, and while I’m enjoying the company of my friends, I’m not exactly having a boatload of fun. My game is sick, and I tell myself that after today’s round that I’m going on a self-imposed golf hiatus that will only resurface once a vaccine is found.

I pull into the parking lot and am greeted by Sir Lag-a-Lot. We drove down separately in order to social distance. He shot in the low 80’s yesterday at Boundary Oaks and, as usual, has his game face on. C’mon, man. It’s just golf.

Saturday, May 30- 9:50 am

According to the Pebble Beach Resorts website, “(Course Designer) Robert Trent Jones, Sr.—a man who worked on more than 400 golf courses in his lifetime—calls Number 4 at Spyglass Hill his favorite par-4 he’s ever designed. But he didn’t say it was his favorite to play.”

But wait. There’s more.

“The setting on the tee box is absolutely stunning — a peek into Cypress Point Club behind you, barking Bird Rock to your left, and waves of dunes in front of a camouflaged green straight ahead. But then you have to pull out a club and play the boomeranging short par-4 flanked by sandy trouble.”

The key phrase is “sandy trouble,” and it isn’t meant to be oxymoronic. The sand IS the trouble. Like a Nancy Pelosi press conference, the overwhelming majority of my drives on #4 get pulled hard left into the sand. Hitting your ball into this penal area is akin to skipping the bug spray while touring the Everglades in July; nothing good comes out of it.

I pull the driver from my bag. I reach for a ball in my pocket–a Costco-bought ball stamped with KIRKLAND. Figuring this could be the last time I ever play this hole, I dig into my golf bag and pull out a shiny new Titlist stamped with the number “60” as well as “GEIGER.” My former Caves Valley caddie and longtime good friend Erik Keller gave me a dozen of these on my 60^th birthday. I figure if I lose a ball on this hole, it might as well be for posterity.

I tee up the ball and take my stance, aiming for a distant utility box located on the right side of the fairway. My last thought before taking the club back is this; I’ve never, ever, parred this friggin’ hole.

I activate my glutes and take a mighty swing. My drive is high, straight, and deep. It even has a sweet right to left draw, perfectly suited for this hole. In forty years of playing this lovely yet tortuous stretch of turf, it’s the best drive I’ve ever hit on #4.

Saturday, May 30- 9:55 am

“The beginning of the fairway on the 370-yard hole is generous enough, but the shape of the green forces you to think more aggressively off the tee. At its most forgiving, the slithering fourth green is just 10 paces wide, while it slides between two dunes for 55 yards. It’s a daunting shot with a wedge. If you hit a cautious shot off the tee and leave yourself 180 yards or more, hitting the green feels like a hole-in-one — especially if the ocean breeze is up.”

My ball, with the “GEIGER” logo staring back at me, has rolled through the fairway and nestled two yards into the short rough. I positively nutted my drive. I’ve got a clear shot to the green. Position A-.

Sir Lag-a-Lot’s laser-finder says I have 125 yards to the flag. But it’s in the back of a green that stretches half a football field. Because the green slopes front-to-back, the smart play is to land the ball short and let it roll towards the pin. I have a pitching wedge in my hand, but I change mind and decide to with a 52-degree wedge, which, if I don’t chunk it, usually travels about 110 yards. Taking into account the wind, rain, and the flyer lie in the rough, I expect my ball to travel 115 yards. I take dead aim at the front-center portion of the green.

My approach is high and crisp. It lands on the middle-tier of the three-tiered green and starts rolling downhill ever-so-slowly towards the flag, finishing twelve feet from the hole. Booyah!

Saturday, May 30- 10:00 am

I’m giddy with delight. I have a makeable putt for BIRDIE!!! My three colleagues have made a mess of the hole and are putting for grins and giggles. All chime in with thoughts of how I should hit my putt. “Don’t leave it short, you moron,” pines Sir Lag-a-Lot, famous for lagging five-foot putts. Got it.

My read says the green breaks slightly right toward the ocean. With the flagstick left in for social distancing reasons, I aim for the right edge of the hole and stroke the putt. Halfway there, It looks perfect, but breaks hard left at the end. My ball burns the left lip, stopping six inches past the hole. I tap it in for my par.

I let out a scream and raise my arms in triumph, like Muhammad Ali knocking out Sonny Liston.

“I don’t care what else happens today,” I yell to my friends through the rain drops, “After forty years, I FINALLY parred the fourth hole at Spyglass.”

Life is indeed good.

Postscript:  I proceed to birdie #5, stuffing my drive to within a few feet of the hole. I also par #8, arguably the hardest hole on the course. I finish the front nine with a 41, five over par.

I par #10, then birdie #11 (I had a ten-foot putt for EAGLE…go figure). After parring #12, I’m 4-over par on my round. I’m playing out of my mind.

I bogey #13. On #14, I leave a shot in the bunker and post a double bogey. “Don’t screw up now,” says Sir Lag-a-Lot, “your got too good of a round going. I’m going to help bring you home.”

I par #15, then bogey #16 and #17. Standing on the 18^th tee, I realize that if I can manage to bogey the hole, I’ll shot an 82, equaling my best score EVER at Spyglass. With the strong headwind blowing directly into our faces, I focus hard and stripe it right down the middle of the fairway. My 7-iron approach lands just right of the green. I chip up and two putt for a bogey five. And there you have it.

Final Score:  82.

Life isn’t just good right now. It’s very good. It’s truly amazing how much can change in a day.

Golf sure is a silly game.