photograph by chris mccoy
We’re teeing off late in the day. My hand shakes as I bend to place the tee in the ground; the old feelings never go away.There’s no reason to be nervous. I’m playing a match with old friends and know Galloway like the back of my hand.
The only trouble on the first is a rocky ditch in the right center. I aim right at it — no steering, no guiding — and let it fly. The ball starts at the ditch, apexes, paints a lovely right-to-left arc across the green-and-blue canvas, and comes to rest in the center of the fairway. Safe.
I know the course as well as anyone. My childhood best friend lived on 11 and after school we’d sneak on, play a loop, grab a Coke, and do it again. I’ve probably played the course 200 times. Galloway is home.
Tucker is next to play. He carefully places the ball on the tee, just so. He’s polished, meticulous, but a fearsome competitor. He smokes one low, fading down the center.
Later, Tucker reflects: “I remember we were all wearing T-shirts and shorts. It was super casual, but one of the most high-octane games ever played at Galloway.”
Galloway is thoroughly without tricks, but with a subtle personality, beloved by us locals. During the 2001 renovation, residents demanded: “Make it better, but don’t change anything.” The grainy greens are its only real defense. All locals know Galloway’s immutable law: Always trust the grain.
Hayden follows, wasting no time. He studied economics in college and speaks and swings with economy. Up the plane, down the plane, the ball starts right of the ditch, slings across it, and bounds down the fairway.
He reminisces, “We all played well and had a great match, but you played really well.”
The play that day is chummy and cordial, like any other summer round with my buddies. In retrospect, the accumulation of those ordinary long summer days playing golf together amounts to something sacred, a teenage liturgy of hoofing and swinging and sweating in the sun.
Hays rounds out the foursome, swaggering to the box. He’s talking as he tees the ball up very high. He’s long off the tee. He likes that. Talking, talking, talking, whip back, lift the heel, slam the heel — crack — whip through — quick tee pickup — the white dot launches into the stratosphere, falls, and tumbles past our balls. Perfect. Talking.
He recalls, “I hate that first tee shot with the rock stuff, it’s so dumb. You did everything you were supposed to do. You got super hot. You hit it really tight. You didn’t put that much stress on the putter, which was key, you just made all the stuff you needed to.”
We shoulder our bags and walk down the first fairway. I start with a two-putt birdie. Hays and Tucker match with birdies of their own.
Seven straight uneventful pars follow. On the par-five 9th, I lace a 6-iron to 5 feet and roll it in for eagle.
On the par-three 10th, I nearly hole my tee shot.
Another birdie on 12 — heating up.
The starter’s name is Hollywood. You’ll be sure to remember it because he wears a large gold chain with ~Hollywood~ prominently displayed on his chest. His cart parked next to the first tee says “MARSHAL.” He’s more than that. He is judge, jury, and executioner at Galloway, the first tee his fiefdom.
Birdies strung together on 13 and 14.
Hays remembers, “We were playing so quickly that no one was computing what you were at.”
At 15, a long eagle putt falls. At 17, a birdie putt lips in. Everyone grows quiet, awfully quiet compared to normal. Even Hays.
Standing on the 18 tee, I know I’m deep under par. I just don’t know how deep.
Now I’m nervous, aiming way right, steering my drive away from Walnut Grove.
I can feel the day shutting down as we walk after our balls.
I’m left with 140 yards over a tree. A simple 9-iron. I pick my start line and swing. “Be right,” I whisper, then walk quickly to the green.
I take one quick crouch to read the 10-foot birdie putt and stand up. There is no more time to take my time. I step in, look once more into the dimness, and let it go. I watch it roll, breaking left, riding the grain. It looks good. I take a half-step forward. At the last second, it stalls just right in the teeth, maybe 6 inches short, staring straight at the coarse grain protruding from the cup’s lip.
I chastise myself.
Tap in, shake hands.
After, we go to Huey’s to settle up. Hays takes hold of the card and starts calculating, “Hays 33, 33, 66. Hayden, 34, 33, 67. Tucker, 35, 34, 69. Winston, 32 …” his face moving slightly closer to the card, speech slowing, eyes narrowing, then opening wide, “…28, 32, 28, 60. 60!”
I fall out of my chair. Everyone’s up, crowded around yelling that I’d almost done it.
Looking up at the toothpicks piercing the ceiling, I think, what would I’ve done if I knew?
I don’t know. All I can do is try for one better the next time we walk around Galloway.
