Longtime readers of this column know well that for a long time I was The Worst Putter In The World.
There was the day I hit 17 greens, made two birdie putts, and still shot 5-over par 75.
There was the day, at the turn, I quit looking at the ball as I putted and looked at the hole instead.
There were many days, rather than watch my putter strike the ball, I closed my eyes and hoped to hear it fall into the cup.
I’m pretty sure I never putted a ball into a water hazard, but that would be the only infamous thing I failed to achieve over several years of suffering the real-life, blood-curdling, hard-for-playing-partners-to-watch-or-even-explain yips.
Well, the yips are gone, but I’m still waiting to be a good putter again, someday, or any day it actually matters.
It mattered Friday.
I wasn’t good but nor was I awful for 14 holes. There were no three-putts. I made two or three in the three-to-four foot range to complete two-putts, one eight-footer for par and one 15-footer birdie.
I had a three-footer for par at No. 15, a three-footer for birdie at No. 16 and a four-footer for par at No. 17 and missed them all.
On the 18th tee, so dazed, I couldn’t begin to feel my swing. Naturally, I block sliced my drive about 40 yards right, which just happened to leave me 120 yards from a reasonable lie staring at the final pin.
Told you it was a crazy game.
That’s the one the slope of the green set my approach just 12 inches from the cup, leaving me one more short putt, no longer able to feel my hands, I thought I might well miss.