Tribute

A foursome from work played the full 18 holes at Jackson Park today. It was Gruber, Jennings (not that Jennings... the other one), Tomlinson, and myself. Tee-time was ten o'clock, which meant no time for work either before or after, which is even better than playing early or playing late, because that always means at least a short visit to the office. None of us had played Jackson Park in a while, so we totally forgot until we got to the eighth hole.

"Wait a sec... isn't this the hole where... yup."

The last time we played this course, we had all started out terribly. It was not a great day for golf... cold, damp, and hazy. I lost a ball in the water on the first hole, then I three or four putted the second hole, which is only about 100 yards in length. Suffice it to say that I wasn't Tiger Woods that day, and neither were my colleagues. So we get to the eighth hole, which is a brutal par four, maybe not quite a dogleg right but certainly a hole that curves that way, and there's a sandtrap on the left. If you have the knack for intentionally putting a slice on the ball, this is your hole. Unfortunately none of us have that talent.

So we all tee it up and hit horrible tee shots. Copithorne tees off last and nails the ball. "Where did it go?" he asks. Well, everyone saw it go up, but we all lost it in the gray skies. No matter, we'll just find it when we get down to that end of the hole.

We didn't.

After looking around for what seems like ten minutes, we convince Copithorne to take a drop. Copithorne takes his drop and puts the next ball in the trap. It takes him two shots to get it out of the trap; his second shot blasts the ball over the green and into the rough. He tries chipping it onto the green, overhits it and puts it back in the trap. Needless to say, we're all laughing our asses off. He's about the snap a club over his knee. His next shot finally lands on the green. Naturally, he's still the furthest away, which just adds to the amusement.

He lines up a putt from forty feet away. "This is seven," he says. "Actually, it's eight," says Gruber, "The drop is a one stroke penalty." Copithorne is pissed. "Eight, fuck you, whatever. You want to remove the pin?"

"You think you're going to sink a forty foot putt on your eighth shot?" comes the reply.

Well, Copithorne lines up the putt and gives it a stroke, which it needed because the greens were slow that day... and it curls all the way into the cup... from forty feet away... with the pin still in place. We're all dumbstruck. Copithorne gives a little Shooter McGavin finger pistol and goes to retrieve his ball while I start lining up my shot. He goes to pick up the ball and stops.

"Guys? Take a look at this."

"What?"

"Come take a look at this."

We all just sort of saunter over to the cup... where we see two balls just hanging out in there.

"Is that..."

"No way. Titleist 4?"

Copithorne pulls both of the balls out. They're both Titleist Fours. We couldn't find his tee shot because it had gone straight into the hole.

"Is that an ace?" Copithorne asks incredulously, "Is that a hole-in-one?"

None of us says anything for a minute, then Gruber pipes in, "Well, it would have been, but you took a drop, so it's an eight." Dead silence. Then hysterics.

Well, when we reached that eighth hole and remembered what had happened, I think we all got the same idea at once. "Take an eight and move on?" I suggested. Everyone just sort of smiled in the goofy way that guys don't like to talk about. We took a few minutes and just walked around the hole, reliving the shot, chuckling a bit, but not saying much. I picked through the extra balls in my bag and found a beat up Titleist 4 in it. We walked over, placed it in the hole, and walked off to the ninth. I knew the next group would probably remove it when they got there, but it didn't matter much. Just a small tribute to our friend. Wherever you are, buddy, I hope the grass is greener and there aren't any hazards.