Pasatiempo: Neutering Golfers Since 1929

This is a cycle that many golfers share: You post some good numbers at the local muni, maybe low 80s or flirt with breaking 80. You start to practice because the days are longer in summer and your golf fever increases. "I've got game; I'm pretty good. I'm feeling it."

Then you go to a big-boy course and get emasculated.

Such was the case with our foursome over the weekend at Pasatiempo in the hills above Santa Cruz, California. We played from the white tees, 6,125 yard with a slope of 136. We are decent golfers, 11, 12, 15 handicaps, in that range, but no one in the group broke a 100. Oh, it's a par 70. It was $165 each with a cart and in some ways was worth the price for a borderline-historic course that is in the top courses nationally and designed by Alister MacKenzie.

I have never played a course that had more Jekyll and Hyde qualities. The first three holes are not that hard but I had some nerves and three-putted the first two holes. You then have a difficult up-hill par 3 of 190 yards. Everything out here is heavily bunkered, the greens are slick, balls roll off the green before you can mark and you know that this is not your 115-slope crap course next to the dog track.

Every hole is different, another indicator of a great course. I birdied a couple holes but would then take a triple on an uphill 175-yard par three. I then had a parade of Snowmen, mother of God I swear I have never had trip, consecutive ochos. Our group likely had a couple four putts.

The carts do not have GPS. With hindsight we all should have bought the yardage book. Case in point is the uphill par 4 11th, 390 yards with a ravine smack in the middle. In our group a 7 won the hole. The problem is you don't know how far it is to the ravine; you think it's like 190 yards so you hit a 5-iron thinking it should get you close enough to go for a utility. But, I butchered my 5 iron and then started shooting balls into the ravine. Oh, the green did not just have a "false front" but more like a fake two-thirds. You had to put the ball all the way in the back to keep it from running off the green.

Another ball-buster is the number 16, top handicap hole par 4 365 yards to a triple-tiered green. Our buddy Pete lashed a low screamer right down the middle that we never found. The fairway slopes right to left and he should have been in the middle.

The only thing that was weak about the place was the wait we had on the first few holes and the range having mats. Uh, high end places should have you hitting off grass with those little pyramids of balls already stacked.

Analysis of My Stats

Like any obsessed golfer I look at my score cards trying to break the code. As if I could find something that would jump out at me and fix my game.

I have found a telling stat. Eighty-percent of my double bogeys and worse come from bad drives. It's rare for me to get off the tee well and then take a double or worse. I count a "bad drive" as something where I either had a penalty or had to take an extra shot just to be where a good drive should have landed.

I had a weird stat last week at Alameda. I only had one green in regulation, one legit birdie chance on a flat easy course, but only had 27 putts. Most of us bogey golfers deal more with AGR--Almost Greens in Regulation.

I'm convinced that golf is not a game of excelling but more a game of disaster avoidance. In my 100 at PasaTiempo I had 10 horrendous holes of double and worse and only three good holes--birdies and pars. Cut back on the disasters and the scores could have been in the low 90s, not that good still but a hell of a lot more palatable than triple digits.


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I Broke 80, Bitches!!!!!!!!

If you are not remotely interested in golf just walk the F away. Scat. Rory this, Rory that. Folderol. This is a story about a 12-handicapper, Mr. Michael J. Spencer, who brought desert golf gagging and choking to its knees one fine day on a podunk muni in Palm Springs on Super Bowl weekend in 2011.

For the rest of you, let me tell the story. Pull up a chair and pop a cold one. Glug, glug, glug, here you go. I played from the blues, 6300 yards at Cimarron Resort


Rory was born to golf. I wasn't. He and his silky swing and Gumby-like flexibility. Going 16-under at the US Open was his birthright. I, on the other hand, was born to aspire to journalism, club rugby and private investigations.

I took up golf at the tender age of 35, battling a whopping astigmatism, impatience and saltiness. What set me on my golf odyssey was fat old farts drubbing me on a course in Reno in 2000. I vowed never again to lose to men who couldn't get out of their Cadillacs sans walker and hydraulics.

The day prior I had shot a pedestrian 94 on a much tougher track near Palm Springs. As my usual habit, I perseverated the minutiae of the failed round over night, tossing and turning about missed putts, missed drives, errant approaches, the bitter unfairness of it all. Then I got right back on my horse.

Went to the range, no magic but some decent shots. I joined my foursome on the T box, two older dudes with a strong Midwest accountant/possible aging lover vibe and an even older guy,
Eric, recovering from hip surgery and chain-smoking. Eric would be my Obi-Wan Kenobi for the round.

My drives more or less found the fairways on the front 9. I think I had two birdies and no doubles, in for an amazing 37. I wasn't even drinking but I drank a ton of water.

Pace of play started to slow. At the turn I had a big boy Coors Light. I had to piss like a stallion but play was under way and the place was stingy with its outhouses. To maker matters worse, no bathrooms out on the course and not even some decent cover for me to let Big Ed out for some air without fear of scaring away the Ladies Club. I of course knew that I had to come in under 43 for my magic sub 80 round.

It was on the 10th hold that I spazzed a drive and then lashed a fairway wood to 40 yards out to an uphill green. Then, magic! I softly gripped a lob wedge and holed it. Up on the green, a few hops and down she went.

I still had to pee, horrendously so. We now waited on each t box for about five minutes because of the slow pace. At hole 15 I knew I had a good chance if I could avoid the meltdown.

On the 17th, short par 3 over water, I hit into the drink but my ball skipped to within 2-feet of terra firma. It was in mud against a rock. I waded in and hit a wedge over the green into a bunker. I started to think I could take a triple and then all bets would be off whether I could make the magic number. I hit out of the bunker to about 6-feet and sank the putt.

I was on in regulation on the par 5 18th. I think I 3-putted but could care less cause I had sealed the deal.

At the end of the round Eric bought me beers. Turns out he was a retired gym teacher from Washington who had played collegiate rugby. He downed three Irish coffees, congratulated me and I took off.