Once, when sitting on the balcony of a Hacienda Del Sol room on a breezy afternoon, I witnessed an array of golfers struggle with a difficult uphill hole. I watched one approach shot after another come up short and roll down into the desert arroyo protecting the elevated green. I saw this tough hole become a truly brutal one for many players. I, of course, imagined how I would play it: carefully off the tee, then over-club to play to the back of this mountainous green.
As I sat there though, I remembered the many times when one errant shot, one miss hit, one bad piece of luck could unravel a round of mine. And, how I always hated the challenge of playing in the wind. It seemed, on such days, I would spend most of my time getting myself in and out of trouble. But, even on a calm day, I could seldom play an entire round without a blow-up hole. If I hit an extra fabulous drive, I might chunk the subsequent approach shot. And, if I were lucky enough to have a short putt for a birdie, I would tighten up so much that anything could happen. I knew I was physically capable of playing better golf, but my attitude was erratic and I was at the mercy of all the unexamined and unexpressed emotions that would affect my conscious and unconscious choices and movements.
Such thoughts were making me antsy. I needed to move. I decided to walk the cart path alongside one of the nines at the adjacent La Paloma Resort and Country Club.
And then I met him. He was selling golf balls that he had gathered from the desert. On a different day, I might have just passed him by. For the narrative's sake, I want to say I was compelled to stop, but the truth is I was planning on playing this difficult desert course later that afternoon and was beginning to wonder if I had enough ammo to complete the round. Being cheap (thrifty really), I was glad to see an opportunity to pick up some found balls.
He was sitting on a tattered lawn chair, which was absolutely out of place at this resort and private club course. Wearing a big straw hat, he watched my approach with a wry smile on his pock-marked, weathered face. Too late to turn back, I asked, "What kind of balls do you have there?"
"What kind do you need?"
"The kind that stay in the fairways and roll true into the cup" I responded.
"Come take a look." He waved me closer.
I left with a bunch of them and a pamphlet he said a friend of his had written. It was titled God is Par, I am Bogey by Schott Shaper.
