After my 68 with a hole in the front of my trousers, I managed to make the leaderboard, not to mention the 3rd round of our opening venue. We are in sunny Laguna Seca, where you have to ID Card every girl to prevent from booking a night at the sheriffs. Because I still have the allure of scoring 5 touchdowns in one game for the home town crowd, ( a feat not even Al Bundy accomplished) I can still claim ignorance, when the cop pulls up to my black El Camino and a freshman in High school in my lap. Face down.
That was a theoretical thought, not like I go by lurking the high school, everyday.
The first hole at Coral is a thigh numbing par 4. Thigh numbing in the sense when you hit your elevated tee shot the last thing you want to watch is your ball travel 200 yards and dunk itself in the only fucking creek on the course which you have to cross 5 fucking times. Type of ball you have to hit with your nut sack hanging below your ankles as if you were about to jump to death off a building. Not to mention there is nothing worse than watching some atrocious ball flight that is destined for more woods than a state park. This shot can be a moment of truth for some promising golfers. I have heard of a golfers going in the creek, tossing their clubs, slugging the caddy, then burning out in the parking lot–before hitting the third (because of the penalty) shot. I think this course would be less menacing if they only had cart girls and not the guys gymnastics team. You know, someone you might be able to slip $20 dollars towards with your fly down. At least they would consider it. I think.
I managed to calm my nervous and stripe a 9.5 lofted carver down the right side to set up what would be a wonderful day. I avoided crack swamp, the creek, and the clap. Good day in my book. Not to mention I put myself in position to win back more than my entry fee and quite possibly go to San Francisco’s Polk street Sunday night: Just to see what’s out there.
More on the final round in a moment.
