The other day when it hit five degrees and I was on the side of the house trying to get our water heater to kick on, I was thinking about the only high school golf tournament I ever won.
I know, glory days. But I needed the distraction as I pushed buttons and twisted knobs and posed pensively with my screwdriver in my warmest Carhartt jacket as the tech support people on the other end of the phone emailed me detailed instructions on how to dismantle and rebuild the blessed thing.
I don't remember many of the particulars of that tournament-- whether it was in my junior or senior year or who we played against (there were three other high schools involved, which made it a real tournament and not just a match between schools)--but I remember the pertinent circumstances.
It was bitterly cold. Not quite freezing, but in the 30s. Ice floated in the water hazards. Wind whistled. Some Canadian air mass had sneaked down to northwest Louisiana to set up shop for the day, inviting us to come get some.
"It's Viking weather, boys!"
That was our golf coach in the parking lot while we were changing into our spikes and parkas. He was a good enough guy, a vice principal who had once been a college quarterback and, last time I checked, still held the career interception record at the Division One school he attended. He wasn't much of a golfer, which we all counted as a plus because he didn't try to change anybody's grip.
He made the quip about it being Viking weather because, seeing how our team was representing Airline High School, our mascot was naturally a Viking.
(Right. The Airline Vikings. Not the Airline Cancellations or the Airline Flight Attendants or the Airline Frequent Fliers or the Airline Maintenance Delays. Not, as our rivals sometimes called, us the Airline Stewardesses. The Vikings. Because how else are you going to get from Oslo to St. Paul, Olaf?)
And you know how berserkers are. They like it cold. That's when they do some of their best pillaging.
We were skeptical of all the rah-rah, but cold as it was, the sun was out, a weak and timid dime-like disk hanging in a pewter sky. We were out of class two periods early. We had snazzy knit wool hats in our school colors of powder and navy blue (because Vikings like baby blue) with the letters AHS stitched on then front.
We were proud of these knit wool caps until we walked into the pro shop and the crusty old 108-pounder behind the register looked up through his haze of Pall Mall smoke, nipped the heater from his lips and said, "AHS? What's that stand for? A** H*** School?"
We each traded scorecards with a player from another school and went out in foursomes. Each team's No. 4 player played with the other teams' No. 4 players, with the biggest hacks going off first and the better players in the final group. I wasn't in the final group, but probably in the third to last. So I didn't know what was happening behind me.
I am no longer a Viking; I will not hit a golf ball if the temperature is less than 45 degrees. So I don't know what it feels like to hit a modern (softer) ball with a modern (more forgiving) six iron when it's certifiably cold.
But I will never forget what it was like to mis-hit a freeze-dried Top-Flite (we saved the Balata-covered Titleists for reasonable weather) with a Ben Hogan Director iron that, under ideal conditions, had a sweet spot the size of a pimple on a gnat's elbow.
If lightning were cold and struck you precisely along the path of your ulnar nerve before flashing white in your head, it might approximate the shock of that misbegotten swing. Add to that the psychic pain of watching your ball skitter like a rabbit toward the woods, headed nowhere in particular but away from your intention. It was disheartening.
I could have hacked it around better with a Skeggøx.
Yet we persisted. When we got about six holes in and realized our coaches weren't doing their usual golf cart patrolling but had elected to hunker down in the clubhouse with Jack Daniel's and pigs-in-blankets, a couple of the guys on another team pulled out joints. I cannot say for certain whether any putts outside the leather were conceded; all I can say is that I putted everything out.
I've always been a rule-follower, a bit of a Boy Scout. I didn't bend the rules in a golf tournament, no matter how absurd it was getting.
As we chopped our way around the back nine, we noticed some of the groups ahead of us had given up and were walking in. I asked one of my buddies why and he gave me a look.
"Ran out of balls," he said. "Have to withdraw."
"What are you playing? I might have some in my bag."
He gave a 1,000-yard stare and just kept walking.
We soldiered on. Bogey golf seemed an achievable goal and all of us, even the potheads, began to play a little better on the last few holes. I was looking at mid-80s, which was by no means good and might even get me demoted a slot or two, but wasn't the worst score ever shot in a high school golf tournament.
We putted out on 18, went up to the clubhouse to post our scores, and found most of our teammates waiting for us. (Some, who'd come in their private cars rather than riding in the team van, had already left.) My coach was a little annoyed with me for making everyone wait around for us to finish, although he tried not to let on.
Other than my group, only a couple of other players finished the round. (One of them, a guy who really deserves credit, shot a 139.) The No. 1 group, which had teed off after us, had quit after three holes. So my legitimate 85--maybe 86--was the low round.
I was the medalist. I won the tournament, although none of the teams turned in enough scores to make it an official event. I don't know if my victory counted, but I'm claiming it anyway.
And I could try to turn this into some story about perseverance and how sometimes a turtle can best a hare by continuing to put one stolid foot in front of the other. But in real life it's kind of embarrassing to have won in this way, on a day when anyone with any sense at all should have recognized the pointlessness of the endeavor.
I never got the water heater to work. We ended up calling trained professionals. It only took them a couple of tries.
I've got to get better at knowing when to quit.
Philip Martin is a columnist and critic for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].