As I parked my old, ragged GMC pickup at the Big Mo Country Club, I seemed out of place. It was plum funny. An old pick parked alongside of a Mercedes Benz, an Audi, and other fancy sports cars. I felt as comfortable as a sore tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs. My fellow golfers had new clubs, expensive bags, cute buggies, and nice carts. They wore fancy hats, nice shoes, and leather gloves. For me, I had some used clubs and bag donated by a former church member and some out-of-date golf shoes I bought on sale.
I knew golf protocol and the proper attire. I did own a decent golf shirt and pair of docker slacks. With each new arrival, the more insignificant I felt.
The only reason for my attendance at the two-man scramble at
the country club was to help my brother’s church raise money for a mission
project. I am not a golfer, but I did
take golf as an elective at the
I was good enough that Dr. Collins, the golf teacher, asked me to join her college team. I was pastoring a church, working at the University carpenter shop, and taking a full set of classes. I spent my spare time being a husband and dad. I told Dr. Collins that I did not have time to play golf.
Dr. Collins said that I had a gift for putting and loved the way I could hit the long ball. One day in class, she observed me as I practiced pitching the ball using the pitching wedge. She asked, “Can you make that shot with the whole class watching?” I told her that I thought I could. She had the class stop for a moment and informed them that Mr. Hopper was going to demonstrate how to pitch the ball to the hole.
I took dozen balls and pitched them to the hole from a distance of about fifteen to twenty feet. Each ball hit the flagstick and fell into the cup. As I made each shot, Dr. Collins discussed my form and rhythm.
In putting class, Dr. Collins asked how learned to putt. I told her that she would not believe me. You should have seen her expression when I told her I learned at putt-putt golf.
Before the two-man scramble, I had played very little golf. I did not have the time or the money. Playing golf is an expensive hobby. In reality, I had rather throw a football or shoot a basketball than chase a little white ball all over creation.
Well, that morning at Big Mo Country Club I did not know what to expect being my first Tournament. There were dozens of men going through rituals and preliminaries of the game.
Among the players was a former co-worker from the cement plant. Butch had to retire from the electrician crew due to a crippling injury to his wrist. Butch was a member of my brother’s church. He loved and played golf as often as any retiree could.
He and I became partners in the two-man scramble, and we were paired with a couple of guys to make our team. Butch and I kept their scores and they kept ours.
Butch and I made a good team. He could knock the cover off that little white ball, but he struggled putting. My strong suit was putting. On each hole, Butch insisted that I tee-off first. He wanted to see how good my drive was. By rule, two-man teams could choose the best ball on each play/stroke. If I made a good shot, Butch would take a chance; he knew if he blew the shot, we could play my ball.
In the beginning, our two teammates were winning. Butch and I were not bad, they were better. We had fun. On one hole, I sliced the ball so bad that it hit a tree and bounced in behind us. That put pressure on Butch to make a good drive. Butch stuttered if you looked him in the eye. On my bounce behind drive, Butch stuttered, “Give me that club before you kill somebody.”
The fifteenth hole was “dog leg” 550-yard, par five. I had my best drive of the day. I hit a perfect drive straight to fairway directly below the hole. Butch stuttered, “I’m gonna hit the ball over the pine trees toward the hole. As he hit the ball, it went high above the pines toward the hole. It was a beauty. It wasn’t too pretty for the other two guys. Our two incredible shots must have frustrated them. On this hole, one wrapped his club around a huge pine and the other threw his club in the swamp, I think to be with the ball he hit there. I still don’t know what the pine tree did to the other player.
Our partners wasted several strokes trying to get close to my ball. Several minutes and strokes later, we drove our carts down the trail adjacent to the fairway to locate our golf balls. Mine was easy. It was about 150 yards from the hole. Our teammate’s balls were harder to find, but Butch’s was the hardest. We thought Butch’s ball might be lost. We started looking in the rough, and finding a couple I wanted to make sure it was Butch’s ball, so I asked what the name of the ball he used was. I found several, but none was his. When we finally found Butch’s ball it was not in the fairway, nor the rough, but fifteen feet from the hole, just a foot off the putting green. I putted it in. That means that it was three strokes under par, what I think is called a “double birdie.”
When I got home, I was carrying a large trophy, which is now in my home office. The wife and kids wanted to know whose trophy I had. I told them that I won it. They said, “Sure you did. You don’t even play golf.” I said I don’t, but I know how and that Butch and I won the tournament and a score of 72.
I did think it was ironic that we won, but we made a great pair. Our combined skills and gifts complemented each other.
In the devotional Playing the Game in the section “Character: The Infallible Test,” the late Dr. Stephen Olford writes, “No other sport requires the level of integrity expected in the golf game.”
. . . if anyone competes as an athlete, he does not receive the victor's crown unless he competes according to the rules (2 Timothy 2:5 NIV).
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