Four alarms simultaneously shrieked as the clock tolled 7:30am. Drunk, delirious, and cotton-mouthed, Beebles, Fez, Funk, and Smits arose from the floor with the swiftness of a zombie. Try as they might, there was no more delaying the inevitable - the Penn Tower Classic was scheduled to commence in less than an hour.
Fez and Funk collected themselves in time to dash across the street for a quick breakfast sandwich. Smits and Beebles pillaged what was left of the chocolate chip cookies and pop tarts. Everyone drank a cup of coffee hoping for the caffeine to jolt them awake, but the effects were negligible. It is one thing for the body to repair itself after a night of binge drinking, but when combined with the mental stress caused by a looming, grueling athletic competition, no morning remedy will succeed.
Food and coffee consumed, the KeyPAP clan hastily dressed themselves and walked outside toward Fez's car. The sun shone bright that morning, blitzing their dulled senses with tenacity of an NFL linebacker. Smits put his forearm in front of his baggy eyes to allow them time to adjust to the sudden stimulus.
They hoisted their golf bags into the trunk and off they drove down Queens Boulevard toward Forest Park Golf Course. No words were spoken on the ride.
As Fez pulled his Lexus into the parking lot, the KeyPAP clan was greeted by tumultuous applause. A large crowd was expected, but nothing near this magnitude. Cars filled every available parking space, many having to park on the shoulder of the surrounding local roads. One space remained at the front, however, reserved for the Penn Tower Classic competitors.
They climbed out of the car, put on their golf shoes and walked briskly to the first tee. The grounds crew had worked tirelessly all morning to bring the playing conditions up to a level suitable for the KeyPAP Tour's flagship event. Their work was superb - the tee box on the 1st hole was cut tightly with not a single divot in sight. A few droplets of dew clung to the tips of perfectly trimmed blades of grass.
Beebles was the first to tee off. He slowly made his way to the first tee, set his ball then stepped back a few paces for three deliberate practice swings. Two words repeated themselves incessantly in Beebles' mind: solid contact. Twenty years of experience had ingrained the correct pattern of movements into his musculoskeletal system in preparation for this moment. Now all he had to do was execute. Repeating this phrase was the cue which allowed Beebles to get his brain out of the way and let his body do the work.
Beebles took one deep breath and walked up to the left of his ball with the stealth of a lion closing in on an unsuspecting gazelle. An eerie silence engulfed Forest Park as the crowd came to a hush for the first shot of the day. Only the distant whirring of traffic and the songs of birds could be heard. In this perfect moment, Beebles drew his driver back and swung forth on his ball with the might of Thor, Norse God of Thunder. The ball took off over the tree shadows and carried over the fairway. Its path stayed true and after a few seconds the ball landed and rolled onward, coming to a stop 300 yards from the tee in the middle of the fairway.
The crowd let out a deafening roar as Beebles reached down to retrieve his broken tee. They had come expecting to see elite talent on display and Beebles had satisfied their appetite. Little did they know that the next four hours would be a whirlwind of emotional toil and physical atrophy.
In similar fashion Funk, Fez, and Smits teed off. The four men traversed the first hole with grace and class while the crowd marveled at their abilities. When all four balls took their turn rattling into the bottom of the cup, Funk had taken the early lead.
For the next three holes the PTC competitors snaked their way through the crowd as they hit their shots. All four competitors came out at the top of their game physically, jockeying for position while Funk clung to his narrow advantage.
The first dramatic even of the tournament occurred at the 5th hole. After sinking a beautiful putt on the par-4 4th, Fez was set to tee off first at the 5th hole, a dangerous dog-leg right with a dense collection of trees encroaching on the right side of a narrow fairway. Fez set himself to tee off just as he'd done thousands of times before. But as he reached the peak of his backswing, a squirrel scurried across the teebox not ten feet in front of his ball. The crowd cried out in collective shock as Fez, concentration lost only for a split-second in time, grazed the ball with the bottom of his driver. The ball was pounded straight into the ground and only managed to bounce forward far enough to clear the ladies' tees.
Fez stood dumbfounded on the teebox searching for answers that could explain what had just occurred. He'd spent hundreds of hours on the driving range with mis-hit golf balls crossing his path and loud ball retriever vehicles driving in front of his line, among a plethora of other distractions. How could this squirrel cause him to lose control when he needed it most?
The three other competitors teed off with their balls in much better position. Shaken, Fez walked up to his ball for his second shot. The ball had landed deep in the thick, lush rough and he would need an absolutely perfect shot to get back onto the fairway. But he could not evoke from his broken down body the necessary precision to accomplish this daunting task. Instead the ball popped up and landed in the bunker at the edge of the woods 50 yards away.
Fez raised his face to the heavens and let out a howl reminiscent of a lone, wounded wolf trapped deep in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. "Not again!" he exclaimed.
Confidence fully abdicated, Fez walked to the bunker for his third shot which he could only push a few yards further into the sand. Smits looked away, vowing not to dwell on Fez's struggles while he took his second shot from the fairway. All of the athletes were affected by this meltdown. It reminded them what was possible if they failed to put every ounce of testicular fortitude into their efforts that day. When the strokes had been tallied Fez was charged with a dreadful 11.
In the days that followed, Fez's performance on the 5th hole was succinctly coined "The Collapse." He went on to tally a second consecutive 11 on the 6th hole, all but eliminating him from the tournament from that point forward.
To be continued . . .
Fez and Funk collected themselves in time to dash across the street for a quick breakfast sandwich. Smits and Beebles pillaged what was left of the chocolate chip cookies and pop tarts. Everyone drank a cup of coffee hoping for the caffeine to jolt them awake, but the effects were negligible. It is one thing for the body to repair itself after a night of binge drinking, but when combined with the mental stress caused by a looming, grueling athletic competition, no morning remedy will succeed.
Food and coffee consumed, the KeyPAP clan hastily dressed themselves and walked outside toward Fez's car. The sun shone bright that morning, blitzing their dulled senses with tenacity of an NFL linebacker. Smits put his forearm in front of his baggy eyes to allow them time to adjust to the sudden stimulus.
They hoisted their golf bags into the trunk and off they drove down Queens Boulevard toward Forest Park Golf Course. No words were spoken on the ride.
As Fez pulled his Lexus into the parking lot, the KeyPAP clan was greeted by tumultuous applause. A large crowd was expected, but nothing near this magnitude. Cars filled every available parking space, many having to park on the shoulder of the surrounding local roads. One space remained at the front, however, reserved for the Penn Tower Classic competitors.
They climbed out of the car, put on their golf shoes and walked briskly to the first tee. The grounds crew had worked tirelessly all morning to bring the playing conditions up to a level suitable for the KeyPAP Tour's flagship event. Their work was superb - the tee box on the 1st hole was cut tightly with not a single divot in sight. A few droplets of dew clung to the tips of perfectly trimmed blades of grass.
Beebles was the first to tee off. He slowly made his way to the first tee, set his ball then stepped back a few paces for three deliberate practice swings. Two words repeated themselves incessantly in Beebles' mind: solid contact. Twenty years of experience had ingrained the correct pattern of movements into his musculoskeletal system in preparation for this moment. Now all he had to do was execute. Repeating this phrase was the cue which allowed Beebles to get his brain out of the way and let his body do the work.
Beebles took one deep breath and walked up to the left of his ball with the stealth of a lion closing in on an unsuspecting gazelle. An eerie silence engulfed Forest Park as the crowd came to a hush for the first shot of the day. Only the distant whirring of traffic and the songs of birds could be heard. In this perfect moment, Beebles drew his driver back and swung forth on his ball with the might of Thor, Norse God of Thunder. The ball took off over the tree shadows and carried over the fairway. Its path stayed true and after a few seconds the ball landed and rolled onward, coming to a stop 300 yards from the tee in the middle of the fairway.
The crowd let out a deafening roar as Beebles reached down to retrieve his broken tee. They had come expecting to see elite talent on display and Beebles had satisfied their appetite. Little did they know that the next four hours would be a whirlwind of emotional toil and physical atrophy.
In similar fashion Funk, Fez, and Smits teed off. The four men traversed the first hole with grace and class while the crowd marveled at their abilities. When all four balls took their turn rattling into the bottom of the cup, Funk had taken the early lead.
For the next three holes the PTC competitors snaked their way through the crowd as they hit their shots. All four competitors came out at the top of their game physically, jockeying for position while Funk clung to his narrow advantage.
The first dramatic even of the tournament occurred at the 5th hole. After sinking a beautiful putt on the par-4 4th, Fez was set to tee off first at the 5th hole, a dangerous dog-leg right with a dense collection of trees encroaching on the right side of a narrow fairway. Fez set himself to tee off just as he'd done thousands of times before. But as he reached the peak of his backswing, a squirrel scurried across the teebox not ten feet in front of his ball. The crowd cried out in collective shock as Fez, concentration lost only for a split-second in time, grazed the ball with the bottom of his driver. The ball was pounded straight into the ground and only managed to bounce forward far enough to clear the ladies' tees.
Fez stood dumbfounded on the teebox searching for answers that could explain what had just occurred. He'd spent hundreds of hours on the driving range with mis-hit golf balls crossing his path and loud ball retriever vehicles driving in front of his line, among a plethora of other distractions. How could this squirrel cause him to lose control when he needed it most?
The three other competitors teed off with their balls in much better position. Shaken, Fez walked up to his ball for his second shot. The ball had landed deep in the thick, lush rough and he would need an absolutely perfect shot to get back onto the fairway. But he could not evoke from his broken down body the necessary precision to accomplish this daunting task. Instead the ball popped up and landed in the bunker at the edge of the woods 50 yards away.
Fez raised his face to the heavens and let out a howl reminiscent of a lone, wounded wolf trapped deep in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. "Not again!" he exclaimed.
Confidence fully abdicated, Fez walked to the bunker for his third shot which he could only push a few yards further into the sand. Smits looked away, vowing not to dwell on Fez's struggles while he took his second shot from the fairway. All of the athletes were affected by this meltdown. It reminded them what was possible if they failed to put every ounce of testicular fortitude into their efforts that day. When the strokes had been tallied Fez was charged with a dreadful 11.
In the days that followed, Fez's performance on the 5th hole was succinctly coined "The Collapse." He went on to tally a second consecutive 11 on the 6th hole, all but eliminating him from the tournament from that point forward.
To be continued . . .
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