I'm thinking, this game is hard. I forget my plan, make another swing adjustment, and switch to the Faldo method. I'd describe it, but better you don't even think about it. It's my go to swing when I feel like I'm on the road to perdition, whatever that is. Using the Faldo method I make eight straight pars, including a couple of birdie misses inside five feet, and I'm thinking, maybe this guy Faldo knows what he's talking about.
I arrive at eighteen, playing about 170 yards, with a healthy cross wind blowing towards the lake. At the last second I decide to try to knock down a four iron, instead of hitting the five I've already got in my hand. The shot fizzles, and a chunked bunker shot and three putts later I've shot 78. I'm thinking, no wonder I drink! I pay my five bucks to Randy, who's delighted with his 76, and being able to pocket my five bucks. I bet he'll have it framed.
I have made my decision. The 11 wood is going in the bag again, just for hole number 18, if nothing else. My Callaway 58 degree wedge is fired in favour of my trusty, and rusty, Mizuno 56 degree, which I immediately retrieve from the shed when I get home. I've got a new plan for tomorrow. My bag is packed and I'm ready to go.
When I get in the door and fire up the IPad, I see Rory shot 78 to miss the cut at Wentworth. It isn't much consolation for me. In fact it's no consolation at all, because Rory's my man. I just hope Rory isn't considering an eleven wood. He can't have the number of toys kicking around in his attic that I do, but I bet even Rory is also thinking it's a hard game. At least he is today.
The good thing for Rory is that next time out, he'll still be number one in the world and he won't be needing an eleven wood in the foreseeable future. The sad thing is, tomorrow, I'll still be me, and I hope that eleven wood works on 18.