lions, and, most of all, (f) letting your spotters get drunk the night before. I looked over at two of the three spotters Iâd been assignedâMatt Majors and Jason Metzger, two young NMT explosion engineersâand they were well on the way to winning the blottery.
âWe got your back, big guy!â one hollered. The other whooped with half his mouth, the other half occupied by his Budweiser.
Uh-oh.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
At 5:15 the next morning, I was picked up at my hotel by my only sober spotter, demolition expert Tony Zimmerly.
âYou got Styrofoam?â he asked.
No.
âOr a piece of carpet?â
No.
Turns out you need Styrofoam and carpet to tee your ball up so you can hit it, since youâre allowed to re-tee it anywhere within fifty feet of where you find itâno closer to the hole, which you canât see anyway.
At the range, where we were allowed to hit a few balls, I saw my two other spotters. They were still drunk. Their eyes were mere suggestions of eyes. They smelled like closing time.
Matt? I asked. Jason?
Apparently the volume in my voice was too much for Matt. The man was still drunk.
âUh, yeah,â Matt said. âWe stayed until four at the bar, then everybody came to my house. Actually, uh, theyâre still there.â They would be my eyes on this hellahole, even though those eyes would be bright red.
A big-shouldered, happy-faced guy in camoâs came over, carrying a bunch of carpet pieces and Styrofoam.
âHeard you might need these,â he said. âNameâs Dennis. Iâm dumb enough to play in this thing, too.â
I took them, gratefully, and made up my mind to stay near him. Not because he was friendly but because he looked big enough to give me a piggyback if my legs staged a work stoppage.
One by one, I met the entire field of eight:
1. Primo Pound, thinnish. Really, that was his name:
Primo Pound
. Tell me thatâs not a great porn name. He was about fifty, gray hair, wearing a pair of gloves. âYouâll want them once you fall,â he said.He also played his spotters smart. He brought a birdwatcher and a hunter. Is that better than two drunk guys?
2. Scott Jameson, a goateed grocer. Iâd seen better swings on epileptics.
3. Mic Hynekammp, thirtysomething, ran the brewery/restaurant in town. He was dressed like he was going on Golfward Bound. Looked like he could hike from here to Switzerland. Golf? Not so much.
4. Bill Hall, fifty-seven, but in good shape. Decent swing, did it on a dare.
5. Chris Ritter, fifty-five, Billâs buddy, real estate broker from Albuquerque. Both these guys looked like good sticks. Both brought their wives as spotters and nobody else. Guys like that hit it straight. Stiff competition for me in the Best Middle-Aged Guy Award.
6. Caleb Gonzales, about twenty-five, good swing, good spotters, including his brother. By far the favorite. Won it the last two years. A slice of cheesecake in Dan Ackroydâs fridge had a better chance than I did against this kid.
7. Dennis Walsh, maybe thirty, family man and loaner of Styrofoam. People were picking him for second.
8. Yours truly, feeling a little nauseous.
    âDo you want your own EMT?â Tony asked. I looked at him. He was not kidding. Not a good sign.
Everybody had three clubs. I had fourâa driver, a 5-iron, an 8-iron, and a wedge. âYou wonât need all those,â Primo told me. Hewas holding a driver and an 8-iron and that was it. He said that one time, a teenage girl did it with only an 8-iron.
âHowâd she do?â I asked.
âShe had to be taken down the mountain on a rope.â
Anita, our safety coordinator, got us together and basically said we all had the intelligence of single-celled organisms for trying it. She warned us against just about everything under the sun, especially playing a three-mile golf hole down a mountain full of explosives. I
âWe got your back, big guy!â one hollered. The other whooped with half his mouth, the other half occupied by his Budweiser.
Uh-oh.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
At 5:15 the next morning, I was picked up at my hotel by my only sober spotter, demolition expert Tony Zimmerly.
âYou got Styrofoam?â he asked.
No.
âOr a piece of carpet?â
No.
Turns out you need Styrofoam and carpet to tee your ball up so you can hit it, since youâre allowed to re-tee it anywhere within fifty feet of where you find itâno closer to the hole, which you canât see anyway.
At the range, where we were allowed to hit a few balls, I saw my two other spotters. They were still drunk. Their eyes were mere suggestions of eyes. They smelled like closing time.
Matt? I asked. Jason?
Apparently the volume in my voice was too much for Matt. The man was still drunk.
âUh, yeah,â Matt said. âWe stayed until four at the bar, then everybody came to my house. Actually, uh, theyâre still there.â They would be my eyes on this hellahole, even though those eyes would be bright red.
A big-shouldered, happy-faced guy in camoâs came over, carrying a bunch of carpet pieces and Styrofoam.
âHeard you might need these,â he said. âNameâs Dennis. Iâm dumb enough to play in this thing, too.â
I took them, gratefully, and made up my mind to stay near him. Not because he was friendly but because he looked big enough to give me a piggyback if my legs staged a work stoppage.
One by one, I met the entire field of eight:
1. Primo Pound, thinnish. Really, that was his name:
Primo Pound
. Tell me thatâs not a great porn name. He was about fifty, gray hair, wearing a pair of gloves. âYouâll want them once you fall,â he said.He also played his spotters smart. He brought a birdwatcher and a hunter. Is that better than two drunk guys?
2. Scott Jameson, a goateed grocer. Iâd seen better swings on epileptics.
3. Mic Hynekammp, thirtysomething, ran the brewery/restaurant in town. He was dressed like he was going on Golfward Bound. Looked like he could hike from here to Switzerland. Golf? Not so much.
4. Bill Hall, fifty-seven, but in good shape. Decent swing, did it on a dare.
5. Chris Ritter, fifty-five, Billâs buddy, real estate broker from Albuquerque. Both these guys looked like good sticks. Both brought their wives as spotters and nobody else. Guys like that hit it straight. Stiff competition for me in the Best Middle-Aged Guy Award.
6. Caleb Gonzales, about twenty-five, good swing, good spotters, including his brother. By far the favorite. Won it the last two years. A slice of cheesecake in Dan Ackroydâs fridge had a better chance than I did against this kid.
7. Dennis Walsh, maybe thirty, family man and loaner of Styrofoam. People were picking him for second.
8. Yours truly, feeling a little nauseous.
    âDo you want your own EMT?â Tony asked. I looked at him. He was not kidding. Not a good sign.
Everybody had three clubs. I had fourâa driver, a 5-iron, an 8-iron, and a wedge. âYou wonât need all those,â Primo told me. Hewas holding a driver and an 8-iron and that was it. He said that one time, a teenage girl did it with only an 8-iron.
âHowâd she do?â I asked.
âShe had to be taken down the mountain on a rope.â
Anita, our safety coordinator, got us together and basically said we all had the intelligence of single-celled organisms for trying it. She warned us against just about everything under the sun, especially playing a three-mile golf hole down a mountain full of explosives. I
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