I have had the privilege of attending The Masters 3 times, 2007, 2008 and 2009. I will not try and describe to you what it's like to walk the hallowed grounds of Augusta. No words can be written that will ever come close to the actual experience. However, something akin to a life alter experience happened to me in 2008 that I would like to share.
"That is when we heard a voice. We looked around and found the owner of the voice was none other than David Feherty."
In getting to the course on this sunny day my companion and I made our way to the putting green just in front of the clubhouse. We stood watching a couple of early players as they did their best to figure out how to putt on greens faster than the asphalt that we were standing on. That is when we heard a voice. We looked around and found the owner of the voice was none other than David Feherty. Someone who I have admired from afar for some time and who happens to be one of my favorite golf writers. I believe I have read all that he has ever written. My favorite is one of his early works which is perfectly titled, “Somewhere in Ireland. A Village is Missing an Idiot.” When days go bad, picking up one of his books brings a sense of sanity back into this often-cruel world made even crueler by the game we love to hate.
"When days go bad, picking up one of his books brings a sense of sanity back into this often-cruel world made even crueler by the game we love to hate."
Thinking of that fateful encounter brought me to thinking ahead to the much-anticipated golfing event that comes to us every two years, yes, the Ryder Cup. That thinking brought me to an article written by none other than Mr. Feherty for Golf Magazine way back in 1997. In this article he recounts his 1991 Ryder Cup appearance. What I found interesting was in the article he recounts a conversation with playing partner Sam Torrance. In his own words he describes the first hole;
“By then it became obvious that putting was going to be a problem.”
“I held up okay until I got to the first green. By then it became obvious that putting was going to be a problem. I could get away with flinching my bigger muscles into something that resembled a golf swing, thus fooling most people into thinking that I was cool, calm, and not quite hysterical, but when it came down to controlling the smaller motor impulses, there was obviously a rogue neuron in charge somewhere. On my first attempt with the flat stick, my muscles came to an almost unanimous decision: Everything moved except my bowels (and believe me, it was damn close).
On the way to the next tee Sam, always the diplomat, comforted me with the words, “If you don’t pull yourself together, I’m going to join them, and you can play all three of us, you useless bastard.” I was understandably galvanized.”
“If you don’t pull yourself together, I’m going to join them, and you can play all three of us, you useless bastard.”
With the title of “useless bastard” branded upon him by Mr. Torrance (as so many of us, myself included for leading the league in said category) I move that David Feherty be given lifetime membership in all future Stag Night games going forward.
You can read the entire article for yourself, it's typical Feherty at his best!