I read a story recently about a golfer finally landing that elusive 1-in-12,500 stroke – a hole-in-one – and it brought up a tradition I think about often but have yet, in well over 12,500 attempts, needed to fear.
To set the scene, the player in question was playing in a 65-person midweek competition and made his hole-in-one blissfully unaware that such an achievement comes at a hefty price – you “have to” buy everyone a drink at the bar.
Without knowing the tradition, this very reasonable chap still decided to treat his four-ball to dinner and drinks post-round but was soon contacted by the league’s coordinator wondering why he hadn’t bought all 65 players a drink on the day, as he was obliged to do.
The one-shot wonder, aged in his twenties, had calculated the round would’ve cost somewhere in the region of $300 and decided not to pay it, something the elder statesmen at the club resented, thus providing them with another stick to beat a generation allegedly disinterested in custom and tradition, regardless of its merits in a modern world.
Now I am not tight. I’ll be the first man getting the round in whether I have a pot to piss in or not, but I’m also extremely comfortable saying that should I ever land a hole-in-one, the only direction the drinks will be flowing is down the gullets of my group on the day.
And I get that some golf clubs include hole-in-one insurance to cover the cost of a potential ace because nothing says spontaneous fun like taking out an insurance premium against a good time. But for those not so lucky, who find themselves ejected from cloud nine with a dark and stormy bar tab hanging over their heads, has the time come to knock this tradition on its head? One less expense to worry about in an economic climate of doom and gloom. After all, when traditions like these were invented, only the wealthy played golf. They wore three-piece suits and monocles and made their way to and from the club on Penny Farthing bikes.
I for one have never been wealthy, and my current trajectory suggests I never will be. And at the price of a pint in Ireland these days, you wouldn’t be long racking up a bar bill after a weekend comp that would cover the annual membership subscription and then some. But what do the people think?
I saw adjectives like dumb, silly and ridiculous used to describe the tradition, wondering why the game is intent on penalising its players’ crowning glory. I saw others bemoaning the path we’re headed down as a society claiming nothing is sacred anymore. While there were plenty of people somewhat on the fence, citing the Home of Golf in Scotland as a place that does it right, often promoting a practice of purchasing your favourite bottle from the shelf and leaving it on the bar until it’s dry.
So where did this whole song and dance originate? A quick Google search points to Pebble Beach Golf Links in the year 1921 when James B. Marker made an ace on the par-3 17th so perfect that the only way to honour it was to reward the entire clubhouse with a drink…. something that was hard to find during Prohibition.
However, dig a little deeper and references to Marker’s miracle shot are few and far between, giving rise, as the internet tends to do, to conspiracy theorists convinced that the origin story is much simpler. Not a tale of triumph but despair in which a cunning hacker safe in the knowledge of his own shortcomings figured the chances of him ever getting a hole-in-one were scarce, so he may as well drink on the talent of others.
Well I for one say in this game of ours there’s always hope, and in my own quest for a hole-in-one I’m reminded of the worst golfer I’ve ever had the privilege of starting on the first tee. A guy that guaranteed you a five-hour round. Who didn’t believe in lessons and was often abandoned on the tee-sheet by those who knew better than to join him. He had a swing like the Grim Reaper in that it killed you to see it and still the bastard made a hole-in-one before me. In both time and presence.
Yes, I was there to see it and I can confirm that the ball never left the ground, taking its first fortuitous bounce long before the forward tee and still it rolled and rolled and rolled along the mown grass path, avoiding the strategically placed bunkers, the rough and the run-offs before dropping deftly in the hole like a well-read 170-yard putt.
I was happy for him… on the outside. On the inside I consoled myself. Sure there can’t be any satisfaction in that.
The drink was a nice touch all the same!