Breaking Even: "Sonny Guy"
Stories surrounding my efforts to "break" even par in one round of golf.
(First published as “Lucky Numbers” in The Golfers Journal Issue no. 24)
It seems to me that all of my lowest rounds end up being a sidenote to a more interesting memory. During my seminary days in Mississippi, I shot an even par 72 at the Sonny Guy Municipal Golf Course. “Sonny” is several dozen acres in west Jackson featuring 18 holes, a cart tunnel under the highway, and a signature first tee shot that (if pulled) could easily go straight into the windshield of an unsuspecting highway motorist. I cherished that place because it was somewhere to play, and they only charged students $50 per semester for unlimited rounds. Other than knowing that I shot 72, I do not remember much about how I played. I did not think too much of my score that day for a couple of reasons. First of all, I was young and I thought 72s were going to start coming as cheap and easy as the 99¢ corn dogs at the Sonic next to campus.
The other reason was that I got paired up with twin cousins in their twenties. You probably know cousins like this, they look almost the same and are close to the same age. I bet that after having been asked the twins-question hundreds of times, they have said yes on multiple occasions, playing out the charade for hours or even lifetimes in some contexts. I cannot recall their names but I think that “Brady” and “Cole” would probably help build the mental image for you. They were great guys. Their swings were smooth and they communicated with each other in that type of code language that only twins (or cousin-twins) can develop, even more than the closest of best friends can. They played relatively well and very quickly. I knew they were the perfect pairing for me, and it only got better. One of them asked me if I played at this course often. “I do,” I said, “I am actually a grad student (it is best to keep “seminary” student to yourself to prevent them from clamming-up and me from feeling like I should act the part)… you would not believe how cheap it is to play here.” Cole quickly answered, “Oh, we’d believe it. We go to West Alabama, we just drive over and play all day and then drive back when we’ve had enough.”
The University of West Alabama is over 2 hours away. There are very few people in the world who would drive 30 minutes to play “Sonny” especially while driving past any number of better and moderately priced courses in between. Brady and Cole got it. Golf meant something different to them. They are the type that do things for the story or for the puzzled look it puts on other people’s faces. If your mental picture doesn’t have them looking like cross-country athletes, let me help you, they told me on the 5th hole that they both ran at UWA, so it was sometimes hard to get all the way over to Jackson to play golf. But they made it happen on school breaks and the rare weekend. My affinity for these two was growing. In fact, when Cole started to army crawl into the thicket on the 8th to retrieve an errant shot, I yelled out to him. “Cole, I’ll give you some golf balls, no problem, I have lots.” Brady who was walking nearer to me helped me to understand, “It’s not that he needs golf balls, he has played that golf ball for like 13 rounds in a row he doesn’t want to break his streak.” At about that moment Cole came bounding out of the woods holding his ball over his head. “Titleist 7, Baby!” He dropped it a club length out and played on. He showed me the ball on the green, it had the dull worn look of a ball that you would find in a laundry basket at the far end of a remote driving range; just enough of the rare “7” showing to confirm it was his. “I love this ball, it is my all-time record, 242 holes.”
They will not remember me from that day, and they did not care that I shot 72 (a career low round with a goat ranch asterisk). If they noticed my score, they would not have known whether to congratulate me for going so low or to console me for “leaving a few out there.” They celebrated good shots and commiserated on bad ones. It should not surprise me that my best scores often come when I get caught up in the energy of others, especially those who “play” when they golf.
By now Cole and Brady probably have mortgages and kids and mainly keep up with inside-joke-laden text message threads. In my mind, Cole and Brady have never joined a private club, their wild blond hair has thinned, and to my frustration, they have maintained their cross-country physiques though they have mostly quit running. They still keep golf balls that they find in the woods – and Brady splurges each Christmas to send a box of customized Titleists that stack (unused) in Cole’s garage. All 7s.
