By the time Stuart stepped up to the Eighth tee, the worst of the buzz to his hands and wrists had dissipated. He was looking down the hill to the green but still trying to collect himself after the flaming debacle on seven. Eight was the hardest of the four par 3s at The Links at Birch Meadows, 213 yards from an elevated tee over a creek that came in from the left, passed in front of the hole, and then wandered off to the right.
This was not what he needed at this point in the contest. To play his natural right-to-left draw and get it on the green Stuart would actually have to aim right at the water in the creek as it passed to the right of the green. Or he could take a lesson from Tommy Divits, weaken his grip, and try to cut it in from the opposite direction, curving the ball from the dry side of the hole.
But that felt unnatural too, and what Stuart wanted to do was keep things as simple as possible. He would aim for the right side of the green and hope for the best. He needed a good shot. Father Lynch’s ball had cleared the water but had buried in the lip of the sand bunker in front of the green.
The swing felt good but, on contact, there was that horrible feeling in his hands again as the shaft of the club struck the ball and sent it flying, like a piece of shrapnel, to the right at a 45 degree angle. The ball was swallowed in a big patch of juniper.
An awkward silence ensued.
“What should I do now?” he asked.
“You’ll need to try it again Stuart,” Father Lynch replied.
He tried again, this time aiming more to the left. The same thing happened. The ball careened right into the juniper patch, again.
“Holy Mary,” he heard Father Lynch exclaim, albeit in a muffled tone that clearly indicated he’d been trying to suppress his voice. “Jesus have mercy before the shanks.”
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