TPC Piper Glen : Show Me the Money

Pretty, no? You are looking at the finishing hole at TPC Piper Glen, the 6,853 yard tribute to uneccessary excess, the unholy spawn of real estate speculators and poor schmucks called "professional golfers."

Dustin Johnson's travails on TV, at this year's PGA Championship, gave the masses a taste of the way our sport differs from the others, because, whatever our opinions about "fairness" and "rules," they are irrelevant to the bottom line, which is: How many did you shoot?

Even at my lowly level of play, beginning a sentence with the words "I shoulda, I woulda, or I coulda" turns whatever words that follow into snivelling drivel from your flapping gums. In golf, it happened or it didn't. Those are the House Rules. In golf, the player becomes the ultimate arbiter between Honesty and Larceny, so if you routinely tee it up for a six or seven figure dollar prize, I hate you. Just kidding. Maybe not.

So let's bring the conversation back to what's important: Me and My Game. I entered another ego-bruising tournament, for not much more than the chance to qualify at a TPC course. Piper Glen is a residential real estate development located on North Rea Road off the I-485 exit in South Charlotte. I know the tournament was mainly a marketing scheme for granola bars, but hey, nobody said we golfers were any smarter than normal people. To justify the expense I used the experience as my own opportunity to market and sell these awesome hand-knit headcovers. Take that, Donald Trump!

Let me save you some time: I shot a net 83 and failed to qualify. For the gory details, read on. By the way, no one cares what you shoot.

First things first, the event was well-run, but the course conditions were only adequate, considering that it was a PGA Tour facility. The staff was friendly, and all qualifiers had the opportunity to play in a national championship at the TPC Sawgrass course in Ponte Vedra, Florida, the site of The Players Championship.

Armed with a USGA Handicap Index of 7.6, I knew my chances would be dim. They got dimmer after I missed a 4-foot par putt on the 2nd hole. In fact, there were no pars to be had until, mercifully, I made a 15-foot sand save at the par-5 529 yard 6th Hole (shown below, from behind the green). I blasted out of the bunker on my fourth shot to about where the flag is shown in the picure. That day, the hole location was more toward the back of the green.

By that early point in the round, despite the momentary joy of a "sandy" par, my only goal had now become simply to finish out a round of golf which had turned, like some rounds do, into an excercise in drudgery. Nothing but comic relief could compensate for the shanked tee shot, chip out, chip on, 4-putt, and ensuing quadruple bogey seven (7) that came at the 210-yar par-3 4th Hole, where I lipped-out for the third time in the first four holes. Bryan and Bruce, my fellow-competitors, both made their only birdies on the 501-yard par 5 16th, and they ended up tied with net 79's.

Positives? Well, I parred both par 3's on the back nine, and a couple of par 4's at 10 and 15. The first par-3 on the back nine was a 167-yard 5-iron into the middle of the 12th green, where I two-putted to the front right hole location, as shown.

The other 3 came off my "Shot of the Day" at the 17th Hole. I can't think of another descriptive term for this cute, 142-yard par 3 besides "picturesque."

OK. Pay attention. The pin was tucked in the left front, just behind the tounge of the hazard. I literally shanked a 9-iron to a spot in the above picture, past those trees on the right, up on the hillside above the green, in heavy rough. Imagine that shot. Yes, I was tempted to whack my second into the lake beyond because I was pissed, I didn't care, and I was ready to dunk that golf ball as far into the lake as possible from up on that hill. That would have been fun, even if stupid. Then, for some inexplicable reason, I instead chipped the ball down the hill, using my 52-degree wedge. The ball landed in front, and rolled up slowly, nearly grazed the hole, and ended up 6-inches away from a par. Unbelieveable. In the middle of a bad round, I went from up on the hill, in the rough, after a shank, to nearly holing out, and 6-inches from the hole. Why is is always 6-inches from the hole and why does that always sound so f***ing funny?

I suppose I'll get back to posting about "Other Stuff" besides golf. Maybe something about the law of Privacy, or the economic principle of diminishing returns. I mean, if I lived in one of the houses shown in these golf pictures, I honestly don't think I would give a sh*t about anything. I suspect the Law of Karma requires that a price will exacted for living in undeniable luxury, even if the price is not necessarily monetary. When you build your bay-window house about 195 yard to the right or left of a tee box, you may be rich, but you evidently don't fully understand the nature of golf. The misconception is that golf is an elite, rich, white game. It appears that contrived monstrosities like Whistling Straits were built to profit from such misconceptions. They're wrong. It's a shepherd's game. It started on and belongs on a pasture. If the false perceptions about golf haven't been dismissed over the last 13 years of the Tiger Era, then all the more reason for us average guys to keep playing.

And so, to all the so-called "rich" who don't understand or play golf, thanks for showing me the money. And from all the schmucks who were fortunate enough to have the opportunity to play your course, "See you on the back nine on Sunday."

© 2010 Roy Barin Santonil