Okay, so it wasn't exactly Riviera. Okay, nowhere near it in any realm. But it was still technically a golf course, albeit one that plays 4,961 from the blues and has a par of 67. It appears that the groundskeeper may be both blind and incompetent. Half the course is ground under repair, the rest was casual water. But my dad and I, after warming up with a round that won us no awards, decided to do our "best ball" thing, and we came oh-so-close.
Had we not completely botched a three footer, we wouldn't have needed a birdie on the last to shoot even par. As it was, after a solid tee shot and two godawful wedges, we were still in position to pretend as though we were real golfers (that a real golfer would shoot a 50 on this course is beside the point). We still had an uphill 22 footer.
Pops took dead aim, hit it oh-so-firm and hit the cup dead center, but, alas, too hard, and the ball only dropped halfway in before popping out. I hit a good putt, but not good enough. A fairly noble effort from two hackers.
And since I walked 36 at a brisk pace, I'm feeling tired, but it's the good kind of tired, as Letterman used to say.