Steve Bergum : A dozen reasons why golf is cruel

Here’s hoping this proves – on a personal level, at least – to be therapeutic.

Why?

Because I’m having a bit of a problem shaking off the nasty memories of the 12 I made earlier this week on the par-3 eighth hole at Downriver Golf Course. And, perhaps, if I share the gory details of my latest Monday meltdown, I’ll be able to let it go.

Not that it was a big secret in the first place, considering it occurred during the D.A. Davidson Pro-Am Tournament.

That means the other four members of my team were there to witness every miserable stroke. And the five members of the team playing immediately behind us were also privy to the latter stages of the painful spectacle as they politely – and patiently – watched from back on the tee box.

I wish I could say there were penalty strokes or at least a whiff or two involved, but I can’t. I flailed at my golf ball 11 times before finishing off the 219-yard hole with an 18-inch putt to save my 12.

And to think I had set the stage for this disaster a week earlier when I left my sand wedge beside the 11th green at MeadowWood, my home course.

Looking back, I probably should have checked at the MeadowWood pro shop before venturing to Monday’s pro-am just to see if anyone had turned in my missing sand wedge. But I figured that would be a waste of time considering how few traps there are at Downriver.

So I tossed a replacement lob wedge into my bag and declared myself tournament-ready.

As it turns out, I played about as well as I can play for seven holes. I birdied the first, bogeyed the second and then strung together five straight pars, which meant I was even walking to the tee box at No. 8.

It was about then that I started thinking I might actually cash in my flight for the first time since the Inland Empire Chapter of the Northwest PGA, which conducts the pro-am series, neutered me by restricting my handicap to a harmless 7-something.

And it was just moments after that that I rolled my poorly struck 2-iron tee shot into the steep-faced sand trap just to the left of the No. 8 green.

Initially, there was no sense of panic. I’ve been in that bunker before. In fact, after peeking down into the sand, I was rather encouraged by the flat, clean lie I had this time.

But armed with my no-bounce lob wedge, I managed to wade in and make a complete mess of things.

My first sand shot hit near the top of bunker’s steep face and rolled back down near my feet. My second did the same.

My third plugged under the grass lip of the trap and I had to climb up and hack at it just to get it to roll back down to the base of the bunker, which it did – right into the deepest footprint I had made during my first two swings.

Two more tries failed to get the ball out of the fluffy sand, and I was starting to sweat profusely as my teammates watched from the green in awkward disbelief.

This was, after all, a full-grown adult male they were watching perform.

Meanwhile, back in the sand, I kept slashing at my uncooperative Titleist like someone trying to extricate a marble from a bowl of powdered sugar with a table knife.

Our team captain, MeadowWood head professional Bob Scott, ventured over after my fifth shot to suggest I play the ball farther up in my stance. But after looking at the lie I had in another one of my footprints, he just shook his head and turned away.

During the prolonged and ugly ordeal, my emotions ran wild.

I went from being enraged after my fourth stroke to being embarrassed after my eighth.

And by the time I finally putted out, I was angry again – this time for not putting that half-empty beer I had left in my cart back in the cooler.

My stay in the trap seemed interminable and, at some point, I must have even briefly lost consciousness, because I honestly don’t remember what I did different on my 10th shot – the one that mercifully came to rest on the fringe of the green, less than a foot over the trap and some 25 feet short of the hole.

From there I used my putter to get up and down, which was no easy task, considering how much sand my previous nine strokes had blasted out of the bunker and onto the green.

Fortunately, my teammates handled my implosion with great dignity, keeping the majority of their snickers under their breath. But then, most of them were with me at Stoneridge last summer when I yanked three straight drives out of bounds on a par-5 and finished with a 13.

It’s enough to make me wonder why they keep asking me back.

And why I keep accepting.