Face Plant Number Two

The season had ended in Idaho, and as many unattached assistant pros do, I had migrated south for the winter to San Diego to find work on the beach and in the sun. I had my TV in the front seat, my clothes in the back, and my clubs in the trunk. I’d be in town for only a week or two when a member from up north (let’s call him “John”) invited me to join him for a round at a very prestigious golf course. I was thrilled. Two of the players in our group turned out to be professional golfers (not golf professionals – big difference), one of whom had competed in the Masters a year or two earlier. The third member of the group was a +2 handicap player – the defending men’s club champion. John and I rounded out the fivesome. I hadn’t played in weeks, and I was recovering from a severe softball (hamstring) injury. I was very rusty and nervous – a lethal combination in a cash game. While we prepared to tee off, we discussed the amount of the bet and the game. Sheepishly, I announced that I was seriously wounded and had just $40 in my pocket, which was all I could afford to lose. John winked at me and held up his hand, almost like a pastor blessing his congregation, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it, kid.” So I didn’t. The game was set and away we went. I had no idea what we were playing or for how much. It didn’t really matter, did it? The worst thing possible happened almost immediately when I made a birdie on the first hole. This apparently doubled every bet. As it turns out, it was the only birdie – or par for that matter – that I managed all day. I cruised to a smooth mid-90s round. It couldn’t have been more humiliating. Or so I thought…Then we adjourned from the 18th green to the men’s grill. After a long silence, lots of erasing, and some high math, I was informed that I had just lost $515. Holy crap! All I had was $40. Not just with me, but to my name! That was my gas money, rent money, and beer money. It was all I had, and both my tank and refrigerator were empty. I looked at John for help. He didn’t even make eye contact with me. He just kept his head down and shoveled popcorn into his mouth. Had I imagined his wink and wave on the first tee? I was sure he’d speak up and tell the boys that he had it covered. Wouldn’t he? John? Help?! The final result had me down $515, my host breaking even, and everyone else splitting my loss as their profit. I was the only loser at the table. When I explained my situation to the rest of the group, the biggest of the winners slammed a fist into the table and began cursing loudly. Apparently, the winnings were to be gas money, rent money, and beer money for him, too. I couldn’t do anything other than hope he didn’t reach across the table and beat the balance of the debt out of me. I offered my last penny and left with my tail between my legs – a beaten and broken young man. A year or two later, while I was working at The Quarry, the same guy showed up as a guest one day. And, just my luck, he remembered me! Again, I dug deep into my pockets, and this time I had about half of the debt covered. He graciously accepted my offering and we shared a laugh about the incident. Sort of. The moral: Always know exactly what game you’re playing, how much it could cost you, and – maybe most importantly – who you’re playing with. This knowledge can prevent a costly and embarrassing situation. Shame on me for getting in over my head. Shame on John for not covering the debt as the hosting member. Shame on the tour player for taking my money ex post facto. We’re all to blame. Learn from my mistake and you won’t ever have to experience such a painful lesson for yourself.