Winter Golf: A Story of Survival

In 1909, explorer Robert Perry led a team of 23 courageous men on a dangerous frozen trek to the North Pole. That was nothing. In 1776, George Washington survived a bitter cold winter in Valley Forge before crossing the freezing Delaware River to attack the unsuspecting British. That was child’s play. Let the record show that these man-against-nature exploits pale in comparison to playing a round of golf in Upstate New York in the depths of winter.

While preparing to visit my friend in Rochester, he suggested that I bring my golf clubs. I reminded him that it was January. However, he insisted that he and his hardy foursome play golf year round and, if properly dressed, the cool weather is pleasant and manageable. So, I threw my clubs in the trunk and hit the road with my wife.

As we pulled into town, there were patches of snow across the landscape and temperatures had dropped below freezing. Smoke was billowing from fireplace chimneys. And, on one neighbor’s front lawn, a deer was mounting an inflatable Santa just to keep warm.

We arrived in time to join several couples for dinner. After one too many rounds of martinis, my friend recommended that we play golf the next day. I expressed legitimate concerns about the weather and why it would be foolish and irresponsible to play. He reminded me that, if we didn’t play golf, we would have to go antique shopping with the wives. I said, “Okay, when do we tee off? “

I awoke the next morning to temperatures in the high 30’s, but the sun was shining and there was no wind. It still felt too chilly to play golf. However, some hot coffee and banter with the guys at the clubhouse warmed me to the idea. “It looks like we’ve got the course to ourselves”, somebody said. Famous last words.

Although my swing was slightly restricted by the layering of two shirts, a sweater, and a jacket, I hit the ball straight and would have parred the first two holes were it not for the rough unmanicured greens. I was off to a good start and it was a chilly but pleasant day. Unfortunately, on the third hole, we began to experience a rapid drop in temperature. The sky turned dark gray and the trees began to buckle in the wind. “Are we going to be alright?”, I asked my cart partner. “Not to worry, just some flurries.” More famous last words.

Within minutes, I was trying to hit a drive through a fierce wind. The temperature was now in the single digits and woodchucks were running and diving into their holes. But there was no stopping us. Apparently, Rochester man code specifically states that once you start a round of golf, you must finish it. I immediately threw on my rain pants, stuffed five towels into my shirt, and forged onward looking bigger than a shopping mall Santa.

As we made the turn, the weather became unbearable. My butt cheeks were so clenched from the cold I squeaked when I walked. On the other hand, one member of the foursome looked surprisingly comfortable and later admitted that he was wearing a pair of his wife’s panty hose to keep his legs warm. He also brought her bra in case he needed earmuffs.

Playing conditions had quickly deteriorated. We were experiencing gale force winds. Depending on the direction of the hole, I was either hitting 380 yard drives or watching my wedge shots land behind me. Water hazards were not a problem, I could walk across them. On the tenth hole I had a birdie. On the eleventh hole I had a penguin.

I do not remember much about the back nine because I had begun to hallucinate. Temperatures had dropped to the point you could not get a tee in the ground without backing the cart over it. And it was difficult to read putts because a snow squaw was impairing my vison and I was using one of my frozen contact lenses as a ball marker.

I looked over and saw my friend, Captain Numb Nuts, shivering like a paint mixer. And I saw one of the other guys spraying deicer in his pants. To stay warm, I was trying to think of hot things like eating a grilled cheese sandwich, in a sauna, next to a volcano, with Jennifer Lopez. But nothing seemed to be working,

Soon, I couldn’t get the theme from the movie, “Frozen”, out of my head and could hear myself singing “Let it Go” in a high pitched girlish voice as I wandered aimlessly down the fourteenth fairway.

At the fifteenth tee box, I thawed out my hands by setting fire to the scorecard. Usually, I don’t burn my scorecard until after the round, but these were desperate times. My survival instincts were starting to kick in. I even began thinking about which member of the foursome I would eat if lost and stranded for weeks on the back nine. Of course, my friend who made the tee time would be my first pick. However, he was stout and would require massive amounts of meat tenderizer and seasoning.

Then on the sixteenth hole, just when we thought nothing else could go wrong, our cart broke down. Fortunately, my bag was light enough to carry, because I had been leaving clubs behind to guide rescuers. As I trudged up the snow covered fairway, my life began flashing before my eyes. There were fond memories of camping with my father, soccer games with the kids, and lap dances at Shirley’s Show Bar, all the things I loved.

We were now engulfed in a full-fledged blizzard. All I could see was white. It was like staring at a portrait of Bernie Sanders. But we were determined to finish. It was a matter of personal pride and gross stupidity.

The 18th hole is a steep uphill climb from tee to green. Instead of a caddy you need a Sherpa and a bottle of oxygen. Along the cart path beneath piles of leaves, I swear there were the carcasses of golfers who had failed to reach the snow-capped green. But we somehow made it.

I had a long putt to win the $20 Nassau, which had now become the $50 Antarctica. Pot goes to the last survivor. I walked off the putt. It was 30 snow boots from the hole. As I stood over the ball, I could hear the rumble of a snowplow in the parking lot and child-like whimpering from my foursome. Yet, despite the fatigue and horrendous weather conditions, my competitive juices were flowing, either that or I had just wet myself to stay warm. Then, just as I began my stroke, my playing partners yelled “it’s good” and sprinted to the warm confines of the clubhouse.

The starter had locked the door but allowed us to enter. One member of our foursome was still trying to release his grip from the wedge he hit on 17, while I laid in the fetal position next to a space heater and sucked my thumb. No one spoke. We knew we had been part of something special, a life changing adventure, a test of one’s manhood. We had conquered Golf’s version of the Iditarod. And the fortitude we displayed was unrivalled by any other moment in the history of man. At the same time, we agreed not to tell anybody, fearing that our names would become a Jeopardy answer in the category of World’s Biggest Dumbasses.

On that fateful day, our foursome lost 34 golf balls, a dozen clubs, and three toes. I personally broke 100. Of course, I am talking about my fever and not my score. The only bad news is that my urologist thinks my shrinkage might be permanent. I start physical therapy next week at Shirley’s Show Bar.