Putrid Play at Flamborough

I played 20 rounds of golf so far this season. Fifteen of those produced scores ranging from 91 to 101. The other five were absolute crap, ranging from 106 to 119. I convinced myself that having 3 decent rounds out of every 4 was pretty solid, especially since I struggled to even break 100 last year. For my 21st round of the year, I headed to Flamborough Hills, which I've only played once before. Well, add some more crap to the heap. I shot 110, thanks to disgusting shots of all kinds. I hit tee shots off the heel of the driver, topped a bunch of fairway woods, chunked some wedges, while thinning others, and on and on. Amassing 39 putts was the flipping cherry on top.

I opened with consecutive bogeys, despite missing the first green from 90 yards and 3-putting on the second green. I came over the top trying to drive the ball on the next hole and it was all downhill from there. It was a cold morning, only abut 13 degrees, and I left my flipping jacket at home. Had it all ready to go by the back door and walked out without it. I was shivering on the tee, for goodness sake. There's always some stupid thing like that making the game more difficult than it needs to be. I could fill volumes with all the bloody excuses. But you know what? At the end of the day, good players deal with it and lousy players like me just pile on the crap.

I wasn't even going to play this round, as I just came off my season best and wanted to carry the momentum into the next Deepwoods event. At the last minute, I decided to squeeze this round in and look at the result. The only thing I'll carry into the Deepwoods event now is rage and self-loathing. Crappy golfers abound, but I've become the crappy golfer with the even crappier attitude. Damn it all to hell.

On the final hole, a par-5, I hit the fairway with my drive. A fairway wood got me to within 50 yards of the flag. I pitched on and lagged my first putt to within 3 feet. A closing par would partly erase the vile taste in my mouth. What did I do? I pulled the bloody par putt, burning the left edge of the cup. Rub that salt deep in that wound, you wretched little troll.

Score: 110
Putts: 39
Fairways: 3
Greens: 2
Penalties: 4