GOLF’S WORST CHOKER STRIKES HIS FINAL PUTT

A GOLFER'S TALE OF TRAGEDY AND REDEMPTION


THIS SHORT GOLFING STORY tells the terrible tale of the world’s greatest choke artist - plus some sage advice on hitting the downhill snake.

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FLAPJAW JIM tilted his bullet-shaped head back on his scrawny neck and took a long pull on his beer. He cleared his throat importantly and addressed the crowded 19th hole bar:

”You shoulda seen the putt I sank on the last hole. A lotta guys choke on those downhill snakes; they’re afraid of hittin’ ’em too far past the hole. But that’s for losers. I always RAM those downhill ten-footers. I don’t give ‘em a chance to break. I just give ‘em a good rap right into the back of the hole. Of course, that takes nerve, which some guys ain’t got!”

Flapjaw snickered and gave his partner Downtown Brown the elbow. The bar crowd groaned.

WHAT CAUSES THE CHOKE!

Bald, built like a rassler gone to fat, Downtown Brown grandly waved his Popeye forearms and puffed on his cigar. “Fear!” he pronounced, “it’s just plain old fear that causes all these amateurs to choke. It’s all in the mind. You gotta have confidence that when you lay the lumber on that pill it is gonna eat up some by-God REAL ESTATE!”

He turned to his rotund partner and added, “Like that drive I cut the corner with on No. 5, right, Flappy? Did that screamer break their backs or what? When is the last time you saw me choke on a clutch shot like that, huh?”

Flapjaw Jim leaned his short, round frame back on the bar in casual disdain and inhaled another Bud. “Never, old buddy. That affliction strikes only the faint-hearted, never the bold and brave. "Remember when poor old Dumbrowski went chicken at Pebble Beach last year on that 550-yard last hole? All he needed was a lousy eagle. But he took the gas and wimped out - lost by one shot. Pure case of nervous apoplexy.”

The bartender swiped his bar rag across the mahogany. The bright boozer veins in his cheeks got redder in his incredulity as he went into his imitation of a Jackie Gleason drunk and exploded, "Yeah, I seen it. Dumbrowski took the gas and went choke city!”

"Yep,” Flapjaw continued, “on that short little par five, too. Oh, he hit a pretty fair country drive, all right, and managed to scrape it on the green in two with a 7-iron, but he wimped out on the putt and left it three inches short. Had to settle for a bird!”

The bartender’s eyes popped out. He pulled his apron up over his stupendous gut and sneaked down a fast double vodka. "What a loser! I woulda jumped ALL OVER that putt. I RAM those babies right in the hole.”

Meanwhile, sitting at the end of the bar enduring the play by play recounting of their shame at losing, again, to the two loudmouths, Ernie and Slim quietly nursed their beers.

Ernie’s forehead looked like fifty miles of bad road. His haunted eyes held the fatalistic expression of a man whose ruined life held him in the crushing grip of doom. What was the use of living? Why go on when all that lay before him was humiliation and self loathing?

FLAPJAW MOUTHS OFF TO THE WRONG GUY

Flapjaw slid off his stool and walked over to Ernie and said, “Of course, I ain’t saying you and Slim ever choke. That's not why we clean your clock every Sunday. You just gotta learn to move your left hip smartly at the hole, pull down with your left hand, keep your head rock steady, and delay the hit until the moment of truth, then hit the hell out of the ball, like me and old Downtown Brown do."

He grinned at the crowd. They laughed half-heartedly, not really comfortable with what they saw as a bad turn in what would normally be good-natured ribbing.

With his husky frame and the broad, sloping shoulders of an athlete, Ernie was not a small man. He could have picked up Flapjaw and tossed him out the door. But being mild mannered by nature he simply stood up and shoved his tough, athlete’s face within inches of his tormentor’s moon-round visage. Flapjaw's chin dropped and he stepped back. And Ernie, just using his chest, marched Flapjaw backward into the wall.

Then the mild-mannered golfer walked away, leaving Flapjaw frozen against the wall, his face gone white.

As he went out the door, Ernie heard Flapjaw call out halfheartedly: “He didn’t scare me none.” Jeering laughter followed that disclaimer.

BACK TO THE BLASTED GOLF BOOKS!

At home that evening, Ernie pondered his latest golf book, a 400-page tome entitled:
THE FIVE CRUCIAL MOVES YOU MUST MAKE TO WALLOP THE BALL INTO ETERNITY!

The book advised: 'Visualize the shot. Don't hurry your swing — the ball's not going anywhere until you hit it. Take the club back all in one piece. Pull down with your left hand. Move your left hip smartly at the hole.”

Baloney! Ernie said to himself. How come they never tell you what to do AFTER you move your left hip smartly at the hole? What Ernie wanted to know was how to hit the blasted ball! He threw the book in the corner and vowed to give up the game. But then he remembered he had promised Slim he'd show up next Sunday, and he was honor bound to do so.

The devil with it! He didn't care anymore. One more round and he would be out of the game for good. Life would indeed be simple without all that heartbreak.

NEXT SUNDAY, THE MIRACLE!

That unforgettable Sunday morning, as he teed up his ball, Ernie vowed that this was to be his last round forever. In that mood he didn't think about anything before or during the swing, didn't even try to remember what the books said. He didn't care anymore. This was the end. He just ripped it.

TEE SHOT GETS BOMBED!

Ernie's first tee shot whistled over the fairway traps and came to rest where no ball had ever dared, too far to be believed. Continuing the round his irons burned the very air, screamed across lakes, curved around trees in brilliantly designed trajectories.

Meanwhile, afraid of putting the hex on his partner's fantastic performance, Slim kept his mouth shut, except to twirl his drooping mustache and say occasionally to Flapjaw or Downtown Brown, "You're away."

Only Ernie's miserable putting kept his opponents in the game. Plus the fact that his irons were overshooting the greens and he had to shoot back at them. And Slim was so dumbfounded at his partner's heroics that he forgot to concentrate on his own game. Slim kept on dumping shots, gouging out slabs of turf and three-putting with great consistency.

In shock now at Ernie’s reborn game, Downtown Brown and Flapjaw went off their game, Flapjaw actually duck-hooked one into the bushes, and Downtown Brown shanked one into the creek.

The four golfers came to the last hole, a par five, all even. Slim and Flapjaw had both run into trouble and were out of it. Meanwhile, Downtown Brown had put the pressure on Ernie with a one-putt birdie.

But Ernie had bombed the biggest drive of his life, then smoked a six-iron up on the green ten feet past the hole. and from that spot the ball had spun back and actually bounced off the pin. All the born-again golfer had to do now was sink a simple little five-incher for an eagle which would win the match!

Of course, such a short putt would be impossible to miss!

Slim chuckled with delight. He wasn't worried about jinxing Ernie now. "By God, partner,” he said, "I'm glad I was here to see it. You really got your game together today."

Slim knew for sure he and Ernie had the game won now. Even if the world suddenly came to an end, even if Ernie got struck by lightning, those happenings would make no difference now. His partner was certain to sink that putt. So short it was.

Meanwhile, news of the impending historic event had emptied the bar. Drinks in hand, the crowd of spectators surrounded the green, waiting for the final killing stroke that would shut the braggarts up forever.

Laughing and joking with the crowd, Ernie made a big show of surveying the five inches of real estate over which the ball had to travel before it went kerplunk in the bottom of the hole.

Slim helped out by crouching down on his knees and shutting one eye as he peered down the line. He held up a finger to check the wind.

And Ernie, going along with the gag, paced off the five inches and went through a big routine of holding up his putter and squinting along the shaft.

THEN IT HAPPENED!

Slim saw a cloud pass over his partner’s face. It looked like Ernie had suddenly realized the importance of the final doomsday stroke, and had realized that everyone — his partner, the bar crowd, even the bartender — all were depending on him. He had to make the putt.

Of course it was impossible to miss — unless he fell over in a faint and broke his leg. And how likely was that to happen?

Flapjaw and Downtown Brown used every trick they knew to disturb his concentration!
As Ernie bent over the ball, Flapjaw started jingling coins in his pocket. Downtown whipped out a big white handkerchief and blew his nose, BLAT!

Ernie heard Downtown Brown stage-whisper to Flapjaw, "I guess we're done for, partner. Nobody could miss a little putt like that — unless of course he CHOKES!"

Next, in a dramatic performance worthy of a Broadway tragedian, Flapjaw fell to the green and clutched his throat. He writhed and gasped for air. "Gah!" he went. "I’m choking! Gah, gah! Air, gimme air!"

The spectators booed in disgust. Such tactics went beyond the limits of fair play. The crowd seemed to be lusting for Ernie to flash his steel and polish off the drama.

But just then, Ernie noticed a little red and green bug crawling on his ball. Annoyed at this interruption in his concentration, he took a little one-handed swing to scare the bug away.

BUT NO! Incredibly he missed the bug and hit the ball. The dimpled spheroid shot across the green, bounded into the trap and buried in a footprint under a big maple leaf.

Slim didn't say a word. He just dropped his twenty bucks on the green and walked away.

In a daze, Ernie followed Slim into the locker room and tried to explain to his partner about that bug. But no. Slim's accusing eyes said Ernie had choked in the clutch.

Next weekend, when Ernie stepped inside the clubhouse, somebody hollered, "Hey, look who's here, it's the old choke artist. Get back! Back! It might be catching!" And some other joker would clutch his throat and gasp, "Gah! Gah!"

Now known state-wide as the Choker of Black Oak Golf Course, Ernie couldn't get a game. Finally that missed putt drove him out of town. He fled to Texas and signed up to play under an assumed name, but even there the curse of the choker followed him. If he walked up to a group and asked to play along, they would immediately fall to the ground, clutching their throats, gasping for air.

Finally he played alone, desperately fine-tuning his game, hoping the local hero would challenge him.

But now he found that even his game had deserted him. Where were the booming drives? Where the crisp irons? All gone. How could life go on?

Desperate, friendless, jobless, the bewildered, golfer trudged up back roads to cow pasture courses in Oklahoma. Even there, where wildcat oil drillers in overalls played pasture pool among dry holes, the word had got around.

ENTER THE OKLAHOMA CHOKEBIRD!

Every time Ernie put a hopeful smile on his face and approached a group of golfers to ask if he could play along, those wise-guy Okies would flop in the dust and go into what was known locally as the Oklahoma Chokebird Razzmatazz. The Chokebird was a clever little insect eater who lived mainly by eating ladybugs, and had developed the survival trick of luring predatory foxes away from its nest by flopping in the dust and gasping for air as though choking to death, which fooled the fox every time into thinking the Chokebird would be an easy lunch.

Nearby golfers who witnessed the players go into their well-rehearsed version of the Oklahoma Chokebird Razzmatazz, backed away in horror, knowing for certain that the man who was getting the old Chokebird routine was a golfer to be avoided at all costs for fear of contamination.

ROCK BOTTOM!

Flat broke and downhearted, Ernie holed up in a skid row flophouse and paid for his tiny room by pushing a broom and emptying slop buckets. On Tuesdays the management gave him a ham sandwich. Maybe.

The fugitive from Black Oak knew that swift action was needed. Somehow he had to fight his way back to dignity. But how?

At a library he found fifty books on the Science of Hitting a Golf Ball. Maybe in those slick pages he would rediscover the elusive secret of the golf swing. He’d had the secret once. Where did it go?

But the large technical tomes all said the same thing: Don't hit too soon. Don't move your head. Don't let the right hand overpower the left. Don't breathe. And whatever you do, DON'T CHOKE! Like that was news!

COULD AN OLD BOOK BE THE ANSWER?

By mere chance, tucked away behind the massive volumes of Scientific Instruction he found a little red book dusty and worn, its spine cracked with age, No more than a pamphlet, really.

HOW TO STRRRIKE A GOLF BALL proclaimed the title, written by Scotty Cruikshank. The slim booklet seemed to call out to Ernie: "Please pick me up!" But what could such a tiny book hold? How could it contain enough technical information to explain the mind boggling intricacies of the golf swing?

Inside the cover he noted the date of publication: 1875. Hmm. Such a long time ago. Could the golf swing have changed so much over the years?

He studied the first page - there were only two. The heading at the top of the page said: HOW TO STRRRIKE A GOLF BALL. Then followed a list of a mere five instructions, apparently all that the Scotsman deemed necessary. Ernie thought this was strange, since he was used to reading large volumes with 40 pages on how to hold the club, 50 pages on the back swing, and long explanations, with diagrams, of what to do with one's feet.

Reading the little Red Book’s brief instructions on how to smash the long ball, Ernie had a sudden realization — Cruikshank’s simple words explained exactly what Ernie had been doing without realizing it when he hit all those great shots before that little red and green bug ruined his life.

On the second page of the book Ernie studied everything the Scotsman had learned about putting in his long career, especially all he had learned about those 15-foot downhill snakes.

Ernie had it now. The secret of the swing! He checked out the book and shoved it in his hip pocket.

OH NO! AN ACTUAL JOB!

Now at last he was ready to go back and regain the respect of his partner Slim. And shut up Flapjaw and Downtown Brown for all time. But first he had to make some traveling money, and to do that he needed a disguise. He grew a beard and put on dark glasses. Next he went to work as a caddie at Burning Hills Golf Club.

ON HIS WAY BACK AT LAST!

The first golfers he carried for were a fat, merry little undertaker and a tall, mournful stockbroker. Both of them had instruction books in their hip pockets. After long study of the manuals during the week, both hackers confided in Ernie that they were sure today was the day when it would all come together. Why, even the course record might be in danger! So well had they studied their instruction books.

But the merry little undertaker’s swing still had the built-in affinity for creeks and trees. His first few snap hooks made him frown at the puzzle of how a golfer with his knowledge of the game could hit the ball so crookedly. After all, he was carefully following the instructions contained in his book.

But as ball after ball bounced off oak trees and splashed in the water his frown turned into a clown’s mask of tragedy.

Finally, while the stockbroker was off to one side practicing his swing. the undertaker sidled up to his caddie and whined in his ear, "Listen — you caddies know all the secrets about how to stop all those hooks and dumped shots. What am I doing wrong?"

Ernie said, “Sir, If I tell you, you won't believe me."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll take it to the grave. I know it's all trickery and delusion, and the pros don't ever tell us the real story because they're afraid we'll turn pro and get some of that easy money ourselves."

Ernie shrugged his muscular shoulders and said, "All right, but you must promise never to tell anyone else."

"Oh, no problem, but I don't want you to make any radical changes in my picture swing. I've spent a lot of money on it."

Ernie said, "All right" and bent down and whispered the Scotsman’s ancient secret into the round little undertaker’s ear.

"You sure?" said the undertaker. "That doesn't sound like much of a tip to me. And where'd you get that Scottish burr all of a sudden?"

"G'wan, give it a try, laddie."

The undertaker took his stance. He lurched his round little body back and smacked a rocket. The ball soared 300 yards, faded slightly and landed in the center of the fairway.

Hysterical with joy, he whooped and hollered, "No hook! Yippee! I'm goin' on the tour!"

Meanwhile the morose stockbroker, after hitting a series of wild slices into oblivion, had sunk into a raging madness of the mind. But seeing his partner bomb one down the middle he figured that if the caddie could straighten out a basket case like the undertaker, maybe, just maybe . . .

He went over to Ernie and said, "Uh, listen, I don't want my natural killer swing tampered with, but maybe you could give me a few minor suggestions on how to lash into the pill."

Ernie took the stockbroker aside and laid the secret on him, including the burr. The stock broker made a face. "I don't believe any of that. It contradicts everything I've spent a lifetime learning about the intricacies of the golf swing." He thought a minute, then said, "But what the hell, nothing else has ever worked. I'll give it a try just for laughs."

The stockbroker looked all around to be sure nobody was watching him. He seemed to be afraid of making a fool of himself with a raw, amateurish swing.

BOMBS AWAY!

He whipped his long frame into the shot. The sharp CRACK! echoed from the distant hills. Flocks of startled blackbirds exploded from the trees. The ball screamed in a low, distance-eating draw, then rose majestically as it zoomed around the dogleg.
Far in the distance they heard an incredulous scream: "Good Lord, someone's driven the 400-yard 10th hole!"

During the next holes, the two reborn golfers outdid each other, slamming prodigious shots that had every golfer within 400 yards running for cover.

CONTEMPT GETS EVOKED!

But on the greens in front of the buzzing crowd drawn by the news, their performance evoked contempt. The rotund undertaker, after reaching the 460 yard 13th with a 4-iron and a sand wedge, yipped a three footer that skittered off the green into a trap. Three more strokes and he was down in six for a double bogey.

And the long, tall stockbroker, after driving over Lake Invincible and getting on the fearsome 580-yard 18th with a sand wedge, four-putted from three feet. In tears, the stockbroker wailed, "Ernie, you gotta do something. What's the good of hitting all these great long shots if we can’t get the ball in the hole? What are we doing wrong?"

"Yeah," said the formerly merry little undertaker. "You gotta teach us how to putt. Before you came along, at least we had the comfort of anonymity. Now we're famous as the two biggest choke artists in town."

Oh, that awful word! Ernie flinched and dropped on a bench. He wrinkled his brow and clenched his big fists. "Sorry, gentlemen, I can't do that."

"It's money, huh?" said the undertaker. "Listen, you think I plant all those stiffs in the ground for nothing? I got money, lots of it. How much ya want? A hundred? Five hundred?"

"No," Ernie replied, grim-faced and trembling. "I do not teach the Mystical Art."

Over the next months, the putt-challenged instructor taught dozens how to hit the long ball. They paid him in coarse Eastern long green.

Now the news hit the sports pages:

CADDIE DISCOVERS SECRET OF LONG BALL — CLUELESS HACKERS MOB WIZARD — SUPER BOMBER REFUSES TO INSTRUCT FLAT STICK.

And of course the tabloids got hold of the story and exaggerated it. They claimed the famous instructor's students had to tee off in Texas to hit Oklahoma.

But what good was the long ball when the longknockers were all shooting back at the greens and could not score?

The Black Oak refugee’s plan was working, He was almost ready finally to begin phase two of his climb from the pit of horror named CHOKER!

The bearded wizard from Auburn stuck around just long enough to create 16 long-ball champions and, incidentally, earn the price of a silver Corvette with a golf bag hood ornament. He had to leave town at midnight to evade hundreds of rich golfers flying in from New York to learn the secret of the long ball.

Meanwhile, the former choke artist’s international acclaim had reached as far as his home golf course at Black Oak.

Shortly after escaping Oklahoma he cruised up to Black Oak and parked his Corvette in front of the huge crowd which had been alerted to his arrival and now awaited him in front of the clubhouse. He waved In ducal disdain.

Lurking in this sea of adulation were Flapjaw Jones and Downtown Brown. Neither was cheering.

Slim was there too. "It's great to see you back, Partner. I heard about what happened in Oklahoma and I want to apologize for thinking you ever took the gas."

Ernie said, "Aw, don't give it a thought, pard. Come on, let's go challenge Flapjaw and Downtown Brown to a grudge match. With everybody watching they won't be able to turn us down."

A shadow passed across Slim's face. "You sure, Ernie? I mean, we all know you can sock the ball, but how about your putting? I wouldn't want to see you go through all that misery again."

"No problem, Slim. I've got a plan."

It took only minutes to shame their foes into accepting the challenge. Surrounded by hundreds intent on witnessing high drama, they teed off. All went according to plan. On the first green Ernie’s ball was ten feet from the hole. So great was his reputation that he simply turned to Flapjaw and shrugged his shoulders. "Do you really want me to putt this gimme?"

"Oh no" replied Flapjaw. "I wouldn't dream of making you putt a gimme like that. It would be impossible for a golfer of your caliber to miss."

Ernie winked at Slim and picked up his ball. Meanwhile, Flapjaw and Downtown Brown were playing at the top of their games, and Ernie needed all those conceded putts because he kept flying the greens and having to shoot back at them. But once on the green He just picked up his ball.

Until the last hole.

Ernie had a 40-foot downhill, side-hill snake. If his opponents conceded the putt as usual, he and Slim would win the grudge match. He waited, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Well," he asked Downtown Brown, "do you give up?"

Downtown Brown said hesitantly, "Sir, since this putt is for the win, I wonder if you wouldn't mind going through the formality of giving it a rap?"

"Yeah," said Flapjaw. "Make the rascal putt it."

The world-famous instructor of the long ball felt the old familiar pang of fear in his gut. He hadn't stroked a pressure putt for six months. It all flooded back to him now: the little bug on his ball, the horror when he realized that in trying to scare off the bug he'd knocked the ball off the green. And especially he remembered the humiliation when golfers flopped in the dirt and laid on him the curse of the Oklahoma Chokebird.

THE BUG IS BACK!
Knees shaking, forcing himself to concentrate, he surveyed the putt. But just then he noticed a little red and green bug crawling on the ball. It looked like the same damn bug. Intending to scare the bug away, he took a one-handed swing at it. Oh no! He'd done it again! The ball streaked uphill across the green, hopped over a twig, broke right, broke left, moved across the slope and then began a long, slow descent. A miss! By two feet!

BUT NO! Just then Ernie heard a familiar squawk that sounded eerily like one he'd often heard coming from the trees at Burning Hills Golf Course in Oklahoma.

Twittering and singing, the bird that would later be identified as an Oklahoma Chokebird - probably blown off course in a tornado - swooped down and picked the ladybug off the rolling ball! Its center of gravity altered, the ball swerved and rattled in the cup.

Sometime during the three-day party that followed, Ernie took Slim aside and showed him the copy he'd made of the Scotsman's ancient book:

Slim studied the first page on which Scotty Cruikshank had written his list of five commandments:

1. Dinna think! Dinna listen to the divil whispering in thy head.

2. Drrraw back the turrrible hickory stick with fearsome intent.

3. Dinna keep thy head down. Look around and note where the green is located.

4. Dinna move thy left hip smarrrtly at the hole. None ‘a that!

5. Whack the divil out of the ball!

The second page was entitled:
THE FOINE ART OF PUTTING
But under that heading the page was blank—except for the following:

“EDITOR’S NOTE:

“Although Mr. Cruikshank worked on this putting section for years, he finally abandoned the task when he realized ‘twas the work of the divil!”

Below the editor’s note, in silent endorsement over the years, some modern day students of the game had signed their names:

Bobby Jones
Gene Sarazen
Byron Nelson
Sam Snead
Ben Hogan
Arnold Palmer
Lee Trevino
Gary Player
Tom Watson
Jack Nicklaus
Tiger Woods
Vince Johnson

The reader will no doubt be glad to hear that the above story is the end of the final, final word on how to strrrike a golf ball.##