The Cup

After a summer full of work, vacations, and living that dad life, it is time to wipe the cobwebs off the golf clubs in the garage and get into golf shape before my dads' three-day Ryder Cup style tournament at Pinehurst less than a month away. Soon to be forty-three, and I have known most of the dads on this trip since my early twenties.

Over the years, much has changed and much hasn't. All married with kids, gone are our single days when we would meet religiously every weekend for golf, cocktails, and camaraderie. Now, requests to play golf together must be planned in advance and are normally followed by something like, "let me check with the warden."

Despite the changes over the years — more gray hairs and higher handicaps — we have managed to do a Ryder Cup style outing almost every year, competing for money, bragging rights, and a coveted ten-dollar trophy named The Cup. In less than a month, we will compete in three-and-a-half days of highly competitive below average golf at Pinehurst No. 8, No. 4, No. 2, the Cradle, No. 10, and No. 5.

"Just like St. Andrews considers itself the birthplace of golf, Pinehurst considers itself the birthplace of American golf. We eat, sleep, and breathe golf here."

Game day is upon us. We arrive at the hallowed grounds of Pinehurst shortly before our afternoon tee time, and the history of Pinehurst immediately hits you with the "1895" emblems, trophies, and historic photos displayed throughout the Resort. Director Matt meets us for a group photo at the tee box of Pinehurst No. 8, a course Tom Fazio designed in 1996 to celebrate Pinehurst's 100-year anniversary.

On paper, the teams are an evenly matched avalanche of strokes. James and I, as the two captains, have about a 12 handicap; Stuart and Stevenson can both shoot somewhere in the 90s, and Danny Boy and Anthony can both shoot somewhere around, between, or high above 100 on any given Sunday. Paper, however, doesn't win championships — grit, determination, and a healthy amount of alcohol does.

With the rains from Hurricane Helene threatening, we arrive the next morning at the first tee on No. 4 to an empty course; everyone else was wise enough to sleep in. We don't pass up the rare opportunity the starter gives us to play all together as a sixsome at Pinehurst. We split the first two holes in scramble format and bask in the joy of having the course to ourselves.

Then, the clouds part and the biblical rain pours down from high above. On green No. 3, I look back to see my playing companions in the fairway discussing their approach shot. Grins ear-to-ear and jolly like medieval court jesters, they stand in the middle of the fairway soaked, and the furthest away from the stress of a workday. Pinehurst No. 4's nickname of Rebirth seems very appropriate at this moment.

The afternoon brings the sun, dry weather, and tee times on the famed No. 2, the host of more single golf championships than any other course in America. Immediately, I realize this place is different. It is a martini at a black-tie event; all-white at center court in Wimbledon; an evening ride with the top down around Lake Como. It is, in short, all class.

The torrential rains from Hurricane Helene just stopped a few hours ago, and it rained heavily yesterday. This course should be a water puddle, but it isn't. The sandy soil, pine straw, and native vegetation that comprise the sandy native areas on No. 2 are some of the key ingredients in the course's ability to withstand heavy rainfall.

"Just like any good Texan has 'remember the Alamo' in their lexicon, anytime Pinehurst is ever brought up, the winner will be able to say: 'Remember No. 2.'"

Henry is our caddy and is a nice but misguided UNC fan. Jackson, a fellow Wolfpacker like Director Matt and myself, carries the bags for Team Dum-Dum. I have never had the opportunity to enjoy the services of a caddy, and I find the experience becoming of a gentleman of my limited stature. It is a stroll in the park with a guide, handler, and friend all at once.

Down two with two to play, our adversaries must win the 185-yard, par 3, 17th hole to not be stymied. We manage to hit the green and our opponents are just off the green in the first layer of rough. After bad chip shots and below-average putts, Danny Boy and I have a left-to-righter barely outside the length of my putter for par and the win. To the dismay of James, Anthony, and their families, I sink the putt.

We win. Hugs and high-fives all around. Complete euphoria. I blast "We Are the Champions" on my portable speaker walking down eighteen. All is right with the world.

The raw, unadulterated nature of No. 10 is immediately evident when you set foot on the course — Pinehurst's website refers to No. 10 as an 18-hole homage to Mother Nature and Father Time. Tom Doak designed rolling hills, rugged dunes, and native wiregrass to create a demanding course that offers 75 feet of elevation changes.

I feel like Sisyphus — but instead of rolling a ball up an endless hill, I am lugging a heavy bag around the dramatically sloping northwest ridge of the Pinehurst Sandmines. The first nine holes are uphill. The cart girl at the snack bar tells us that holes 9–14 are considered the hardest and to expect more uphill.

Standing on the par-4, 447-yard, 16th tee box, I am down three and must win out to push. I assess the situation, remembering what they say on the Golf Channel: keep legs far apart in the fairway bunker and keep your lower body quiet. I swing. End scene.

I wish I could tell you that I fought the good fight and won, but Ryder Cup style golf between dads with high handicaps is no fairytale. I lose the match 3 and 2 and receive even more devastating news in front of the trailer serving as the interim clubhouse. My teammates tied their match, meaning The Idiots won The Cup by one point. My afternoon loss on my birthday was the decisive point.

On Sunday morning, we appropriately play the beautiful Pinehurst No. 5, with the par-3, 4th hole known as the "Cathedral Hole." A perfect course to put a bow on the trip. We play 12 holes and head back to the clubhouse, where I reluctantly take a picture of the "winning" team next to the Rolex Clock Tower.

"They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I would like a thousand words to proclaim — those no good, low down, dirty rotten scoundrels were not supposed to win."

Team Three Putts to Glory — protectors of women and child and heroes to men — was meant to hoist The Cup. But as in golf and in life, we must play the ball as it lies and move on. The next Dads' golf tournament is just around the corner.