2021 Tournament Results

We were on eleven, right on the edge of the water, when the booze began to take hold.  Suddenly the sky was full of huge shapes, like terrible dimpled balls, soaring, screaming, tearing across the sky and I heard a voice screaming “Holy Jesus!  What is this Goddamned game?”

“What are you yelling at?” muttered my caddy from the passenger seat of the cart.

“Never mind,” I said, pulling the fireapple-red Club Car to the side of the cart path, “it’s your turn to drive.”  No point telling him about those Goddamned balls, I thought.  The poor bastard will see them himself soon enough.

Chapter, the First

In Which The Avengers Langhornians Assemble

“They didn’t have any McMuffins, so… you got a Big Mac.”

I tossed the crumpled McDonald’s bag into Tsavatewa’s cart, and surveyed my surroundings.  The parking lot at Barrington Hall was fairly empty on this chilly morning – a good sign that perhaps we might not cause too much commotion on the course.

Langhornians trickled in, boisterous greetings of fellow Bourbon-Soaked Duffers ringing across the cracked tarmac.

It was the morning of the finals for the second annual Langhorne Club COVID Cup – a four-month bacchanal celebrating the intersection of the Sport of Kings and the Tipple of Gentlemen.  Three dozen matches had winnowed the initial field of 24 down to the final three:

• Andrew Fahsholz
• Nick Henderson
• Chris Tsavatewa

Our three champions had each chosen a caddy – Fahsholz had chosen Adam Lucas for support, Manishh Patel would be looping for Henderson, and Matt Smith paired with Tsavatewa (in glorious matching golf shirts).  These three were on hand to provide valuable assistance, maintain morale, and – most importantly – pour the whiskey.

After all, it is the work of all Langhorne fellows to not only spread the gospel of Good Bourbon Whiskey, but also to imbue those teachings into the various and sundry actions that make up our daily life.  And to the gentleman of a sporting bent, there is no better imbuing than that of Bourbon into Golf.

“What the fuck is THAT?!” The exclamation shattered my reverie and I spun in the direction of the voice.  Ah, I thought, spying the skillet hanging from the stays of tournament official Matt Palma’s golf bag.  The Wheel of Not Ideal.  Those evil bastards.  Those incredible, terrifying bastards.

Shuffling bourbon, snacks, and a jacket into the cart I’d procured from the good-natured and infinitely-patient man at the pro shop (“How many a-y’all’s coming out today?  That many?  Well, tell you what, those that ain’t playin’, I’m only gonna get ten bucks per cart, not twenty.”), I was interrupted with a tap on the shoulder.

“Will you hold onto The Jacket?”

The Jacket – a vintage blazer, massively oversized, forest green and emblazoned with the golfing crest of the Langhorne club.  Embroidered across the back of this glorious mockery of Augusta’s famed Green Jacket is the name of each and every winner of the tournament.  On the day of the final, only one name – Chris Tsavatewa – was picked out in yellow across the left shoulder.

A bit humbled by being entrusted with the possession of such an important artifact in the History of Golf, I hung it reverently from that doohickey at the back of the cart that you pull out when it starts to rain.  Others dropped by to admire the fine craftsmanship of The Jacket, to wish the champions good luck, and to scout out who was carrying the best bottles of amber happiness.

And then it was time for the Putt-Off.  I climbed out of my cart, grabbed my putter, and walked towards the practice green.   I took one look back at the cart, and mused on the single name on the back of The Jacket.  There’ll be another by day’s end.

Chapter, the Second

In Which Putting Happens

Why do they always build the Goddamned practice green on the side of a mountain?

As I walked onto the green, a handful of Langhorne duffers were already putting in the work, draining shots into the swiss-cheese surface.  The Putt-Off was the first official event of the day, an open-to-all-comers free-for-all, putting the half-dozen or so holes in order – straight stroke play.

Having for myself an early tee time, I quickly knocked my first putt well off of the green, and down to the feet of the aforementioned mountain.  I decided today was not a Good Putting day and voluntarily demoted myself to spectator.

The putting action was fast and furious, with another golfer going into play as soon as the first hole was cleared by the man ahead.  Shots careered around the practice floor, much profanity punctuated by the occasional cheer.  In the end, one Langhornian stood above the rest as the Putting Champion of the World, and took home a nice bottle of bourbon for his efforts.  One herculean man, who shall go down in the annals of Golf, Bourbon, and possibly All of Sport.

One man whose name was either Manishh or Nick.  I honestly can’t remember, and neither can anyone else.

Chapter, the Third

In Which Battle is Joined And Baseball Bats Are Used For Off-Label Purposes

From the tips, the first hole at Barrington Hall lasts 390  yards.  The par four doglegs left, with only a narrow shelf giving any relief between water and pine trees for the last hundred yards or so – a perfect exemplar for the narrow north Macon track.

A toss for honors at the tee box, last words of salutation, and le jeu sont fait.  

Insert Name Here took the first crack, making a momentous drive that (stayed straight, dove left, soared right), coming to a stop (right where he wanted it, in a a non-ideal lie, in a different county).  Insert Name Here followed that up with a scorcher that (did… something?), and the battle was truly on when Whoever’s Left tore one (up the right side, straight down the middle, off the heel and right down the left treeline).

Ed. Note: Is this what we can expect for 18 holes?  Did you take notes?  Track scores?  Make any effort to preserve this historic occasion in any way?  

But rather than a shot-by-shot analysis of the match, it is probably of more interest to the Langhorne faction that these pages celebrate those golfing traditions that aren’t codified by the Royal and Ancient.  To wit: Boozing and Fucking About Like Hooligans.

Now out of sight of the clubhouse, clustered about on the second tee, we gathered for a celebratory and club-sanctioned drink of Bourbon Whiskey.  Shots were distributed and the toast was offered:

Here’s to the Royal and Ancient,
St. Andrew’s and the rest,
Here on this hallowed teeing ground,
We celebrate the best.

So raise a glass and grab your putter,
Irons and your woods –
Here’s to the game of whackfuck
And good whiskey – hit ’em good!

And with that good liquor lighting a fire in the hearts and in the bellies of the competitors, the first shenanigans commenced as Tsavatewa was forced to spin the Wheel of Not Ideal.

Baseball Bat.

And just like that, any semblance of Traditional Golf went right the fuck out the window.

With a mighty swing, the returning champ… well… he hit the ball.  With a baseball bat.  Less said about that the better.  Laughter ensued, play continued – but stay tuned!  The bat was not yet done with the Langhorne golfers.

Number three is the first short three on the course, and another bottle was up for grabs for the winner of the first closest-to-the-pin competition.  149 yards will get you from the tee box to the dancefloor, which should be an attainable, if not easy shot for any experienced golfer.

149 yards plus a couple shots of bottled-in-bond, however, makes for a different arithmetic.  At least a dozen Langhornians fired shots from the tee box, scattering balls from hell to breakfast with a dizzying array of clubs, ranging from nine irons to long fairway woods.  And when the divots had settled, and we saw what had occurred, there was but one of the bitter white pills parked on the emerald isle – and Tsavatewa added a bottle to his collection.

Four started less than auspiciously, as Henderson shanked one out into the treacherous out-of-bounds along the hole’s left side – but the “Langhorne Nonsense” came to the rescue as he used his available, non-PGA-approved foot wedge as a convenient rescue club.

The hole ended just as uproariously as not one, but two competitors were forced to perform greenside dizzybats.

A dizzybat, for the uninitiated, is a challenge wherein the respondent must place the end of a baseball bat on the ground, and then bend over such that their forehead rests on the opposite end of the bat.  Without moving the bat, this unfortunate must then spin about that fixed axis while counting out ten revolutions – upon rising from which, they will immediately fall into a bunker.

Following the fourth came the fifth, and immediately thereafter the sixth, whereon another illustrious spectator (who will remain here nameless, because…  well, because I said so, and because I’m a shitty reporter who didn’t take notes) won a prize bottle by sticking one close to the pin.

The game proceeded in relatively stately fashion until just before the turn when, at nine, spectator Kevin Clark was called in to pinch hit and cracked a monster drive, to the applause and catcalls of all.

It should be noted that, at this time, we’d been on the course for almost three hours, had engaged in two free-for-all closest to the pin competitions involving at least twelve spectators, and had – between the lot of us – managed to kill more than a bottle of bourbon and God-knows-how-many beers, seltzers, and (probably, knowing this crew) swigs of illicit moonshine.  To say that storm clouds were gathering would be a remarkably trite and cheesy way to set up this next chapter, but…

Storm clouds were gathering.

Chapter, the Fourth

In Which Some Mouthy Motherfuckers Almost Get Their Bitch Asses Straight-Up Beat

There is a delicate calculus to playing something as momentous and memorable and… well… time-wastey as a Langhorne tourney on a public track.  To wit, one must balance the Membership’s desire to Have a Good Time against the desire of those Other Golfers to finish a round in something less than seven days.  Of course, it is in the very nature of our little Society to extend graciousness and kindness to our fellow man, so there was no inherent desire to cause any ill-will.

But, we did have something like twenty tee shots on holes 3, 6, and 9.  So, we were running a minute or sixty behind pace.

When faced with such incredulous stupidity, your typical golfer will sigh in exasperation, shake their heads at exuberant indiscretion, and then calmly ask for an opportunity to play through.

Alas, these were not your typical golfers.

The first indication we had that something might have gone a bit lateral on us was a resounding cry, issuing from the direction of the tenth tee.

“Get the fuck out of the way!”

Well, then.  When you ask so nicely…

Apparently, holding short for a few minutes while the three best golfers in central Georgia dizzybatted their way around the track had irritated the delicate sensibilities of the locals.

Needless to say, the battle was joined.  One wag who shall remain nameless penned a song relating the tale, setting it to the tune of a popular song from the 1950’s, reprinted here with the admonition that – if anyone asks – this is not the advised method for recording Important Historical Events.

The Battle of Barrington Hall

To the tune of “The Battle of New Orleans” by Jimmy Driftwood, as recorded by Johnny Horton

In the year of ‘22, we took a little trip,
To drink a little whiskey and to drive ‘n’ putt ‘n’ chip.
We took our stash of bourbon out into the Georgia sun,
And we played the Langhorne final at the Hall of Barrington.

Chorus:
We played nine holes and the locals started grumblin’,
The course was backed up a half an hour or so,
We played one more and then they came a-gunnin’,
A-flappin’ their jaws up around the tenth hole.

Well, we looked up the fairway and we seen the locals come,
And their faces was as purple as a ripened summer plum,
We doffed our caps and we bid ‘em a good day,
But they shouted and they hollered – “Get the fuck out of the way!”

Chorus

The champs all said we could take ‘em by surprise,
If we peppered ‘em with Titleists and Vices and Maxflis,
We chugged our whiskey ‘til we seen their beer guts well,
Then we opened up our ball bags and really gave ‘em… welllllllllll….

Chorus

Bridge:
Well we charged on our carts, usin’ drivers for lances,
And we swung our irons, we were devastatin’ foes,
They bailed so fast that the pro couldn’t catch ‘em,
A-whoopin’ their asses around the tenth hole.

We set artillery upon the fairway –
Long-ball drivers with a case of Callaways.
We juiced ‘em up with bourbon and a bunch of nicotine,
And when they opened fire, it was somethin’ to be seen.

Chorus

Bridge

Ed. Note: No evidence exists that this version of events is factual.  None.  And we’re pretty sure “Bourbon Brigade Baddies Beat Boisterous Bullies at Barrington” is way too awesome of a headline for a local writer to have passed up, had any blows been actually exchanged.

Chapter, the Fifth

In Which… Something? Happens?

Following the Battle of Barrington Hall, nerves were understandably shaky.  Golf, after all, is considered to be a more genteel offering than the crass pastimes of football, hockey, or politics.  Such rude and boisterous behavior on the course is a cause for anxiety, and the tumult had a noticeable impact on Fahsholz and Henderson, who both struggled to close out on ten.  The trek to eleven was a solemn drive, one filled with pep talks and reassurances that No, We Were Not the Assholes.

Nonetheless, in the interest of speeding the hell up, Fahsholz proposed, and the competitors agreed to a hiatus on shenanigans for the remainder of the round.  No more dizzybats, no more foot wedges, and one moron’s suggestion to have players play a hole wearing their competitors’ prescription eyeglasses was dismissed out of hand.

A round of shots was ordered – to help still the jangled nerves – and those were then followed by other drinks. Of purely a medicinal nature, you understand.  Bottles were again stowed, and the battle continued onto hole number 11.

Ed. Note: At this point, the cohesiveness of the narrative breaks down completely.  It is uncertain as to whether the reporter became too engrossed in the match, too intoxicated, or simply allowed his incompetence to reign supreme, but there are no cogent notes from holes 11-14.  All that remains to chronicle that sequence of holes is a single two-word note, found scribbled on the back of a Dick’s Sporting Goods receipt with what appears to be the oil dipstick from a Club Car Supreme golf cart:

Frying pan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chapter, the Sixth

In Which Mathematics Are Difficult

On fifteen, the jovial spirit of the match returned as all and sundry made a quick stop at the Official Langhorne Golf Booze Yurt, located in the back yard of Barrington resident and longtime Langhorne member Mike Gibbons.  Today, the yurt contained nothing less than good ol’ fashioned Jack Daniels, and a series of celebratory shots went ‘round.  At this juncture, Patel suggested that – now that those inbred dipshits from the Battle were well ahead of us and probably safely on the way back to their boring, non-Langhorne lives – we resume the aforementioned shenanigans.  And there was great rejoicing.

Play continued in high fashion on through the remainder of 15, and up the hill and down the dell of number 16, and thence to the short hop up a short par three to hole 17.

And then came the score update.

See, all day, member Daniel Graves – affectionately known to all and sundry as Gravey – had been keeping score on a big, highly-visible whiteboard.  This had been the Official Score, so far as the players had been concerned, and strategies both grand and whimsical had been built off of the foundation of those three, simple numbers.  According to the Big Board, Henderson was slightly ahead.

Unfortunately, the day’s intake of intoxicants had proven deleterious to Gravey’s arithmetical ability, and as we made the trek from seventeen to eighteen, something became abundantly, terrifyingly clear: Gravey’s score literally did not match a single one of the other scorecards on the course. 

So, for those of us who had not been keeping score ourselves, the leaderboard was:

Fahsholz: TBD
Henderson: Processing…
Tsavatewa: Not a Fucking Clue

This required Learned Consideration and Lengthy Consultation before Enforcer Palma brought the truth of the matter to light.  After seventeen, it was Fahsholz in the lead, with Henderson and Tsavatewa nipping at his heels.

The eighteenth at Barrington is, at the end of the day, a beautiful way to end a round of golf.  A long drive carries you to water’s edge, where a solid approach shot can carry the hazard all the way to the narrow cul de sac harboring the green.  It was there where the final battle was met, and with a single stroke of the putter, Fahsholz held his lead and earned the right to put his name on the back of The Jacket.

It had been a hell of a day.  Between Big Macs for breakfast, baseball bats, frying-pan sidebets, battles over nothing less than the soul of golf itself, and the effects of several gallons of booze – coupled with something like seven hours in the sun – the whole crew, competitors and spectators alike – were bone tired and slightly bleary-eyed.  Home sounded good.  So did more bourbon in the parking lot – which is what we did, with Fahsholz donning The Jacket and taking a celebratory drink from the Langhorne Barrel Cup and posing for photos with friend and foe alike.

It had been a hell of a day.  It was a day for competition of the athletic variety, but it turned into something else.  An endurance match.  Us against the world.  The bourbonified elite vs. the great unwashed.  Man vs. Nature.  Golfer vs. Course.  Alcohol vs. Liver.  And a fellow Langhornian put it best, months later, when he eloquently stated:

“Andrew won, but really… he was the survivor.”