SHUHEI MATSUO
Assistant Online Editor
Sometimes, I feel like Justin Timberlake is singing directly to me. No, I’m not bringing sexy back. But you know, what goes around comes around.
This weekend, I had a chance to reassure the lyrics could be true when I went golfing with the sports editor, Greg Barnett.
So here is how the day went.
Greg picks me up at my place, and we drive to Rustic Canyon Golf Course in Moorpark. Less than a mile away from the course, we nearly get into a serious car accident. Greg doesn’t see a maroon Camry coming from the left when we are about to turn left on a T intersection. But I do.
“Look out! Look out!” I shout.
Greg looks up and slams on the brakes. We stop.
The other driver does the same, except it takes three seconds, 20 feet and a loud screeching sound for her to stop.
“We almost died,” says Greg, in disbelief. “My bad.”
Your bad, indeed. And this is why we shouldn’t text while driving.
My legs are still shaking. I haven’t been scared like this since the first “Saw” movie (yes, I’ve watched all four).
From then on, Greg repeats the dude-we-almost-died phrase every two minutes as if we should have died.
Then I remember the series of “Final Destination” films and begin to wonder if we will die soon because we are living against our fate. Maybe we will get hit by a golf ball on the course.
Golf can be a dangerous sport. Last summer, I hit myself in the face with a golf ball and ended up getting five stitches. Thanks to that, I looked like a Hindu follower for a couple of months.
Anyway, we start the round with the hope to finish all 18 holes, safely.
Rustic Canyon is a links golf course, similar to what you see at the British Open. It has no trees but has wild bushes where rattle snakes love to hide. Maybe they will bite and kill us if we miss fairways.
But by the time we finish the front nine, we are not even thinking about the near fatal accident. All we care now is who will beat who.
On the front side, we both have shot a 5-over 41, which is not too bad for golfers who haven’t played in a couple of months.
The neck-and-neck battle continues on the back nine. We are not playing all that great but are still tied after the 12th hole. But a disaster begins shortly after.
On Hole 13, par 5, I make my usual mistake: O.B. to the right. However, I luckily recover with a bogey.
One down, five to go.
So Greg is up one after No. 13. But he makes a double bogey on 14 to tie me after I made a bogey. Next hole, I get a par, but Greg makes another double bogey after pulling his shot 30 yards right of the green.
Up two, three to go.
On Hole 16, I slice my tee shot way right, and it’s gone in the wilderness. Reload. Same thing. OK, one more time. It’s going left and in the hazard.
Sigh. I have just turned my two-shot lead into a five-shot deficit in just two minutes. I am melting down like Phil Mickelson in the 2006 U.S. Open at Winged Foot.
I’m such an idiot.
But soon, Greg and I find out it is a lateral hazard on the right, which means I can take a drop and hit it as my third shot. I’ve just saved five strokes right there. Back in the game.
But depression strikes me again when I finish the hole with a triple-bogey 7. Greg, unable to take advantage of his solid drive, also shockingly makes a 7.
On top of that, I finish the final hole with the second double bogey of the day, while Greg also ends the round with an unsatisfactory bogey after a fine tee shot and approach to the green.
I have won the match by three but don’t feel like I deserve it with an 86.
“God, the course was hard today, but we played so bad,” says Greg, disappointingly. “I feel like shooting myself in the head.”
I feel the same way.
Maybe the Camry should have just hit us.
02-21-2008
