According to the National Hole-in-One Registry, the odds of hitting a hole in-in-one are 12,000 to one. Meanwhile, the odds of being hit by lightning are a something like 3,000 to one. Not sure I’m buying it. I know dozens of golfers who claim a hole-in-one. Friends hit by lightning? One.
On top of that, a surprising number of my friends have multiple holes-in-one. How does that add up? Years ago, I knew a fellow, Jake, who had six. This was particularly impressive because they spanned all four extremely difficult par-threes at his swanky Rhode Island country club. The club put up a bronze plaque to memorialize the feat. Any yes, that same club served as partial inspiration for the fictitious Wannagansett Country Club in Winter Rules, playing home of Dr. Atherton-Hunt, runner-up in the New England Amateur.
I myself have had three aces. And that’s not counting the time I reteed after going out-of-bounds on a par three and holed-out for as weird a par as you’ll ever see. This transpired near the conclusion of a match-play event, and my opponent was beside himself. Some have commented on the profusion of profanity in my book, but it’s nothing compared to the stream of foul language unleased by that dismayed septuagenarian. Music to my ears.
My first hole-in-one came at the 13th hole of the now defunct Wayne Golf Course, inspiration for my book’s fictitious Squak Valley Golf Course. Downhill and measuring all of 113 yards, it bore no resemblance to the challenging par-threes of Jake’s swanky club. Nor was the shot anything special—it was a big high fade onto the hillside to the right of the green, from which it ran downhill across the green and smack into the cup. Mundane shot or no, from that day forward the hole became known in my group as “The Greatest Hole in Golf,” and served as inspiration for the location of touring pro Kurt Lockwood’s meltdown during the Dream Round. Years later, when Wayne Golf Course was in its final days, I absconded with the battered homemade sign that pointed the way to the tee.
This brings up an observation about holes-in-one, which is that they often occur on inferior shots. When I describe my first ace as coming on a high fade, I lie. It was a slice. A terrible shot in the midst of a terrible round, with a surprisingly delightful outcome. People have said, “you should frame that card.” With two sevens and an eight? I don’t think so.
My theory on this phenomenon—the prevalence of aces on poor shots—comes back to odds. When a good player goes after a par three, they’re aiming at the pin and the ball checks up quickly. We lesser players, by contrast, are aiming more or less at the green, and our shots roll out—sometimes distressingly so. Still, a ball travelling the entire length of the green would seem to have far higher odds of a lucky encounter with the cup. I’m sure a mathematician could explain it.
My second hole-in-one was during a WSGA pro-member event at Suncadia Prospector. It was the third hole, 131 yards, and I hit a knock-down shot into a 20-mph crosswind. Unlike my first time, this was a damn good shot and I knew it when I hit it. But cheapskate that I am, I was eyes-down hunting for my tee when my partner pro exclaimed, “Buddy, that went in!” Yup, I missed it. And the tee was broken.
When I tell that story, people say, “Wow, an ace in a pro-am! What did you win?” Everyone thinks tournaments hand out free cars and vacations like they’re Halloween candy. Hardly. For my achievement I received a dozen golf balls, and only because the hole also happened to be the site of the amateur closest-to-the-pin competition. Over the ensuing weeks I scattered my prize balls throughout the water hazards of Wayne. Some are still there, I expect. A lasting memorial, akin to Jake’s bronze plaque.
My third hole-in-one occurred at Snoqualmie Falls Golf Course, a quiet, friendly place that my group took to after the demise of Wayne. 17th hole, 126 yards. Once again, I was contending with heavy wind, and once again I employed a knock-down. OK, once again I lie. I attempted a knock down, but actually hit the damn thing square in the eye. The ball screamed toward the green on a frozen rope and smacked hard into the soft bank in front. This scrubbed off all the excess speed, allowing the ball to roll lazily across the green and into the cup. This time I saw the whole thing. I still catch grief about it. Nevertheless, I shot a 75 that day, so maybe I’ll frame the card.
My group now calls the 17th “The New Greatest Hole in Golf.” I’m waiting for my opportunity to steal the sign.