I signed my card just off the 18th green, handed it to Trevor, my playing partner for the day, took my clubs off the cart and headed for home.
I didn't want to watch another disappointing round go up on the scoreboard behind the 18th green. I didn't want to stand around talking with the other players about how I'd failed again at my Major, the Alpena City Open.
I wanted to be anywhere but the Alpena Golf Club. So I pulled on the double straps and walked the mile and a half home.
As I sit in my office this morning, I'd love to tell you the anger, frustration and disappointment are gone. That would be a lie. In a few hours I'll tee it up for another meaningless second round after an opening 83 that has me ninth in a 13-player field, 13 shots behind the leader.
At 4 a.m. I woke up still mad that I hit 3-wood on the sixth hole.
I was in complete control of my game to that point. I was driving it beautifully. The nervous start that has derailed so many of my City Opens never came. I felt calm. Comfortable.
Fairways. Greens. “Finally I thought, a solid start in a City Open.”
The wind was into us on the sixth (we start on the back nine the first day), and I'd been hitting driver great. But I made the decision too quickly. As soon as the 3-wood left the clubface and started toward the trees, I was already cussing myself out. Why didn’t I hit the driver. Why?
I found it. Then I played Plinko through the trees for a while and eventually tapped in for triple. The next hole I was in the trees again. Plinko again. Triple again.
You know that GIF of the Formula One car where all four tires suddenly fly off? That was me.
The 17th hole at Alpena Golf Club is the hardest hole of the 36 we play in the Alpena City Open. The long par four is tree-lined, narrowing to maybe 35 yards at the landing area for most drives. A five is a good score.
My hybrid found the fairway but left me almost no shot to the heavily guarded green.
From 180 yards I needed to hit a 25-yard slice around the trees. It's not where you want to be after back-to-back triples.
I pulled a four iron, hoping to hit a three-quarter cut around the trees jutting into the fairway. Right then I would have gladly signed for a bogey.
I hit it to eight feet.
And somehow that made me even madder.
How? How, fucking how, does the same person who just hit that shot make back-to-back triples?
This game is torture.
I steadied myself for a while and stood on our 17th hole with a chance to break 80. A decent drive left me a difficult pitch, but the ball was sitting on some sort of ant hill. I chunked it under a tree.
Double.
The last hole was a blur. I'd done a pretty good job staying in it mentally after the disaster in the middle of the round, but by the 18th I was empty.
I just wanted to get the hell out of there.
As I walked up the last fairway, I thought about something former PGA Tour player Edward Loar once asked me.
A few years ago I played with Edward at his home course in Texas. I played well that day. Walking up the final green he looked at me and said, "How in the fuck did you shoot 86 in your City Open?"
I laughed then.
I wasn't laughing Friday.
My wife and I only have one car. The plan was for her to pick me up after the round.
Instead, I started walking. Part of me just didn't want to see anybody. Part of me thought maybe I deserved the punishment.
As I headed down Golf Course Road, another player stopped his car, rolled down the window and asked if I wanted a ride.
I told him no. "That good, huh?" he said before driving away.
I cut through the nursing home parking lot across from the first hole. A family leaving after visiting a loved one glanced over, probably wondering why someone was walking toward the nursing home carrying a golf bag.
Then through the subdivision. A man mowing his lawn stopped and stared. If he was a golfer, he understood.
By the time I got home I was drenched in sweat and still angry. Steph didn't have to ask how I played. The fact I walked home told her everything.
"I'm sorry, babe," she said. Annie and Jack gave me hugs.
Soon I'll be able to look back and find the positives. I wasn't nearly as nervous as I have been in years past. Even after the two triples, I stayed in it mentally. I was more aware of what was going wrong with my swing. There were positives.
Just not today.
Today I'm thinking about the fact it's 365 days until I get another shot. I'm thinking about turning 50 before I play it again. I'm thinking about Eric Peterson, who will probably win his fourth straight this afternoon, getting another year better while I get another year older.
I've been lucky enough to cover the U.S. Open, I’ve been on Golf Channel, and Monday the Big Break: Meet the Players (sorry, had to plug it) comes out. None of them make me as nervous as standing on the first tee of the Alpena City Open.
The City Open is a tiny little tournament in my hometown. There aren't world ranking points. There isn't television. Winning it won't change anyone's career.
But for one weekend every summer, it's the only tournament in the world that matters to me.
Next year I’m going to win the Alpena City Open.
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