Chapter 3: Off to See the Wizard

I had really spoken the truth to Susan. I did have a tee time that day. Once again I posted a personal best on a local course and collected a few bucks from my doubting fellow players.

As I was having a snack after the round I began reading a golf magazine I had found in the clubhouse and noticed an ad for the upcoming US Open qualifying. I looked the ad over and discovered that the application period would still be open for another three weeks. I also noticed that the Open is truly an open Open. Anyone who has an established handicap under a certain number can apply and play in a local qualifier. Placing high enough in the qualifier allows you to advance to a sectional. Placing high enough there gets you into the US Open, where you get the opportunity to play a tricked out, beasted up, bitch of a course made as hard as possible. Courses like Bethpage or Pebble Beach, but with as many added nasty tricks as the fiendish minds of the course set up people can arrange.

That weekend I took a flight down to Vegas to start the second week of the Tom Watson retirement plan. I checked into the Bellagio into a luxury suite and began the rounds of the casinos. While parlaying Do Over into more cash I just couldn't get the US Open out of my mind. This year it was being held at Pebble Beach. It appealed to the cheap side of me to use the US Open as a method to get to play there for free. NO golf course is worth what is charged for a round at Pebble, unless they have hookers giving complementary blow jobs on the front and back nines and a free open bar. I know Pebble is pretty upscale but I have never heard of anyone claiming to have received THAT level of service there.

Monday morning at my first Vegas golf course I got all the information I could about how to establish a handicap so that I could apply. I figured that even if I played any course from the big boy's tees I could still Do Over my way to scratch golf. It appeared that consistent par or under scoring in the qualifiers could get you to the Open. Thus began the great crusade to cheat Pebble Beach out of a few hundred dollars in green fees.

I finished up my week in Vegas two hundred thousand to the good and closer to establishing a "legitimate" handicap. I also test drove various escorts during my stay. Still didn't care for condoms, but most of the time the sex was great for me and, with all due respect to the ladies, that's who I have sex for.

I had originally planned to head overseas for more gambling (and because I like to travel) but this US Open thing had taken hold of me and I needed to see it through. I got back to my old town, checked into a great hotel and gave Dr. Frost, aka Susan a call. We had a very nice time and even got in some golf. If she was faking her orgasms she was at least as accomplished at it as the escorts I had seen.

Once I had my official USGA handicap I sent in my application for the Open. For a whopping $150 I could be playing at least two rounds at Pebble, as well as staying in the Monterey area for a few days. I particularly liked the rule that, if your apparent skill didn't match up to your handicap you could be banned from participating in the future (the damned liar rule). I booked a great suite in Monterey for the week of the Open and the week before. It only cost an arm and a leg for the suite since the area was gearing up to host the Open. What the hell, Vegas paid for it. And, yes, I got crap for my name again. I just hoped the other one didn't show up and get my room accidentally.

The first round of qualifying came up pretty quickly. As you would expect, it was a major cattle call, with all of us pretenders showing up in a mass start. It was me and a bunch of young guys who spent a whole lot of time snickering at my drives. I CAN'T reach a par 4 that is longer than 450 yards in two. It just isn't going to happen with this body, although I am inching closer. However, with Do Over in place it was dead easy to par all of the 4 and 5 par holes (one putt, you see) and birdie the par 3s. I walked off the course with a 67 and a trip to the sectionals. The three bombers in my group shook hands, grumbled impolitely, took one last parting shot at my name and took their 71, 73 and 74 and planned for next year. I didn't even have to Do Over about fifteen of my shots, so I was officially only a seventy-eight percent cheater. Did it bother me to displace someone who could have gone? Not really. They were all at least twenty to thirty years my junior and would have plenty of time to try again.