Day 4: Lahinch Old

I arrived at Lahinch Old a bit sore from the past three days of my golf marathon. The day was sunny and clear, although I knew full well that was subject to change on a moment’s notice. As I checked in at the front office, the starter came in and offered for me to join a threesome that was already on the first tee. “It’s a group of Americans,” he said, thinking that would be appealing to me. “That could be a good or a bad thing,” I only half joked. I was nervous about breaking my streak of consistently wonderful caddies and playing partners that I’d had thus far on my trip. Joining a threesome of Americans seemed like a risk. Coming from the New York area, my experience has been that joining a threesome of strangers on a heavily played muni is a 50/50 gamble of either playing with enjoyable, friendly partners or getting stuck with loud-mouthed boors with a penchant for public urination and ashing cigars on the greens.

“We’ve got a fourth who’s going to join you,” the starter called to the already assembled group. “Well we’re going to have to reshoot the group photo then,” one of the group cordially called back, handing his iPhone back to the caddy to re-shoot the group photo they had just taken. From that simple and unhesitating gesture, I knew I was going to like these guys. My playing partners for the day were two investment bankers from New Jersey in their late 50s, Thornton and Craig, and a young designer from a Los Angeles-area architectural firm, who looked to be in his early 30s, named Brian. The bankers were members of New Jersey’s exclusive and renowned Baltusrol, and they wore their logoed rain gear proudly. Brian looked like a very athletic guy who walked on the course in his street clothes.

Knowing this course was ripe with blind shots and trick holes (such as a par three that required a tee shot aimed at a white rock on top of a dune, to a blind green), I took a caddy. My tee shot was acceptable—a low line drive that got me out there just off the left side of the fairway in low, light rough. I quickly realized my streak of great caddies was going to come to an end. My caddy was still 100 yards behind me as I stood at my ball, wanting to hit up, as I was the away man in the foursome. As he fussed with the pull-cart he had strapped my bag to (yes, a caddy using a pull cart), I thought about the money I could have saved carrying my own bag. Surely I could have overheard any essential tips from the two other caddies in our group. I got on the green in three, and was pleased to find myself playing every bit at the level of my playing partners. But the mood started to turn for me when I pushed a yippy putt about three feet past the hole and six inches right, from only about four feet away to begin with.

One or more of the caddies made a concerned sucking sound when this happened, which annoyed me. Additionally, it was the single worst putt I’d made all week. If I couldn’t rely on my putting, I knew it was going to be a very long day. The round continued, and I really enjoyed the company of my playing partners. Thornton was a hardened, serious guy, who’d survived a career at the highest levels of investment banking and had the reserved cool of a killer. He also happened to be a laser-accurate driver of the ball, taking a slow, even-tempoed swing that found himself dead straight and 240 yards out on almost every hole. Craig was a more jovial character who personally knew the president of Hartford’s Trinity College, my alma mater. Craig chatted with me about his family, raising kids, golfing in other parts of the world (apparently, the Scots were not nearly as friendly as the Irish), and the joys of dogs versus cats. Brian was the most athletic of our group and played extremely good golf. His power, however, often put him on top of the dunes, and to the extreme left and right of the fairway, so we didn’t see as much of each other through the round as did Craig and I, for instance.

As the round progressed, I realized I was done. Physically and mentally, I was shot. I couldn’t put the ball in the air, I didn’t trust my swing, and worst of all, I could not, for the life of me, get the speed of the greens, knocking putt after putt either well short or miles past the hole. To make matters worse, my caddy felt he could help by giving me swing advice on the course in the form of perhaps the biggest swing myth in the game. “Keep your head down,” he’d say, just before I took a swing. I knew full well the position of my head had nothing to do with my swing problems on this day. The icing on the cake was when I sank my one Stricker-style bomb of the day, a right-to-left curling 20 footer that came late in the round. "I knew that was in the second you hit it," my caddy said, proud of his read. I'm glad one of us knew it. I was as mystified by that putt as the others that I missed so badly after a week of otherwise solid putting.

On the 12^th hole, we encountered what I felt was a travesty for a course of the stature of Lahinch—a temporary green. Really? I didn’t travel 3000 miles to one of the top courses in the world to be playing bocce on a temporary green.

In the end, my assessment of Lahinch was entirely in line with what the members of Ballybunion had told me two days earlier—it just doesn’t hold a candle to Ballybunion. In fairness, I played awfully. But Lahinch was just not fun, nor was it a particularly inspiring course design. Ballybunion was extreme and wild, but within it was a proper golf course. Lahinch felt almost gimmicky at times—more like an obstacle course than playing a golf course. The greens were very fast, but in a hard, dormant way that made it tough to ever dial in the speed. And it seemed like every hole required some precise, acrobatic, and often up-hill tee shot of at least 220 yards, or else disaster. Add to this that I flew 3-4 greens with my best iron shots of the day thanks to poor club recommendations on the part of my caddie, and I was ready to get the round over with and hit the bar.

After the round, our foursome headed to the bar where we enjoyed pints of Guinness, courtesy of Thornton, and exchanged email addresses so we could share our photos of the day. Brian and I stayed behind and grabbed dinner at the bar, and chatted until close with some locals, who were eager to talk about the recent Ryder Cup, the New England Patriots, and the upcoming US Presidential election. I very cautiously ribbed them about the fact that a Brit (Ian Poulter) had won the Ryder Cup for them, a fact they begrudgingly accepted. Peter, a skinny Irish chap with a goatee, was visiting from Boston, where he had moved 10 years earlier. He was in town visiting family, and claimed to be an ex-member and caddy at Lahinch. Brian drunkenly swooned about his love for Tom Brady. “I told my wife, if I ever leave her, it will be for Tom Brady,” he said proudly. “Because he’s handsome, he’s got great hair, and he’s got dimples.” His burley friend in a Patriots jersey immediately chimed in. “…and he’s got a great right hand!” We all laughed. Like sticking with the same slot machine long enough for it to pay out, Brian and I witnessed some of the most hilarious Irish bar banter of the entire trip, thanks to Peter and his pals. It made the day at Lahinch a memorable one.