Douglas: Swinging in a sea of red

My quest continued Thursday to play all the golf courses in the continental United States, which is achievable if I can double my age. Before you conclude that this sounds like a fairy-tale gig, understand that to check Lonnie Poole Golf Course off the list required that I venture into hostile territory.

Lonnie Poole, an Arnold Palmer design, is the home course for N.C. State University, and there was more red than at the Sharon Tate murder scene. Kids, Google it.

My effort to poke the bear was vanquished seconds after I walked into the pro shop and was politely asked to remove my golf cap that boasted “UNC.” Outnumbered badly, I did as asked although I thought there was a chance I would get permission to put it back on when the pro shop attendant saw what it concealed.

I was with three fraternity brothers, and we were armed with vouchers that were purchased at a discounted price during the John P. Williamson Memorial Golf Tournament that supports the Robeson County Humane Society. This seems like a fine time to shamelessly inject that next year’s tournament will be May 3 at Pinecrest Country Club. Golfers, circle that date.

Anyhow, we had received bad news while entering the grounds when a sign advised us that the putting green was closed, which I knew immediately was a problem — but it was not until five hours later that I realized the scope of that problem.

I knew it was going to be “Tough Day” on the links as the high was mid-50s and there was a relentless one- to two-club wind. I think it was on No. 8 when I said to no one that it was masterful that Arnie had designed a course with every hole playing into the wind.

Before we teed off, the starter told us it would be “golf paths only” — the second worst words a golfer will hear, not far behind “you are still away” — as there had been rain the day before and the fairways were mushy. Given that I as a 67-year-old was the youngest member of the group, the news that we would have to abandon the golf carts and walk to our next shot was, well, like the death of a third cousin.

The round began well enough, with me leaving a 15-footer dead center but short for a routine par. A three-putt double-bogey on No. 2 soured my mood, and when I saw a fellow golfer try three times and fail to get his putt to crest a hill where Jumbo had been buried, the Taylor Made returning each time to his feet, I began to understand why more than one golfer had refused my invitation to play Lonnie Poole for free.

Then things got worse.

After a perfect drive on No. 3, a par 5, I had 136 yards to a hazard, and a forced carry over it of 195 into the wind. So, I hit a gap wedge that left me 160 yards into a two-club wind to an elevated green with bunkering that would have made proud the Japanese at Okinawa. Kids, Google it.

In other words, I was screwed. A bogey.

I began looking for the cart girl, knowing with the golf on me, the Bud Light would be on my playing partners. I envisioned a hot N.C. State coed, but she never arrived. That probably cost me a couple of shots over the course of the round.

Then something unexpected happened. I began warming up, not my body temperature, although I was expertly layered, but my regard for the golf course. Lonnie Poole, which is definitely difficult, is on a beautiful piece of property with a lot of perfect-for-the-postcard holes.

No. 11, a par 5, offers an incredible view of the Raleigh skyline from an elevated tee, and the course was perfectly manicured.

I think we were all glad to finish the 4.5-hour round, battered, egos bruised, knowing that cold beer awaited. As for our scores, I had me at 85ish, the “ish” because we capped at double-bogey, and I picked up once. That happened when I thought I had stiffed an 8-iron on a par 3, but it was way long and I putted it off the green, down a hill and had a 60-degree wedge back to the green. And then another 60-degree wedge back to the green. As my Titleist 3 scampered back toward me a second time I scooped it like Derek Jeter.

Seven three-putts did not help.

While enjoying my second Bud Light in the bar, I checked my pedometer, which had me at 19,048 steps, and said I had walked 8.4 miles. My back starts objecting at 6,000 steps for perspective.

It was a great day, and the ultimate measure of a golf course is if you would play it again.

I would – but not the day after it rained.