The Links

When the Research Triangle Park was created in 1959, the town that benefitted most was Cary, NC. It was the closest farming community to the new high tech center, so it had the most land available to develop. As the town grew, it got all the new stuff - like sidewalks, parks, and street lights. As more firms moved to RTP, real estate investors bought up the farms and turned them into neighborhoods. In an effort to attract more affluent residents, each new development offered larger homes and more amenities. When executives were looking for a place to relocate they considered Raleigh, cramped and dated; Durham, dirty and dangerous; and then logically settled on Cary. Citizens of other cities said the name was actually an acronym that stood for Containment Area of Relocated Yankees. They probably did have the largest percentage of northern transplants, but it was also likely there little bit of jealously associated with the joke. 

By 1988, developers stitched together several farms into a contiguous whole for what was to become the most prestigious of Cary's prestige neighborhoods. Over the next seven years a center section of the Carolina clay that was contoured, and combed, and fertilized, and feted into 54 holes that became known, if not the world over, then at least in the tricounty area, as: PRESTONWOOD COUNTRY CLUB. 

I pronounce it "GOFF".

In early 2006, when my future boss was made president of a local printing plant, he moved down....yes, from up north. He got a place in Preston, traded his truck for a used Lexus, and immediately placed a ball cap in the window behind the back seats. If a person was going to retrieve that hat, because maybe he wanted to wear it on his head, this was the least convenient location in the entire car. However, if that person wanted the Prestonwood logo which was embroidered on that cap to be seen, this placement would allow for prime time viewership. Mark had arrived.

Later that year I went work for him.

After 17 years in the customer service department of another printing company, I finally quit and decided to try my hand at sales at a new firm. In spite of my horrible timing (this was the beginning of the Great Recession) within a few years I had some of the highest billings in the plant. With my work filling the machinery I was no longer considered dead wood. The in-plant greetings became more cheery. My sometimes-acerbic comments got a few more chuckles. I was even invited to play golf. I'm not exactly sure why, it must be one of the things that came along with my new status as a "top performer".

I had played golf several times before and could best be described as a duffer's duffer. I got my clubs at a yard sale. My golf shoes, my running shoes, and my grass cutting shoes were all the same pair. Golf, for me, was just a way to blow off work and drink beer, so I was certainly not averse to playing a round. Especially if someone else was paying. 

It was the Friday before Memorial Day when Mark asked me if I wanted to join him for a game at Prestonwood. When you get an invitation like that, the answer should always yes. He told me that the tee-time was at 1:00, but show up at 12:30 so he could show me around and we could hit a few.

Preston was about thirty miles from the office. I had ninety minutes to go home, change clothes, dig my clubs out of the shed, and get there. I knew that I would arrive "out of spec". That is, my golf bag was like an old, canvas-covered frame pack from World War 1. My shoes were stained green. And I had to get beer. There was no way I was able to correct all three of these deficiencies in just an hour and a half, and the beer was a given. So I decided to buy a new golf bag, since it looked even worse than the shoes. I dashed into a Walmart on the way.

A new golf bag was all I needed. That and beer.

Mark was waiting on the stairs of the clubhouse when I arrived and gave me a quick tour. There were plenty of obsequious employees to open the doors for you and call you Mr. ____ if they knew your name, or "sir" if they didn't. The restaurant looked like it had been lifted from Downton Abbey and was not the kind of place you'd drop into to just grab a hotdog.  The men's changing room was perhaps the most over-the-top of all. It had carpet that looked like tartan. The lockers were mahogany with brass name plates. There were several poker-style tables surrounded by leather-clad captain's chairs. I was told you could order restaurant service from one of those tables and be served inside the locker room. I imagined a titan-of-industry enjoying a ribeye while wrapped in a towel and air drying his gray chest hairs. 

If its not grass-fed ribeye I'll send it back.

The initiation fee was $20,000 by itself. Monthly dues totaled around $6,000 annually. And there were also home owner's dues, greens fees, and cart rental cost. Luxury has never been cheap, but it also served another function: it was a sorting mechanism. Golf clubs have always been boys clubs and the high fees were a way of making sure they got just the kind of boys they wanted. It was confirmation bias in plaid slacks and didn't really interest me. Either way, I was flattered to be invited and tried to show my appreciation by being very complementary of everything. In spite of that, I couldn't help thinking: "yeah, I could go by a CVS and hang out with the douchebags for free." 

We grabbed our clubs and went to hit a few before our round. I have never been one to practice a lot before a game. I think that, statistically, I'm only going to have a few good shots, so why waste one them on the range? The reason might be because the driving range was in plain view of the restaurant. It was to see and be seen. So we went to the practice tees. 

After my second drive he told Mark that he had just bought his son a new set of clubs and asked me if I'd like to try them out. I had absolutely no intention of spending money on new clubs, so I told him no, mine were fine. Then he told me his car was really close by. I replied that I was left handed. When he said "So is my son" with enough emphasis I finally got it. Then dense ole Jebbo realized that Mark was embarrassed with my gear and really wanted me to use these other clubs. So I said "Sure! That'd be great! I'd love to try out his clubs!" I guess my expectations were too high for that brand-new Voit golf bag. 

Very functional, just aesthetically lacking.

After we had warmed up our swings, we went to the carts that were waiting for us. A laser printed tag on the upper windshield indicated who was to ride in each. The course cards were inside along with a tiny, eraser-less pencil. On a small shelf right behind the driver's seat was Playmate cooler with two dainty bottles of chilled water. The water was a nice touch, but that cooler certainly wouldn't work for an entire afternoon. It looked like it had come out of a pre-schooler's cubby. So I told the guys that before we got started I had to stop by my car. As I got my cooler out of the trunk and was forcing three 12-packs of cans into the ice Mark said, "I didn't realize you had a drinking problem." I replied, "No, Mark. I have a cooler problem. And I'm going to fix that right now." He might have been irritated that I brought PBR instead of a more club-worthy microbrew like Tasseled Loafer Strawberry Wheat.

You, sir, will NEVER be a member of Prestonwood!

We had a nice group of guys in our foursome and I'm including Mark in that. He was a good boss and ran the plant very well. But he was way too serious about this whole golf thing, particularly for someone who seemed to have a paucity of any actual skill. As the last ball fell into the cup on the first green he began to pencil in the scores: one over, two over, two over, and I said "two over." He looked at me and said "WHAT?? Look you three putted the green and I know you took two extra shots in the fairway. You are AT LEAST FOUR OVER." So I had to explain to him how I kept score. 

I told him the whole handicap system was bogus and just encouraged cheaters. I mean, I don't know how you come up with your handicap. It certainly wasn't under controlled conditions. You could use any number you wanted. I scored by tallying the net gain or loss in the number of balls in my possession. If I finished a round and didn't lose any, that was par. If I found two, that was two under. If I lost two and found one, it was one over, etc... It was really simple and we wouldn't have to pretend not to see those mulligans. We could just have fun without getting anal about scoring. Mark said he would be happy to keep score and put me down for three over, which he said was generous. Yeah, whatever. 

Over the next three holes I was even. I don't mean I was anywhere close par, it was nothing like that. Rather I was playing much better than I should have been and Mark was playing way worse, so we were even with each another. This fact did not escape his notice at all. On the fifth it was his turn to lead off. I don't know enough about golf to know what he did wrong, but he hit a really nasty shot off the tee. It was about cloud high and deep into the trees. We didn't even bother to look for it. So I popped a beer as loudly as I could and yelled "Hey Mark! I didn't know YOU had a drinking problem. Hahaha!"

Yogi Berra said that 90% of baseball is mental, and the other half is physical. It doesn't matter how physically gifted you are, if you can't keep your head in the game, then you just don't have a game. Mark got flustered and after that he started to play even more poorly. His quantity bad shots strained my sarcastic creativity.

Noonan! Got a drinking problem? Noonan! Noonan!

 "Hey Mark! Is that part of a larger strategy we're not aware of. Hahaha!"

"Don't worry, no one's looking. Well we are, but no one will tell. Except me. I'll...will...definitely...tell."

"Geez....maybe you need buy fewer lessons and more PBR! Come on Mark, loosen up. Have a beer. Hey, my treat. Free beer.  Freeeee beeeer!"

C'mon, it won a blue ribbon!

After the first nine holes he said he was feeling sick and caught a courtesy cart back the clubhouse. The rest of us chuckled for the final nine.

It is said that golf is a wonderful sport for business, because in an afternoon on the links, you can learn more about a person than you would in a year of interaction at work. I think that was probably true for both of us.

I was not invited back.