By Jamie E. Arjona
(Copyright 1996)

Southeastern Idaho is a region of some very intense amateur golf. And its no wonder why, for the golfing season there is often quite short, as it gets downright cold in that part of the country, for lengthy spells. I once overheard someone call Idaho a state with only three seasons...July, August and Winter! For that reason, Idahoans try to get in as much golf as they can, when they can. And many of the courses in that state have lots of tournaments scheduled during the available season, several of them 2-day events. It was in just such a 2-day event, in the City of Pocatello, ID, when the tale I offer here took place.

Three golfing friends and I had entered a 4-man, best-ball, 2-day tournament played on a city owned golf course there. We were all fairly good golfers, and had high hopes of placing well in our division. But many OB's and several lost balls during the first day's round virtually eliminated us from any contention. So, when we came to the 18th tee we all had resigned ourselves to relaxing and just having some fun.

As we arrived at the tee, the foursome ahead of us was preparing to hit away. And in that foursome was Stanley, (not his real name). Stanley was a very good golfer. A long knocker, fine iron player and great putter, Stanley had all of the elements the art of golf demanded. But Stanley also had one very big short coming. He had an explosive temper with a very short fuse.

Stanley was hitting as we arrived. He had a very controlled and purposeful swing with a Fred Couple's tempo - a real thing of beauty. He hit a powerful, booming drive straight down the middle of the fairway, holding a perfect "Freddie" pose at finish as he watched the ball in flight. It soared up and out no fewer than 270 yds., hovering at its apogee for what seemed like an eternity before finally falling to earth. But it did not strike the earth, well not directly. It landed dead center atop a steel sprinkler pipe which caused it to leap high into the air once again, and bound dead left, off the fairway into some very deep rough.

Stanley could not believe his eyes. With a string of four-letter vulgarities he uncoiled from his perfect finish and proceeded to launch his driver skyward as well. Off it whistled, its sound not unlike that of a helicopter rotor blade. I mean, this club was heading for high altitude. But in its flight it struck the top of a tall spruce tree to the left of the tee. It paused, quivered and then fell to rest in the highest limbs of that tree. No one could have hand placed it there more perfectly.

Nothing could rival Stanley's wrath now. Screaming every four-letter word he could imagine, he raced around the tee in circles. Finally, he stopped, picked up some sticks and rocks and began tossing them at his lodged club. But his efforts were to little avail. In fact, one stick which nicked the shaft of the driver seemed to push the club only more deeply into its nest. The other members of Stanley's foursome, thinking better of snickering at his plight, also tried throwing things.

All the activities and noise on the tee caught the attention a tournament marshal who quickly drove up to see what was going on. After assessing the situation, he reminded Stanley and his pals of the 5-minute rule in effect regarding slow play, and told them that he would have to penalize them 2-strokes if they did not resume their play immediately. The marshal's' warning was the last thing Stanley needed at the moment, and he started toward the man with vengeance. Fortunately, a larger teammate tackled him before he reached his target, and with help from others in the group, picked him up, threw him into one of their carts, and headed up the fairway.

I later learned that Stanley, upon reaching his ball in the rough, had simmered down enough to hit a "world-class" seven-iron from a bad lie in the rough to within a few feet of the pin. That he made the birdie putt, and that his team led their division by several strokes after the first day of the tournament.

If a volatile temper and short fuse was Stanley's true handicap on a golf course, then he had an even more insidious shortcoming when off the course. After a round of golf, Stanley like to drink. Boy did he! And that afternoon and evening in Pocatello was no exception. The tournament sponsor always tossed a lavish "end of round one" party, and that night Stanley was its star. With what seemed to be a never empty cocktail glass, and armed with the tale of his travails on 18 which he would tell to anyone who would, or wouldn't listen, Stanley was, it seemed, quite in his element. And with the more booze he consumed, the more bizarre his tale became. But before long, even the most patient of listeners turned deaf ears to what Stanley said, and he would simply end up mumbling to himself.

Stanley was one of the last to leave the party that night. It was very dark when he finally poured himself behind the wheel of his car. Fortunately, for all, he lived but a short distance from the course. Aware of his state, he drove home slowly and carefully. The thought of his driver still stuck in the tree gnawed upon him as he paused in his driveway waiting for his garage door to open. "What to do?" he pondered.

Almost as if by divine providence he got the answer to his question. When the door opened fully the garage light came on. And there, hanging on the wall, illuminated clearly right ahead of him, was his chain saw!

"Yes!" Stanley screamed as he leaped out of his car. Grabbing the saw, he jumped back in behind the wheel, slammed the shift into reverse and roared back out of his driveway. There was no care nor caution to his driving now as he put the pedal to the metal and tore back to the golf course. Driving past the clubhouse he raced down the road alongside the 18th hole and skidded to a stop near the tee. Grabbing his saw, he leaped out of the car, raced up to the tee box and surveyed the scene. It did not take him long to locate his target. Quickly, he fired up the saw and went to work.

Stanley was not a logger, his chain saw was really quite small, and the tree's trunk was large. So, it took him a fair amount of time to drop the big conifer. But finally he succeeded. With a sharp crack the stem of the spruce split and its body toppled over, falling to earth with a loud "whoosh", landing with a final, painful "thump".

"Yes!" Stanley shouted as he danced toward the top of the still quivering tree. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" But, he was to never reach his destination. As if on cue, lights seemed to appear from everywhere. Red lights, blue lights, white lights, spotlights, flashing lights...they were all around him. And then a very loud voice on a bullhorn declared:

"You there...On the tee...This is the police...We have you surrounded...Throw down your weapon...Now!"

Stanley was stunned and froze in his tracks.

"This is the police...Throw that weapon down now...Put your hands on your head now...Do as I say...NOW!"

Stanley was arrested and tossed in jail. The charges against him were many, including: willful destruction of municipal property...driving while intoxicated... destruction of the environment...malicious mischief...even, logging without a license. His bail was set at $5,000 which he was unable to post until the following Tuesday, so in jail he stayed.

Stanley's absence on the second day of the tournament turned his foursome into a threesome. Without his presence they faltered and finished dead last. Stanley had indeed made his mark, quite visible to each golfer who came up to the 18th tee. I even said a few silent words in respect as I passed the fallen spruce, glancing skyward in the quiet hope my tribute had been acknowledged.

As I began returning my thoughts to events at hand, something caught my attention. I stopped in my tracks and glanced all around. There it was again...a sudden glint of light, reflecting back at me. I moved to my right a bit to get a better view. High atop a tall spruce tree, next to the one Stanley had toppled, light reflected back from something...the shaft of a golf club...Stanley's golf club...his driver, nesting very comfortably where Stanley had left it yesterday.

Stanley had cut down the wrong tree!

Epilogue:

Stanley went to trial for some of the charges against him that night, and was found guilty on all counts. He ended up paying some rather stiff fines and had to perform many hours of community service at...you guessed it...the golf course. As for his driver, a few days later a lineman with the power company happened to spot it. Using the company cherry picker crane, he extracted it and gave it to his son who had just won a golf scholarship to Arizona State.

About the author:

Jamie Arjona is an average golfer, professional writer, and former (many year) resident of Southeastern Idaho, who after too-many 7-month winters of -43° temps in Idaho elected to move west, to WA state where today he still writes and plays golf almost year round. If you so desire, he can be reached at: justus97@gte.net. His handicap (he claims), is a "legitimate" 15!!!