"Mixed Fortunes That Hole"

Pebble Beach Golf Links 2024

It was 4:50 a.m. on a Tuesday.

The day before, a very kind woman on the phone had given me a simple piece of advice: If you want a tee time, call before 5 a.m. That was the window—daily availability, last-minute cancellations, a sliver of hope.

I hit snooze at least ten times.

When I finally woke up, it was with that sharp, sinking panic—the kind that tells you you’ve already missed your shot. I scrambled for the phone anyway.

Pebble Beach Golf Links had been sitting in my imagination for years. Opened in 1912, carved into the California coastline by Neville and Grant, it was more than a golf course. It was cliffs and crashing waves, the smell of salt and cut grass mixing into something unforgettable. Even thinking about it felt like stepping into a different world.

At 4:55 a.m., someone picked up.

I could hear a coffee maker humming in the background.

“Are there any open spots today?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like a lifetime.

“Be here at 2:30,” she said. “You’ve got 3:00.”

That was it.

I hung up somewhere between disbelief and adrenaline. I was in.

By the time 2:00 p.m. rolled around, it had come far too quickly.

Walking into the clubhouse, the nerves set in. Not just because of the $675 green fee—which felt absurd and necessary all at once—but because of the first tee. A small amphitheater of spectators, 20 or so people at any given moment, watching every swing… and every reaction that followed.

No pressure.

My wife, in an all-time generous move, had agreed to spend part of her birthday weekend making this happen—and even walk the round with me. That alone felt like something I didn’t fully deserve.

After a couple buckets on the range and a lunch I barely touched, we met our group.

A stepfather and stepson locked in quiet competition—each determined, it seemed, to win something deeper than the round. And then there was Patty, an older Irishman from Northern Ireland, traveling with his wife Caroline. After a bit of convincing, Caroline joined my wife for the walk, and just like that, we had our foursome.

Patty had the look of someone who knew exactly where he was and how rare it was to be there. Truthfully, we all did. None of us had the time—or the money—to make a habit of this.

This was it.

The first tee shot told me everything I needed to know.

I hit a crisp 5-iron right down the middle.

Not heroic. Not memorable. But in that moment, it was perfect. The nerves eased, just enough to breathe again.

From there, the round became a strange mix of urgency and awe. We were racing the sun, trying to squeeze 18 holes out of a shrinking window of light. But every so often, the course forced me to slow down.

Jack had walked these fairways. Arnie had electrified them. Sam Snead had probably found every bunker—and still made birdie.

And here I was, trying not to embarrass myself.

The weather didn’t hurt either. Clear skies, a light coastal wind, the kind of day that feels designed rather than given.

I don’t remember much about the early holes. They blurred together. But I do remember my wife gently pulling me back into the moment—reminding me where I was, who I was with, and how unlikely it all felt.

After every shot, Patty would say the same thing: “Fine effort.”

Didn’t matter where it went.

That kind of positivity sticks with you.

Then came the 6th.

On TV, the hill guarding the green never looks like much. In person, it feels like a wall.

I pulled a 4-iron and muttered, mostly to myself, “Hopefully this gets there… what the hell.”

I swung as hard as I could.

What came off the club was what we’d call back home a “piss missile”—low, screaming, barely clearing the lip of the hill. It ran out to within five yards of the green.

For a brief, irrational moment, I was convinced I might be immortal.

Then came the 7th.

That par 3.

The one on every golf fan’s wall.

The wind was in our face, stronger than it looked. I tried to feather a sand wedge in and instead pulled it straight into the bunker.

I remember feeling disappointed—thinking, this might be the only time I ever play this hole.

But standing over that bunker shot, something shifted.

This was it. My moment. I was going to hole it. Right here.

I hit the shot clean, a burst of sand lifting the ball perfectly… it tracked straight at the flag and clipped the stick.

No hero moment. But a few audible gasps.

Honestly? That was enough.

Pebble Beach #7

The 8th might be even more intimidating.

A blind tee shot, then a second over a chasm that feels impossibly large. I somehow found the green in regulation—but golf has a way of humbling everyone equally. All four of us walked away with bogey or worse.

At some point, Patty’s wife turned to mine and said, “Mixed fortunes, that hole.”

I’ve used that phrase ever since.

The rest of the round slipped by faster than I wanted.

The light faded. Shadows stretched. By the time we reached the 18th tee, it was nearly dark. The clubhouse was barely visible in the distance.

I didn’t want it to end.

So I convinced everyone—we finish.

Flashlights out.

I hit driver for the first time all day, mostly because I couldn’t see where it might go anyway. The ball disappeared into the dark, then eventually appeared rolling past the famous cypress on 18.

A few more swings. A few guesses. And finally, a putt toward a dimly lit green.

Bogey.

I’ve never been so satisfied with one.

And never so reluctant to walk off.

Afterward, over a steak dinner and the quiet hum of reflection, I kept coming back to the same thought:

How could anything top that?

It felt like the kind of experience that closes a chapter.

The kind you don’t replicate.

The kind you don’t beat.

A few months later, standing on the first tee at St. Andrews…

I found out I was wrong.