Expressway: A golf score not to crow about

To most golfers, breaking 80 is like scaling the heights of Everest -- in a snowstorm! For me, however, it's always been even tougher. Over countless rounds spanning 41/2 decades, the best I'd ever done was an 82 out at Swan Lake in Manorville back in 1999. Never again have I come that close. My scores, in fact, have gotten progressively worse. So much so that a good round these days means not losing too many balls.

One day in October, though, the golf gods smiled.

I was playing alone at the Holbrook Country Club and for the first 17 holes my game was the stuff of fantasy -- drives that went straight, irons that flew far, wedges that landed on the green and putts that rolled in. Even the occasional sand trap gave me no problems. Never before had I played so well. With such consistent, almost preternatural, skill. It was hard to believe my all-but-forgotten dream was about to be realized. I only had to shoot an eight or less on the final hole.

The late-afternoon sun was just slipping beneath the treetops when I pulled up at the 18th. Taking a new ball out of its sleeve, I sat there a moment, eyes to the sky, begging not the gods of golf, but God, Himself, to let the magic continue a little while longer. Then, with a deep, calming breath, I got out of the cart, grabbed my club, and headed toward the tee.

The flag of 18 waved like a red blur, almost 500 yards away. A good drive down the middle would get me almost halfway there. "Seeing" it happen (as Tiger Woods suggests), I reached into my pocket for a tee -- the longer kind made for today's larger club-heads. Not finding any, I was walking back to the cart when a crow of gargantuan size suddenly swooped down, pulled my bag of tees out of the cupholder and flew off. Screaming, I followed the bird to a nearby tree. It sat on an uppermost branch about 40 feet up, the booty dangling from its beak. I cursed and raved. Almost flung my club at the thing. The beast just looked down at me, one eye at a time.

Another search through my golf bag produced nothing. Neither did careful scrutiny of the ground. So a 4 wood off the biggest broken tee I could find was my only option. The ball sliced left, deep into the woods. Four strokes later, it was finally back on the fairway. Two more and my ball now rested a mere foot from the cup. Despite my poor start, the incredible feat still seemed to beckon.

But then as my putter began to move forward, the ebony creature suddenly swooshed onto the green. Startled, I missed the putt. We stood there a moment, only a few feet apart, staring at each other.

"WHY?" I shouted.

The bird cawed.

Then flew away.

With a resigned tap, I sank the putt for an 80. At any other time, that score would have been cause for great joy and celebration. That day, though, it seemed a disaster.

I played Holbrook again the following week.

Shot a 98.

And, of course, I never once saw the crow.

Reader Joseph Governale lives in Holbrook.