12,500 to 1. That’s the likelihood of hitting a hole-in-one for an average golfer. Percentage-wise, we’re talking 0.01%.
So, as you can imagine, I was happier than a sot in a stolen beer truck when I stuck mine. Allow me to set the stage. I was a six pack into a round at Chastain Park in Atlanta when we made the turn. I was loosened up, had a tasty cigar in my mouth, and Willie was belting out “City of New Orleans” from a passing car.
“Good mooooorning, America, how are ya?
Said don’t you know me? I’m your native sooooooon”
Life was good. No, scratch that – life was great. No complaints from Mr. Evans on this particular day.
I teed it up on the seventeenth, checked the wind with a puff of smoke, and staggered toward my stolen range ball.
I sunk my cleats into a tee box of brown sod, tucked my plaid necktie into my shirt, and closed my right eye as I tilted my head about forty degrees, surveying the weathered fairway for a landing zone. I just knew I was about to smack that sum bitch three hundred yards plus.
I took my driver back, John Daly style, and let that sucker rip with the force of a medieval catapult. All my might, all my drunken determination, and every damn bit of my soul went into that drive. We didn’t clock it, but I had to have been north of 200 mph – easy. I was swinging for the fences…I was swinging for Willie…truth is, I was swinging for the United States of America.
And boy, let me tell you, when the head of that driver connected, you could’ve heard the explosion from the Capital City Men’s Grill four miles away. I’ll never forget the feeling because it can’t be replicated. The good Lord only hands them out once, maybe twice in a lifetime. Let’s just say I know how Mickey Mantle felt when he launched his 565-foot moonshot out of Griffith Stadium in ‘53.
As my ball soared towards the heavens, damned if it didn’t hook towards Powers Ferry Road. The immediate concern was where would it land when it reentered the earth’s atmosphere. We yelled “FOOOORE!” in hopes it didn’t kill anyone. And then a miracle happened. I’m not one to bring religion into the conversation, but the
Almighty saved my tail.
Hand to God, what I’m about to say is the truth (Lord knows everything else wasn’t): a flatbed was driving up Powers Ferry Road with a dozen or so porcelain toilets on board. Some poor bastard was enjoying a cigarette when my golf ball landed in one of his commodes. The noise was unforgettably loud, but damned if that toilet didn’t take it like a champ.
The driver about had a heart attack from the shock of the ball reverberating through his truck. He slammed on the brakes and shouted, “What en tha hell is-a goin’ on hee-yah?!” I chose to savor the moment and not answer.
There you have it – the single greatest (and most improbable) hole-in-one that Atlanta ever saw.
Bradley A. Evans is a good buddy, a UGA grad, and an idea guy. He lives in New York City and is the founder of The Bohemian Capitalist. We’re lucky to have his thoughts here at RCS…more to come.
