The first thing I heard was the roar of the engine.
It was Phil Ivey’s silver Mercedes SLR McLaren and the beast was barreling straight towards me.
If I ever get flattened by a motor vehicle, I hope to hell it’s a $285,000 luxury car. What a way to go out with a bang. Far more chivalrous getting mowed down by Ivey who’s late for his a golf match than being mashed by some late night boozer wheeling a Dodge Neon.
I somehow managed to survive that instant in the parking lot at TPC Las Vegas. Question was, would I survive a full 18 holes playing with Ivey?
Let’s start with the obvious problem. I’m a terrible golfer.
Make that worse than terrible. What’s a stronger adjective?
I’m horrifically shitty. In other words, my golf game stinks.
Phil Ivey and Greg Raymer have no idea what they’re in for today. Witnessing my golf game and sharing the embarrasment of me windmilling my way across the prairie will by like hauling an anvil around what I’m told is a six-mile, 18-hole golf course. And, we must walk it all. Carts aren’t permitted here.
Now, here’s where you have to understand what golf is really all about. Anyone who thinks golf is about chasing some little white ball around a park and trying to hit it into a tiny hole, doesn’t have a fucking clue. Golf is about two things — status and power.
Unfortunately, you can’t fake either. Which pretty much leaves me fucked.