Golf at Cascata (or How I Ejaculated After Hitting a $400 Driver)

Yesterday, I was granted a rare invite to play a luxury golf course called “Cascata.”  Think of it this way.  If Shadow Creek is the Maserati of golf courses in Las Vegas, then Cascata is most certainly the Lamborghini.  This resort is so exclusionary that no signs are posted outside showing the way.  It doesn’t advertise.  It doesn’t have to.  Cascata is the golf course for super high-rollers.

Golf is so annoyingly Republican.

It’s an arrogant game played by rich people.  It’s a criminal waste of precious water and land.  It’s a firewall intended to preserve oligarchy.  And it relies on minimum-wage making Mexicans do all the landscaping and maintenance.

I despise golf.  I hate private country clubs even worse.  But this bitter resentment has nothing to do with politics.  It’s because, when it comes to golf — I fucking suck.

I’m horrible.

Yesterday, I was granted a rare invite to play a luxury golf course called “Cascata.”  Think of it this way.  If Shadow Creek is the Maserati of golf courses in Las Vegas, then Cascata is most certainly the Lamborghini.  This resort is so exclusionary that no signs are posted outside showing the way.  It doesn’t advertise.  It doesn’t have to.  Cascata is the golf course for super high-rollers.

Carved into a rocky mountainside, the course is nestled unassumingly between Henderson and Boulder City.  Walk-ins are not welcome.  The greens fee is $350 per round — and that doesn’t include the cost of a mandatory caddy, which adds an extra whack to your wallet.

My misappropriated invitation came courtesy of two close friends — namely Marissa (probably best known as the tax accountant for many of the world’s top poker pros) and Matt Savage (international tournament director extraordinaire and TDA co-founder).  Maryann Savage (Matt’s lovely wife) also blessed us with her presence.  And of course, there was that costly caddy.

And so my story begins.

I.  Getting Here and Being There

Marissa warned me about this place.

Drive down I-95 South like you’re headed towards Laughlin, she said.  Then, instead of turning off on the lonely single-lane highway to Searchlight, turn left.  The road is not marked.  Pass under the highway, then follow the road beneath a railroad underpass.  After that, drive up a hill and arrive at an iron gate.  There, you find the unmarked entrance to Cascata.

This is one of the most uninviting places I’ve ever seen.  Think Area-51 — but for snobbish golfers.  No signs.  No advertisements.  Nothing to indicate this is Cascata.  In fact, the only road signs posted are DEAD END and NO TRESPASSING.  I expected the next sign to read VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT.

I pressed a black button.  A voice sounding like “Oz” came over the loudspeaker.  I gave the secret password I’d been told in advance — Marissa’s name.  That’s all it took.  My voice is my passport.  Poof!  The pearly gates opened.  If there were any birds around, they would have sang, too.

We know of the so-called “road less traveled.”  Well, mine was the only car on that less-traveled road, which winded up the hill towards a small parking lot.  There were perhaps five other cars there.  Upon my arrival, a sporty-dressed man waved and beckoned me to drive towards him.

“Good morning, Mr. Dalla,” the man said loudly.

How does he know my name?

“Just leave your keys in the car and I’ll take care of everything.”

I obeyed.

Was I supposed to tip him $2 now?

“Mr. Dalla — don’t forget your golf shoes,” the man advised.

Huh?  Did he say “golf shoes?”  What if (horrors) I didn’t have any golf shoes?

I stepped out of the car in my trademark black high-tops.  That’s all I ever wear when dressed casually.  Black shoes.  I own 15 pairs of shoes — and they’re all black.  One pair of high-tops, plus 14 pairs of black dress shoes.  And I sure as hell don’t own any golf shoes.  Do I look like someone who would buy or own golf shoes?

Golf shoes are so Republican.

“Um, errrrr I must have forgot my golf shoes,” I announced sheepishly.  This is what you call “winging it” in order to save face.

“That’s okay — they can set you up with a pair in the pro shop.”

Oh, fuck me.  Does this mean there’s some fancy dress code where you’re actually required to wear golf shoes?  Will I have to fork over a buck-fifty for some hideous brown toppers that belong as part of a circus costume?

Speaking of a “dress code,” I did my due diligence to avoid any surprises.

Before arriving at Cascata, I checked the website.  The rules stated “appropriate attire required at all times.”  The dress code required collared shirts.  Question — why must you wear a collar in the middle of the desert?.  “No denim” was also posted at the website.  I have no idea what denim is — but I went with 100 percent cotton items that hopefully wouldn’t get me escorted off the course.  My underwear was cotton, too.  But I would have worn denim underwear in protest, if I actually knew what denim meant.

I was told to step inside the clubhouse and check in, and then meet “my party” on the driving range.

The daytime nightmare begins.

II.  Teed Off

Let’s talk about the caddy.

I have never played on a course where a caddy is required.  Never.  I thought caddies carried your bag.  That’s their job, right?  But out here, we all have golf carts.  So, why the fuck do we need to employ a caddy, which sounds as expensive as hell?  Then, you have to tip him, too.

The website informed advised that the caddy is required to “enhance your experience” and make sure all the rules are “being followed.”  Oh, puhleeeze.  What’s the fun if you aren’t breaking a few rules?

Me?  I think caddies are nothing but a fucking shakedown.  Another excuse to bust open your wallet.

The caddy began his duties faithfully by strapping our bags and clubs onto the golf cart.  I have no idea what Marissa paid for her set of shiny new set of clubs.  But let me reveal here that she bought an eight-seat airplane recently — and she’s not even a fucking pilot!  So, my math tells me she didn’t get her clubs off of Craig’s List at a discount.  Matt’s set of gold-plated golf clubs looked just as expensive.  After playing with Matt a few holes, I can really see that he’s “invested” in his game.

Which brings up my set of golf clubs.

“Ram Traditions,” the caddy mumbled in surprise as he looked up and down at my complete $79 set (and that included the cost of the bag).  “Been a while since I’ve seen a set of these!”

Yeah, probably since junior high school, since I bought my golf set from Target.  And that was 13 years ago.  These fucking sticks wouldn’t fetch $25 at a garage sale now.

Fortunately, I brought along plenty of golf balls (enough, one would think).  I had 24 new balls.  That should last enough to play 18 holes in the middle of the desert, right?

We’ll get to that a bit later.

Marissa tees off.  That’s her in the photo (above).  Perfect stance.  Ideal form.  Zen-like concentration.  Like just about every shot she will take on this day, the ball lifts high up in the air and sails right down the middle of the fairway.  She’s a hitting machine.  Not scratch-golfer shots, mind you.  But solid.  Very solid.  Every shot.  Down the middle.  In the fairway.  I’d trade my game for hers in a heartbeat.

Meanwhile, Matt is something else to behold.  Remembering that Matt hustled me at a bowling alley ten years ago (we bet $100 that he couldn’t walk straight onto a lane in his street clothes, pick up a stray ball off the rack, and throw a strike on the first and only roll — surprise, he did exactly that), there was no way I was going to let Matt fiddle my ass with a feather again.  He’s a natural at whatever he does.  I had no shot to compete with him out on the golf course.

Of course, this doesn’t dissuade the action.  Not at all.  To the contrary, it livens it up.  Marissa and Matt agree to a series of wagers.  I get in my own bets with Matt.  I was given the most ridiculous handicap (advantage) imaginable.

TWO STROKES A HOLE.

That’s right — TWO STROKES.  A HOLE.

And I still fucking lost money.

Matt blasted two birdies on the front nine and seemed to par just about every other hole.  If he bogeyed a hole, which happened rarely, he wanted to snap his club.  The man is a competitor.

I love to compete, too.  Trouble is, that’s tough to do when you have no skill.  Like saying you love to swim, but you can’t swim.  It just doesn’t work.

Off the first tee box, I skyrocket a ball high into the air that hooked badly to the left and sailed way into the rough.  The caddy made some remark about my shot being out of bounds.  But hell, I was ecstatic!  I felt like I’d just won the British Open.  At least I hadn’t humiliated myself with a dribbler.  You know a dribbler, where you take a long back swing and then blast forward with a full force towards the ball, only to see it nicked where it ends up rolling perhaps five feet.  I’d never been as happy to shoot a ball into the rough as at that instant.

After the first three holes, it was time to take inventory.  I’ve lost seven balls.  Damn.  At this rate, I’m going to need another 12 balls just to make it through the round.

So, how did I manage to lose so many balls?  You’d think water wouldn’t be much of a hazard on a golf course in the middle of the desert.  But Cascata has a small stream running though the middle of the course (which is fake).  There are even several waterfalls.  Somehow, if there was water anywhere within the same zip code of me taking a tee-shot, my ball would magically find it.  Never mind that the stream could be 100 yards off the fairway and completely out of play.  Just about every hook or slice became an instant disappearing act.

I also hit a several balls in the rough, which means off the fairway.  Early in the round, I started looking for a lost ball.  I began sticking my golf club next to cactus’ and digging around rock formations.  A few minutes later during a casual conversation, I asked the caddy what animals were out here on the course.

“Snakes.”

“Wha, wha, whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

“Yeah, there’s snakes all over the place out here.  Scorpions, too.”

Are you fucking kidding me?  And I’ve been prodding around the mountainside in shorts looking for a $1.25 golf ball?

Hey, this is the desert.  Why would a deadly snake or scorpion would pay attention to the PRIVATE PROPERTY signs?

The caddy later asked me where I purchased my putter — a “try to be polite” inquiry after I got really lucky and made a ten-foot putt.  Why lie to him?

“At a garage sale,” I revealed.  By that point, he must have realized I wasn’t going to to set any tipping records.

The front nine becomes a total disaster.  We baking in a broiler.  It’s like 92 degrees.  The wind is blowing like 50 miles an hour.  And my forehead feels like a fucking leather suitcase.

Fortunately, help is on the way.  “Help” in the form of cocktails.

There’s a “bar car” which circles the course.  By my third double gin and tonic, I’m no longer self-conscious about my horrid golf game.  If I didn’t care what others thought before, with each sip I was now slipping into “fuck it” territory.

Fortunately, Marissa and Matt were great sports about it.  I even received some valuable advice from the caddy, which cut at least two strokes off my score.

Hey — I’m starting to like golf.

III.  The Back Nine

Take a look at swingin’ Matt Savage.  Right here and now, I’m going to kill all his future action.  GOOGLE:  MATT SAVAGE + GOLF  Announcing to the world — MATT SAVAGE HAS GAME.  He’s can shoot.  He can play.  He can putt.  Anyone giving Savage any strokes is lighting a match to money.  Believe me, I know.

We step up to the 12th tee box.  By this time, I’m hitting all my tee-shots with Marissa off the Ladies area.  Three gin and tonics pretty much washed away the humiliation of rude stares from passersby and staff as to why a grown man who be teeing off with a girl while the real man in the group shot from the regular tee box.

At this point, Marissa stops me.  She pulls out her great white whale of a driver and says, “Here Nolan, try this.”

“Why should I use your club?” I asked.  “It’s just a driver.  They’re all the same.”

Yeah — but this one cost $400.  Try it.”

Fine.  What do I have to lose, other than more money?

I get a grip of her pristine laser-like titanium club of doom.  Instantly, I feel transformed into a new man.  Imagine being handed one of those “And the Force Be With You” light sticks from the Star Wars movie.  It was like that.  I suddenly felt like Hercules.  Maybe it was just hearing that the club cost $400.

The tee box is perched at one of the highest points on the course.  You gaze downward and see not only most of the golf holes, but the entire valley basin below, including the highway which leads to Laughlin.  Imagine looking out and seeing perhaps 40-50 miles ahead.  Like being on a desert version of Mount Everest.

I slowly pull back my swing.  Every joint and muscle moves in perfect unison.  The moment of descent begins as the club begins to gather speed.  As I whirlwind my hands and arms down and around and thrust forward I feel the rush of a completely new experience.  The massive club face strikes the ball with absolutely perfect precision.  There’s a magical “whack,” the same reverberation one hears from a real golf pro teeing off at The Masters.  My little while ball takes off and rockets up into the blue sky and on to the heavens.  It is — the perfect shot.

“How did that feel” Marissa asks.

“I’ll let you know in about five more seconds,” I answer.  “First, let me finish ejaculating.”

They laughed, or at least pretended to humor me.

Matt had already teed off before me.  This sight was a grand vision.  My ball sailed at least 50 yards past his ball in the middle of the fairway.

FUCK HIM!

NOW, I’M THE BOSS!

THERE’S A NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN!

Yes, I really did say these things.  Actually, I yelled them.

Again, my golf mates laughed, or pretended to do so.

Never mind that I’d teed-off about 60 yards ahead of Matt, hitting from the Ladies area.  Let’s just disregard that.  My story sounds a lot better if we just say that I out-distanced Matt badly and made a complete mockery of him and his game.  Okay, at least on that one shot.

Please someone tell me they’re buying all this.

Needless to say, I borrowed Marissa’s clubs the rest of the day (to her great annoyance, I’m sure) and actually managed to add what I’d call a “trash touchdown” to the final score, ultimately losing something like 51-7.  Those expensive clubs surely saved me a dozen strokes.

Note to self:  In the future, try to golf with rich people so you can leech off their clubs.

IV.  Golfing Like Savages

We had a great time.  Translation:  I had a great time, and they tolerated me.  I’m even thinking about joining the Republican Party.

At the conclusion of the round, Matt earnestly came up and showed me my scorecard.  What made the following exchange absurd was Matt being quite serious.  Only afterward did we both crack up about how ridiculous the following discussion must have sounded if anyone was standing around listening.

“Okay, Nolan.  You shot a 136 today.”

“A 136 — really?  That’s not too bad.”

“Yeah — you really played a hell of a lot better on the back nine.”

The more I think about it, there’s no shame in shooting a 136 for 18 holes.  Assuming the best golfer in the world shots about half that, which would be a 68, if I shoot a 136, that means it takes me exactly twice as many strokes to complete the round.  So, I guess you could say that Tiger Woods is about twice as good a golfer as I am.

V.  From Caddy to Caddy

The caddy ended up being a terrific addition to the overall experience.  He not only provided lots of helpful advice.  He also cleaned my balls.  For this, I tipped him $100.

Was he worth an extra $100?

FUCK NO!

Afterward, my golf clubs were removed from the cart.  I was informed that not only would my bag be taken out to my car, they would first be wiped clean, and then gingerly placed inside the trunk.  Then, my car would be sitting at curbside with the keys in the ignition.  Seriously — this is the treatment.

On second though, I wonder if they were just trying to escort me the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

For the round, I ended up losing 17 golf balls.  I have no idea how I could possibly lose that many golf balls on a course with few hazards and little water.  But it somehow happened.

So, the final scorecard of my round of golf at Las Vegas Cascata read as follows:

Final Score — 136

Birdies — 0

Pars — 1

Bogeys — 3

Times I Cheated — 4

Balls Lost — 17

Cocktails Consumed — 3

Money Lost — $210

Experience of Playing Golf With Marissa and Matt in Las Vegas — PRICELESS

TAG: Nolan Dalla writings on golf