Standing over
the putt, sweat dripping from my forehead, I finally realized the meaning of “yips.”
I had blown a
four-stroke lead over the final three holes but could win if I made the three-and-a-half-foot
putt.
My hands were shaking. I felt weak.
Making the
short putt longer was the memory of what had happened less than a minute
earlier—I had missed a shorter putt, running it by the hole to its present
position. Not only did my ball not touch the hole, but it wasn’t even close.
I backed off
the putt, looked at my opponent, and smiled, saying, unable to hide the nervous
tension in my quavering voice, “It’s hot out here.”
He just looked
at me and smiled.
I moved behind
the ball, looking at the line. It was straight in, firm, slightly uphill. But I
could not rid myself of the previous putt.
Squatting down
to get a closer look at the line, I heard a faint voice … a whisper … say, “You’re
going to miss.”
“Did you hear
that?” I asked my opponent.
He laughed and
shook his head in a silent, negative response.
“I swear I
heard a voice,” I said, shaking my head, slowly raising myself to walk to the
other side of the hole to inspect the line of the putt.
As I dropped
down to look at the reverse angle, again, I heard the voice say, “You’re going
to miss.”
The beads of perspiration
were now dripping from my eyebrows. I started to get a ringing in my ears … and
then … I could see a blue dot … and then … nothing.
I had passed
out.
Thankfully, the
EMTs made their way to the golf course in record time. The heart attack was
nearly my end.
The next day,
the nurse helped me to the bathroom, “I’m good, thanks,” I said, dismissing her
as I shut the door and stepped to the commode.
Again, I heard
the voice softly saying, “You’re going to miss.”