An albatross isn’t always an exasperating thing
- Tom Rife: Livin' the Team
- July 29, 2021
- 606
A guy can write about the grand ol’ game of golf for decades. He can do so in a manner that appears to make him an expert.
But the job doesn’t magically transform that same guy into a 2-handicapper. It doesn’t even guarantee he’ll sink a birdie putt before he moves on to the fairways of the hereafter.
While a journalist like that might hope to rise to the level of acclaimed wordsmith, there is no assurance of that either. There is no promise he’ll know every single rule or be familiar with every precise term associated with the sport that’s been a fixture on the planet since Feb. 26, 1297. That’s when the Dutch played a game with a stick and leather ball in Loenen aan de Vecht, a town in the province of Utrecht, the Netherlands.
Of course, golf as we know it today, played over 18 holes, originated in Scotland.
For many, golf remains the “albatross” that hangs around our collective necks. Despite its popularity, the game is not easily mastered. Proficiency is anything but an exact science.
Even American author/humorist/entrepreneur Mark Twain, a man fascinated with science, was said to have characterized golf as “a good walk in the park, spoiled.”
Amen. Say no more.
The real irony here is golf isn’t always the albatross that carries a negative connotation — something that only recently came to my attention. A few days ago, it was reported cigar-chomping, pony-tailed senior golf professional Miguel Angel Jiménez accomplished an “albatross” during the opening round of the Senior British Open at the Sunningdale Golf Club in Berkshire, England.
He did what? Was it bad? Did anyone get hurt?
No, it was actually rare and very good. Jimenez scored a 2 on the 492-yard, par-5 first hole, a remarkable start that propelled him to a 3-under 67. He tweeted his albatross out to the world:
“Hit a bomb drive off the 1st. 147 yards left for my second — just a 9 iron. As soon as I hit it, I knew it was good. It never left the flag. What a great sound — slam dunk albatross. No better way to start the round. Perfecto!”
Ultimately, Jimenez would follow with back-to-back 67s and then a final-round 65 to total 268 for the weekend. That left him the runner-up by one stroke to champion Stephen Dodd, whose 72-hole sum was 267.
For the record, Jimenez’s achievement also could have been called a “double eagle,” which frankly is the same thing as an albatross. The term traditionally applies any time a golfer cards a 3-under-par score on a single hole. It normally is reserved for a par-5. If it occurs on a par-4, that, technically, is a hole-in-one.
“Double eagle” is the more common usage. For example, it was Gene Sarazen’s epic double eagle on the 15th hole at Augusta National in the 1935 Masters that was stamped “the shot heard ‘round the world.” He struck a spoon — the loft of the modern 4-wood — 232 yards into the hole, scoring a double eagle. Few, if any, called it an albatross.
At the time the man affectionately known as The Squire was trailing Craig Wood by three shots but then suddenly was tied with him. Sarazen, born to poor Sicilian immigrants as Eugenio Saraceni in Harrison, New York, parred the 16th, 17th and 18th holes to preserve the tie.
The following day, the pair engaged in a 36-hole playoff with Sarazen winning by five shots.
For the uninformed, the albatross is a very large oceanic bird with long, narrow wings. Albatrosses — some species have wingspans greater than 10 feet — are found mainly in the southern oceans with three kinds in the North Pacific.
Golf historians insist the albatross is far more difficult to achieve than a hole-in-one.
Given the specificity of other popular terms in golf, all this bird-brained stuff does seem to add up. A score of 1-under is, of course, a birdie, presumably of a smaller variety. A 2-under-par is the more-daunting eagle. Even more rewarding is the largest fowl in the game, the albatross.
Anything more astounding than golf’s albatross would be impossibly out of this world. Such a feat would have to be called a Virgin Galactic or a Blue Origin, space-age birds who in their own way flock together.
In rocket science — and in golf — the sky’s not the limit anymore.