This time I was there to see a sporting miracle unfold

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 19/08/2017 (3257 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Like most guys of my particular gender, I have witnessed a great many sporting miracles in person and while lying on the couch in my den staring at our big-screen TV.

For instance, I will never forget watching the “Miracle on Ice,” wherein a plucky bunch of American amateurs beat the seemingly invincible Soviet Union en route to capturing the gold medal in hockey at the 1980 Olympics in Lake Placid, N.Y.

And I will always remember — which is very similar to never forgetting — the “Miracle on Grass,” wherein Canada’s upstart baseball squad beat the pro-laden United States squad 7-6 in an action-packed 11-inning thriller at the 1999 Pan American Games here in Winnipeg.

That’s not to mention the miraculous sight of one of my talented high school football teammates belching the entire alphabet before a game in which our team was beaten into the mud by yet another superior opponent.

So, yes, I have seen a lot of amazing things in my years as an athlete, sports fan and all-star couch potato. But I have never seen anything quite as miraculous as the sight I witnessed last Wednesday at the 25th annual United Way of Winnipeg fundraising golf tournament at Bel Acres Golf & Country Club.

I was playing in a foursome with my buddy Bob, who also happens to be the all-powerful publisher of this newspaper, our buddy Kevin, who is charming and well-spoken even though he cheers for the Edmonton Eskimos, and our other buddy Dwight, who is the most polite human being on the planet thanks to the many years he spent as Manitoba’s chief protocol officer before his recent retirement.

Now, picture in your mind a plucky foursome of golfers whose superior knowledge of the game, finely tuned skills, and toned bodies make them a force to be reckoned with on any course.

Well, we were nothing like those guys. We were to golf what U.S. President Donald Trump is to just about anything you can name that requires even a modicum of sensitivity. While everyone else on the course was whacking birdies and eagles — which sounds illegal, but is just part of the game — we were forced to sink 40-foot putts to save par and cancel out a blizzard of bogeys.

Fortunately, every time we walloped a ball into the woods or a water hazard, our buddy Dwight, relying on his years of experience overseeing protocol during visits by the Queen and other dignitaries, was there to brighten our day.

“It’s not your fault,” Dwight would say whenever something bad happened. “You are a highly skilled golfer, but your clubs let you down.” Or: “It’s not your fault. No one in their right mind would put a tree in that location.”

Also soothing our frazzled nerves was the fact a local businessman had dragged out to the course a pair of state-of-the-art electric massage chairs, in which beer-swilling, sunburned golfers were invited to park themselves for a high-tech rubdown.

I have sat in massage chairs many times, but nothing like these $10,000 beauties that literally hold you captive during your soothing massage. When we climbed into the chairs, we were locked in like astronauts in a capsule, with some manner of upholstered clamps gripping our hands and feet, then what felt like small bowling balls began rolling up and down our backsides, causing us to emit groans of pleasure that sounded like wounded woodland creatures, if you catch my drift.

But let’s get back to the miracle I believe I mentioned in the fifth paragraph. There we were on the final hole of the tournament, a challenging 140-yard par 3, and all we had to do was make par to record an even-par round, which, considering our overall lack of skill, would have been like the Vienna Choir Boys beating the Green Bay Packers.

Anyway, three of us choked big-time, firing our balls into the woods — leaving our buddy Bob, who along with being my boss is a solid, consistent golfer, as our only hope of salvaging some shred of dignity.

With great care and concentration, Bob lined up his shot, took a mighty swing… and sent his ball wildly off course, firing it into the treetops on the right side of the green, where it rattled around noisily, apparently lost forever, until, as if by magic, it mysteriously popped out of the trees and rolled onto the green toward the flagstick.

“How the (bad word) did you manage that?” I grunted as we looked at Bob with confusion in our eyes.

As we stared at Bob’s magic ball sitting perfectly on the green, a dazed-looking golfer staggered out of the trees, doffed his cap and began rubbing his head vigorously. Staring back at us, he pointed at his head, then pointed at Bob’s ball — international sign language to convey the fact Bob’s ball had beaned him in the noggin and ricocheted onto the green.

We scurried up to the hole, where this fellow calmly explained he’d been standing beside a tree with his foursome when a ball had blasted into the treetops, then bopped him upside the head, and taken a fortunate bounce towards the hole.

Likely due to Dwight’s influence, Bob politely asked the beaned golfer whether he was OK, which prompted his buddies to laugh and say: “He’s fine. It hit him on the head and you can’t hurt cement!”

So, yes, we saved par, and later Bob not only bought me a cold beer, but we won the prize for being the only team to make it through the tournament without losing their specially marked ball.

Like I said, it was a day of miracles!

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca