I’ve never had a Tiger Woods moment on the golf course until yesterday.
Granted it wasn’t the U.S. Open, but it was MY U.S. Open.
Every time me and my buddy Kevin get together for a round, we play for our prized trophy – a Pebble Beach towel we purchased in 2003 after playing the country’s most famous course.
We’re both average players by most standards – 13 handicaps – but we each show those glimpses of greatness that make the game so much fun.
Deadlocked in a dual at Northville Hills, a fun Arnold Palmer just 25 minutes from the Detroit Metro airport, I triple bogeyed the 15th hole to throw away the lead I’d held all day.
Suddenly a calm settled over me, a zone if you will.
I made a 10-foot par putt on 16 to tie the match. At 17, a nerve-wracking 170-yard par-3 over water, I made another clutch par putt, a 5-footer.
For some reason, I felt so good I picked up my buddy’s three-footer for par, so we could settle it on the final hole.
A great risk-reward par-5, No. 18 features a two-tiered green tucked behind a wetland. I hit a bold approach from 175 yards (a tough shot for me) to the greenside bunker.
With Kevin 15 feet below the hole for par, I blasted a solid sand shot to 16-18 feet.
My putt was a tough slider, but I saw the line. I hit the line. I watched it drop. I pumped my fist. Yes, Yes, Yes, I remember saying. I envisioned Tiger pumping his fist at Torrey Pines or Bay Hill.
Three pars on three tough finishing holes was great, but nothing feels better than a clutch putt on No. 18.
It delivered the towel.

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