Golf Life: I went to a bar and a golf tournament broke out

In this edition of “Golf Life”, we present to you a (slightly different) tradition like none other – The Flask Tournament.

Welcome back to “Golf Life” – out feature for stories connected (however loosely) to the characters and quirks in the sport we all love.

Raise your hand if drinking a pint of Fireball in less time than it takes to play five holes sounds like a new and fun Thanksgiving golf tradition.

Anyone?

I was reluctant, too.

It’s all part of a secret tournament called ‘The Flask’, though ‘The Pint Plus’ might be a more accurate name. If you can believe it, the Chairman of this event is a big jolly Irishman named Patty O’.

And should you think this is just a regular round with an extra serving of swing lube, hold on. It gets significantly more interesting.

First, and thankfully for your liver, you have a partner. He helps you with the pint. The two of you get to pick your poison and must finish it before you end your round. Failure to do so results in several penalty strokes.

Many twosomes chose vodka, prized for its mixability. Bourbon was also a popular choice. There was even a tequila twosome.

My partner and I couldn’t agree on any of those. We chose Fireball.

An audible groan rumbled through the gallery when our selection was announced on the first tee. Before you ask, this decision was made by brain cells that no longer exist so I’m unable to give you the rationale behind it.

I was under the impression that we’d have nine holes to polish it off. I was wrong. I didn’t read the rules closely. We had five.

There were more surprises ahead.

Each team only gets six clubs. The holes were all cross-country – start on one hole and finish on another. One of the ad hoc tee boxes was almost in the street. Not sure why it just was.

The round – and the flask – were finished in about an hour and a half.

Then there was a playoff. That also took an hour and a half.

Did I mention it was alternate shot? Or that you got a neon yellow “Powerball” that, if you and your partner put it into play, gave you a half stroke off your score on that hole? And if you lost it you added three?

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Given the rules and refreshments, scoring was suspiciously dodgy throughout the event. I should tell you now that Fireball and math don’t mix. It got worse during the playoff. Apparently, even with a group of 30 grown men watching, no one could accurately count – or at least agree upon – the number of times a ball was struck.

A five-team playoff suddenly became seven. I’m told some pairing eventually won. I’m not sure who it was. I’m not sure they know, either.

I do distinctly remember one player who was unable to tee his ball and had his partner do it. He then crushed it down the sprinkler line. Truly impressive. I also recall that he too was a big jolly Irishman.

I don’t mean to suggest the descendants of the Emerald Isle have a boozy predilection that gives them an advantage. But if The Flask were to become an Olympic event (as I believe it should), that little island would be going home with a pot of gold.

Surprisingly, the whole thing ended with a celebratory cocktail hour.

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Should you desire to start your own Flask Tournament, I’ll leave you with some tips:

Eat a big breakfast.
Pace your shots … and your shots.
Tell your wife the event takes twice as long as you think it should.
Beware of big jolly Irishmen wanting to make wagers.
Consider what an epic hangover during Thanksgiving dinner with the family will feel like.
Excedrin, Excedrin, Excedrin.

Other than that, swing away. I hope to make The Flask a new tradition for my holiday week. You should, too. There’s really nothing to lose but a few balls, clubs, memberships, friends, marriages, and brain cells.

But seriously, it was a blast.

I think.

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