Reilly Convinces Himself He Hit a Hole-In-One: Don’t Buy the Lie
693 reasons it’s tough to get an ace
Everyone and their grandma has a hole-in-one. I want mine
Here we go folks! Another riveting column by our esteemed friend, Rick Reilly. It’s about how he hit a fake hole-in-one. At times you get the sense that maybe, just maybe, it’s all tongue-in-cheek. But no. He’s serious.
I got sick of reading the stories, is why I did it. I know it was wrong and unethical and even unholy, but I just couldn’t stand the stories anymore.
A 5-year-old in Belleville, Ill., sank a hole-in-one … A 102-year-old woman became the oldest ever to ace … A man in Bowling Green, Ohio, has now made holes-in-one both right- and lefthanded.
Really? Because I’ve been playing since I was 13, and I’m 51 now and not hideous, and I’ve never made one righty, lefty, with a walker, a lollipop or anything in between. So maybe they can all kindly choke on a divot?
It’s probably all payback for your years of shitty columns…and shame on you for wanting a five-year-old and an extremely old woman to choke on a lump of grass. What kind of person are you?
The one that made me snap was this one: 62-year-old Unni Haskell of St. Petersburg, Fla., made an ace a few months ago on the first swing she ever took on a course.
And that’s when I lost it. I vowed to go to my local par-3 course and keep playing, round and round, like a rat after cheese, until I made a hole-in-one. I didn’t care if it took me an hour, a week, a month.
The real crime here is that Rick has time to do this while raking in $2 million a year from ESPN. They really need to make him work harder.
With my 22-year-old son and caddie, Jake (he’s made one — barefoot!), I arrived at the Golf Courses at Hyland Hills, in Westminster, Colo., and set out on the dinky nine-hole North Course: 673 yards total.
1.) Why was your son golfing barefoot? Is this another lie your telling to spice up your column? Like the one where you made up a bunch of friends?
2.) 673 yards is only slightly longer than many par 5s. You totally suck, Rick.
“My dad’s made five,” said Hyland’s director of golf, Todd Coover (seven). “One went off a tree. I kid you not!”
That seven-year-old kid did not say “I kid you not.” I guarantee you. Rick’s making things up again.
“How cool!” I lied, chewing through my lip.
The odds against making an ace are about 12,500-1. I guessed I’d played 50 rounds a year for 38 years. That’s 7,600 par 3′s. At that pace, I’d have my ace when I turned 75. Maybe. Unless I did the sensible thing: cheat.
Why would you do that? Can you really feel good about yourself going about this way? Well, I guess you do cheat your way to piles of money.
I figured at 10 shots a hole, nine holes a round, seven rounds a day, my ace would arrive in no more than eight days. I would be divorced, unemployed and fused at the T3 and T5 vertebrae, but I’d finally be a golfer.
Divorced…probably not—I bet your wife likes the paycheck. Paralyzed…maybe. Unemployed…well, that’s the dream, but highly unlikely considering you’ve gone 8 days without writing a column on several occasions.
My first shot missed. So did my second. In fact, my first 63 missed. My 64th, though, hit the pin and … rolled away. My 77th lipped out. “We’ll be done by lunch!” yelled Jake, standing by the hole and pounding his baseball glove, ready to catch any shots that didn’t have a chance.
But after three loops, I was 0-for-270. Many of them gloved.
After 5 hours 43 minutes — and five loops — I was fried like a fritter and 0-for-450, with two pins, two lip-outs and one O.B. (don’t ask). Jake was looking like he wanted to be adopted. “We’re really doing this again tomorrow?” he groaned.
His poor son. Hell, I would have demanded emancipation long ago.
You bet your inheritance we are.
Oh yeah…the inheritance thing. Eh, I’d rather be poor than Rick Reilly’s son.
Day 2: 20 more; 120 more; 200 more. Nothing. I repeated holes. I skipped holes. I hit 20 shots per hole. I tried not caring, caring too much, singing, one-handed, Happy Gilmore … all useless. The golf gods had spited me.
Yes. They did. Because you’re an idiot who’s trying to cheat his way to a hole-in-one. I find it unsurprising that you go about your other life activities the same way you go about writing your columns.
As my back spasmed and hands gnarled and Jake’s eyes became shark-dead, I asked myself, What if I never do it? Am I less of a person? Besides, Ben Hogan never had one, right?
Yes, amazingly you are less of a person. Not because you haven’t hit a hole-in-one, but because of the way you’re going about it. I thought you had hit rock bottom, but you’ve proved me wrong once again, Rick.
My self answered: 1) You’ll feel like ferret droppings; 2) yes; and 3) Hogan had two.
And then, when all seemed hopeless, on my 694th shot of the quest, on the tiny 52-yard second, I hit a gorgeous little punch sand wedge that went straight as a Jonas Brother, landed exactly 11 feet from the pin and rolled directly and obediently into the cup like a happy little gopher off to bed.
Hey-O! Jonas Brother joke! All is forgiven.
52 YARDS!! Give me 2 hours and I’ll bet you I could throw a couple in from that distance. Or kick. Ridiculous. You can’t actually be excited about this can you, Rick?
Apparently you can be.
Jake threw his glove about 50 feet high. I threw my sand wedge god knows where. We ran at each other like we were in a feminine hygiene TV ad. We collided in midair — me falling on my sore back and Jake falling on top of me. And it didn’t even hurt.
Wait. What? This happens in feminine hygiene ads? What? Creepy. You’re creepy, Reilly.
I had done it. I had achieved the achievable. Climbed the world’s smallest mountain. Slept with Madonna. It had taken 6 hours 23 minutes, over 500 ball-mark fixes and 12 Advil, but it was done. Suck on that, Unni Haskell.
Yeah, you stupid old woman! Suck on that! Eat it, bitch!
To the pro shop to report the news!
“I hate to tell you this,” Todd Coover whispered, “but it’s not technically recognized by the PGA. Sorry.” And I thought, Umm, Todd? I was hitting 20 balls per hole! On a golf course the size of a throw rug! What made you think I gave a mole’s pimple about “official”?
Not only is it not official, it’s like not even real. It was 52 yards. Every 8 handicap and under in the world makes those chips on a daily basis. You made a chip shot, Rick. I bet you’ve done that a bunch of times. This is not a hole-in-one.
The reaction from my friends was also less than congratulatory.
“A 50-yard ace?” e-mailed my pal the Vanilla Gorilla (two). “That’s like a 150-foot putt.”
Well said Vanilla Gorilla (once again, a totally made up name). I hate how Rick feels the need to give his buddies “cool” nicknames that are so obviously contrived and forced that they don’t work at all. Vanilla Gorilla? C’mon. That is totally fake.
Do I care? No. Am I going to tell people how I came to mine (one)? No. And what will I say when I read the next story about a legless 104-year-old blind nun who got her first hole-in-one Tuesday while a live wombat chewed on her clavicle?
You don’t care because you’re a weasely little shit, and—and I hate to break this to you, Rick—you wrote an article about how you made your “hole-in-one,” so the cat’s outta the bag. I guess that’s the price you pay for another easy column to mail in.
And the nun-wombat joke is absolutely not funny. It’s just not. Please stop it.
“Damn! What took her so long?”
I said stop it.
Thank you. Now, just to highlight how big of a loser Reilly is, I want to point your attention to this story about Steve Blass–World Series-winning pitcher, real man, apparently wonderful golfer. Blass not only got a hole-in-one the real way–he got two! In the same round! 8 holes apart! Bringing his grand total up to 3. So, for those of you scoring at home it’s Blass 3-Reilly 0.