Nobody Likes Kyle Very Much: Miracle on 11

Skated out of work a skosh early to take advantage of the type of beautiful day Joe Nichols immortalized in his catchy little country song and, of course, headed to The Castle to get in a round before having to pick up the chirren from tennis practice.  Caught up to my pal Rudy and my disc golf arch-nemesis Kyle on #8 for some company and some competition, respectively.  I proceeded to double-bogey that, so it was shaping up to be a typical day on the course for me.

But Kyle had other plans.  He was determined to make me look bad and that back nine his bitch.  Not necessarily in that order.

#11 from the tee

Carl and A.J. joined us for the back so we were a five-some.  #10 played out normally (meaning I bogeyed and everyone else made par) and we all trudge across the road to tee off on 11.  Truth be told, we all had really nice drives -- though A.J. would have been a lot happier if his new Westside Tursas -- which I'm told is Norwegian for "I'm sorry I shot you but I thought you were robbing my store" -- had come out a little flippier.  Kyle had thrown the hot-pink Champ Mamba I'd traded him for his Nuke SS a few weeks earlier.  It came out even better than normal:  Working the line and turning over perfectly before fading out at the last minute and dropping just inside the tree-line right before the entrance back into the woods.  Really a great shot for us barely (and probably ill-advisedly) post-Rec, budding Am players.

Kyle's more-typical drive on #11

Kyle's in good shape off his drive and walks up to survey his lie.  He checks it out -- a demi-god among men -- doesn't see anything overtly conspiratorial about it, and seems to smell the sweet stench of challenge in the air.  The dramatic, self-satisfied turn of the head he gives to the mere mortals who had to throw before his mighty drive seems to mock the very thought that he could blunder on this pittance of a hole.

You can tell by his expression and the direction he's looking that he's eyeing a controversial (if not downright dubious) line.  His face contorts into thirty different thoughtful cramps like Jim Carrey dropping the biggest deuce of his life in a port-o-potty while he contemplates his options, all within a matter of ten seconds.  It's all:  "Hmmm....might be good....nope....oh, wait...yep....damn.....mmmmm......yep.  Shit is definitely about to go down."  It's a tense moment, but he's not one to keep people in suspense.  He's nothing if not decisive.  

Kyle is a fan of throwing the roller, but is considered somewhat of a wild-card when it comes down to the execution of it.  For those who've played with him and have seen him throw it know that the phrase "YOLO!" is often heard right before it happens.  It's either an epic shot that turns out beautifully, or a disastrous mistake that turns a run-of-the-mill par into a 120-foot jump-putt to save triple-bogey from the jailhouse in the woods.  Today Kyle chose the former.

#11 basket from the fairway

From the left side of the entrance towards the #11 pin, Kyle slams his putter into the ground.  It rolls entirely through the woods unscathed without even a patch of pine needles to slow its trajectory.  The spin was such that it might have rolled all the way across the swamp and made for a bad-ass tee shot on #12 if not for the gigantic tree that served as the goal-line defense 35-feet behind the basket.  I was floored.  The chutzpah of this cat to throw that shot and have it turn out the way it did was breathtaking.  Gotta hand it to the guy for taking his game by the balls with his carpe diem attitude towards upshots.

But that's not even the good part.

So now he's looking at a long, uphill 35-footer for the bird.  I'm standing by the bridge waiting to tap in my bogey, curious to see if Kyle can pull off another miracle shot.  Then I see him gripping his putter like he's a homely version of Beth Fullwood, one of our fellow card-mates during the monthly tournaments who's considered somewhat of an expert on thumbers and weight-loss.  

"No way he's gonna thumber that putt," I think to myself, "There's a tree right in front of the basket....not a good look."  Silly me.....Kyle's full of surprises.

He switches grips at the last minute and tomahawks the disc at the basket.  Hard.  Not even with finesse; more like he hates the pin like it owes him money from his old neighborhood.  Just as I thought, the disc hits the tree with a gangster ruthlessness, but then -- like Arlen Specter's magic bullet -- it seems to defy all laws of physics, change course in mid-flight, and BANG into the chains, settling into the basket for the three.  I was stupefied.

I know that birdies on #11 are just another day at the office for many people, but for guys like Kyle and me it's an accomplishment.  And seeing it done with such a devil-may-care attitude was truly a sight to behold.

I hate Kyle.

This is Kyle