Tully Tuesdays, Volume 2

Volume 2.

I always take a winter golf trip. But due to some financial strains, I decided to pass this year. As the group organizer, I know the struggle of putting the trip together, getting everybody’s schedule in line and perfecting the weekend that can keep your head above water for months in advance.

In fairness, I doubled up last year with back to back trips to Pinehurst, NC and Cabot Links and Cliffs in Nova Scotia. I squeezed the hell out of the 2023 lemon, and have lifelong memories and quarter-zips to remember those trips by.

What makes a golf trip so great is the complete detachment from reality that extends from a 4 hour weekend round into a 4 day battle royale where the only thing that matters is the next shot. It’s what golfers love, the ability to be so immersed in a round that you don’t even remember if you had a cell phone before the round.

With the detachment of reality theme, here’s the story of my 2024 golf trip that definitely happened.

Arizona, February 2024. The trip that escaped the group chat is finally here. The boys are sitting at the Boston Logan Legal Seafoods bar drinking $12 Hazy IPA’s lining up the rounds for the trip. We’re playing Grayhawk, Troon, someone knows a guy at Scottsdale National and we have a once in a lifetime tee time there too, it’s bound to be a time.

Struggling through a 6 hour cross country flight, Rick is pounding Jack and Pepsi Zeros in seat 20B, dominating the elbow room war with an accountant trying to punch excel numbers and a mother with a baby in her lap. They never stood a chance.

We land at Sky Harbour, pick up our mini vans and hit the road. We have a warmup 18 at Mountain Shadows to kick things off, the boys are buzzing, as one would say. Drinks are flowing, Clark marks down a 4, but we know Clark didn’t make the 10 footer he had lined up for bogey, but we’re keeping the vibes, letting him live in the moment.

We get to the cars, hit the town for a night out, a couple of guys head home early.

The next morning, the AirBnB Sonos is blasting Levels, one by one everybody rolls down into the kitchen with their hand picked polo, a struggle of a decision making process as you have to have your Mount Rushmore of Polos ready for a trip now rears its head.

Breakfast burritos, coffees, one guy gets a hot coffee because “he prefers the taste” even though its 91 degrees today. Hardo.

Hot coffee guy is on the first tee, asking the starter questions about the course that he then interjects with the answers to said questions that he learned on Instagram on the flight over. The starter looks on and says the fairway is open. This is the peak of the vibes. No work, no emails, just golf, sunshine, and tequila.

HCG immediately tops his first tee ball into the desert. The boys are high fiving the started, who is less than pleased with HCG’s performance. “That goddamn burrito” he mumbles. The round goes on, HCG is down 8 ways, insisting we carry over the bets to the next course. The group obliges. A golf trip staple, nobody ever gets paid.

Day 2 goes fine, no drama outside of dinner where Hot Coffee Guy ups himself by putting his card down for dinner and then sends out the immediate Venmo request that mathematically totals out to a conspicuous 46 dollars above what the bills states, exonerating HCG from the Wagyu Ribeye he insisted on ordering before complaining it wasn’t “real Wagyu” whatever the hell that means. Hot Coffee Guy has now been upgraded to Not Invited Back Guy.

The group has decided on NIBG and turns the scorn to Zeke, the guy who invited him. “We needed the numbers” he continually exclaims, excusing the fact that he provided the “Solid dude good player” scouting report to gain the ticket, despite only knowing him through the friend of a November hinge date, when he drunkenly invited him to join our trip.

The last day of the golf trip is always a bittersweet day, but features a tradition unlike any other, drawing straws to play with the now oppressed outsider. Zeke is a shoe-in to group 2 as the host. And there are 2 spots left. I fall on the sword, I want blood, I want a 5 way victory bad, and I’m bringing a ringer with me.

Introducing 14 handicap Harry. Harry “didn’t get to play much” in 2023 and his handicap shows, however his game doesn’t. All week Harry has been winning match after match, stringing together gritty 84s with multiple snowmen on the card. The math there is always peculiar, as without a quad bogey he’d be threatening the 70s every round, not to mention those 8’s game with his partner in the hole for 3. I’ll take this character on, he’s due to help me out at some point.

We go the distance, Harry is a full on pumpkin. I’m trying my best but we’re down 1 going into 18. NIBG, oblivious to his standing in the group has been chewing the caddies ear off all day talking about our 2025 trip, “I’m telling the boys it’s Streamsong or bust.” Bad news pal.

Walking down the 18th fairway carrying the impending doom of a red-eye flight that doesn’t leave for 8 hours, I’m trying my best to soak in the moment. I hear NIBG and Zeke talking about the fact there about to take us for $200 bucks if they tie this hole. Harry’s in the desert. Things look good for the Outsiders.

The boys are standing around the green, smoking cigars, drinking the last beers of the trip. I’m 145 out. Love the number. We can juice PW right in there through the Arizona sky. I stripe it. It looks so good. I’m staring the ball down like I stare at a Chick Fil A Sandwich right out of the foil, it’s perfect. But the ball then falls straight out of the sky into the depression in front of the green. What the F? Let me see that range finder!

I shoot the pin again and get 145 3 times until I realize. My Bushnell is spot on. But it’s in meters.

We’re smoked. I got to go up and down and I’m giving NIBG a stroke, he just needs to two putt. Unless.

Harry swings his desert wedge and blades the ball. It’s screaming at the boys behind the green “FOREEEE” we scream to warn the fellas. But we hear that noise. That sweet beautiful noise of the ball smashing straight into the pin. Stunned, I look at the green, Harry’s ball is 4 feet out. He strokes. We’re gonna survive. Everybody chips up, the match is over, Harry has two putts to win the hole, and though he leaves the first one 2 feet short, the crowd insists its good, so Zeke scoops it up and we all shake hands.

The rest of the evening goes as planned, fast food dinner and airport beers. The boys chatter about the trip, break down the highs and lows and crack a couple jokes at NIBG. It’s back to work tomorrow, right out of the red-eye. The advil Pm and adult gummy bears are taking effect, and we sleep through the flight. We meet one final time at the baggage claim.

There’s only so many times in life you look at your friends and tell them you love them, weddings, funerals, great sporting events. But there’s no I love you hug like the baggage claim at the end of the golf trip.

So we uber home back to the mundane world, new quarter-zip on at the office. All is dark, and then the text pops, “Where we goin next year boys?”

Til next week.

TT