Old Gobhar Farms - A Dirty Ankle Mafia production
Sept 30, 2018 14:33:05 GMT -5
coruler2, Terry Grayson, and 6 more like this
Post by Deleted on Sept 30, 2018 14:33:05 GMT -5
Old Gobhar Farms - course details
Par: 72
Distance: 7,259 yards
Fairways: Normal
Roll: Fast
Greens: Soft
Speed: 173
The 'True' Story of Pithbitwood - by Rob Scott (TreeWood )
In the low, golden light of daybreak, the dewdrops sparkled like diamonds strewn atop the verdant carpet that surrounded him. The swallows had already begun their morning songs, the air was cool with the dawn dampness, and off in the distance, Craig Thomas could hear the unmistakable burble of a Massey Ferguson coming to life. This was, after all, farm country – and had been for at least the last thousand years.
With driver already in hand, Thomas stooped to plant his tee, and then stepped back to survey the opening hole. To the left, the old McDougal farmhouse overlooked the first tee, while Cross Creek framed the right side of the fairway, running off into the distance, toward the heavy wood that covered the surrounding hills a mile away. All was right with the world. It was a sentiment that he hadn’t felt in quite some time.
The smell of fresh-mown grass was tinged with the sweet scent of wild clover, and he was immediately reminded of that seminal moment some five years ago. Then only 23, Craig Thomas had already achieved much more in his chosen profession than many men twice his age. He’d clawed his way up through the lesser tours, had put a season on the Web Tour under his belt, and eventually earned his PGA card. In just his first season on tour, he had a pair of tournament victories, and secured a sweet sponsorship deal with a boutique game developer out of Atlantic Canada.
In what would be his final PGA appearance, he’d been leading the field by a single stroke in the final round at The Club at Ravenswood. He was sizing up his 8-foot birdie putt when his caddy, Jerry Wagenheim, interrupted his concentration. “Craig, I just got a message from the tournament director’s office. It’s uh…bad news, I’m afraid.” Thomas looked up at him expectantly. “Well?...Did some a-hole phone in to complain about the drop I took back on 14?” Wagenheim squirmed a little… “Uh, no… Craig. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to tell you this, but… Pithbitwood’s dead.”
Time stopped. And all he could see was his caddy’s face. His lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying. In an instant, Craig Thomas was numb. The putter fell from his hand in slow motion, falling to the green at the same time as Thomas’ knees. The Sunday evening sportscast that night would show the footage. The cameras zoomed in to capture the anguish on his face, happily documenting the tears of grief that streamed down his cheeks before gravity called them earthward. In the years that followed, Thomas never could recall much of what happened after getting the news. Officially, it went down as a withdrawal, and Thomas never appeared on tour again.
“Hi Jamie, it’s Craig. I’m catching a BA flight out of JFK. If I make my connection in London, I should be there in around 8:30 in the morning, your time. I’ll call you later.” Thomas ended the call, set his phone to airplane mode, and continued down the jet bridge to the waiting Dreamliner. His agent, Jamie Gale, was a good man. He could have sat on the sad news of Pithbitwood’s passing until after his client had sewn up the tour win at Ravenswood, but his conscience had far greater value than any share of his clients’ earnings.
The twin GE engines roared with a combined 123,000 pounds of thrust, as the big jet climbed skyward, banked to the right, and rolled out at a heading of 060. Despite his loss, Thomas took some solace in knowing that Pithbitwood had lived a long life. Sixteen years was a pretty good run for a goat. He wondered if his beloved ewe had known it would be her final sleep, as she nestled down that afternoon atop the yellow and pink quilt of buttercups and clover that draped his grandfather’s south field. He, too, closed his eyes – and sleep came fast.
He dreamed of his childhood and the idyllic pastoral landscape of the green, gently rolling hills not far from Stirling, in southern Scotland. His grandfather, Stuart, had given Pithbitwood to him on his 8th birthday. Only a month old, the little ewe was still a wobbly-kneed bundle of gangly awkwardness. The two were immediately inseparable – the four-legged kid, tail flittering, followed the two-legged one wherever he went. They spent that first summer together exploring the massive estate and surrounding fields, unencumbered by the weight of the world that lay far beyond the hills and brooks they were so familiar with.
The estate remained, to some degree, an operational farm. His great-great grandfather had become a wealthy man with his tobacco plantation, arguably the United Kingdom’s finest. Over time, though, the operation had diversified to include grains and livestock – including a magnificent herd of English goats. On a farm, one learned of responsibility at an early age. Long before it became a corporate buzzword, the concept of environmental stewardship was a value that was lived out daily, not merely the term du jour that conglomerates copy-pasted into their prospectuses just to keep the environmentalists off their backs. And so it was that Craig was schooled in animal husbandry, learning to care properly for Pithbitwood, and along the way the two of them earned multiple ribbons and awards at the local equivalent of 4H events. Over the years, they evolved from joyful playmates to become trusted friends.
It had been almost two years since he’d been back to the estate. He stood for a moment before the grand house, taking it in. A wave of nostalgia crashed upon the coastline of his consciousness, and just as quickly receded into the depths of his memory – only to be replaced by a wash of guilt that he’d been away that long. Just then, the heavy golden oak door swung open, and Craig approached it as his grandfather stepped out to welcome him home. It had at one time been home, and for the next few years it would serve as such yet again.
Despite his success on the pro tour, the past few years had not been kind to the younger Thomas. He’d lost his parents in a bus crash some eight years ago, and his game had begun to crumble badly of late due to recurring bouts of bursitis in his left elbow. The recent loss of his boyhood friend proved to be the trigger that saw him step away from the game for good. They always said “You can’t go back,” or words to that effect, but Craig Thomas had never quite agreed with that commonly shared wisdom. Home had beckoned, and he’d been only too happy to heed the call.
Autumn came and went, followed by two more seasons. Financially, Craig Thomas was more than comfortable. His inheritance, tour winnings, and some shrewd investments along the way had seen to that. Almost imperceptibly, mourning had given way to something he couldn’t quite identify. Restlessness perhaps.
He purchased the old Burrows home nearby, and had it restored to its former glory. Although he’d been thankful for his time back at the Thomas estate, he needed his own space, and to begin a new chapter in his life. Not long thereafter he purchased two separate parcels of land on opposite sides of Cross Creek. The transactions took place more on instinct than anything else. Thomas asked himself what his purpose was. And although he didn’t have an answer, he knew it felt right. Within the next couple years, he’d accumulated an additional 10 land titles, bringing the total to 12, most of which were fallow fields, while a few were sublet to locals.
Thomas had stepped away from the pinnacle of the PGA on his own terms. Yet, he wasn’t wholly comfortable each time he heard the “ex- “ or “former – “ that preceded “pro” on those rare occasions when his name was referenced in the media. Becoming a pro in any sport, let alone the upper echelons of it, demands such an extreme degree of dedication that one necessarily becomes defined by it to a large degree. That’s why some guys had huge difficulties adjusting when their careers were over. They’d given too much of themselves to the game along the way, making it impossible to walk away intact.
Craig wasn’t exactly sure on which side of the line he stood, but at times he definitely felt he was straddling it. He’d never picked up a club again after retiring. Yet, his bag, containing his tour set was stowed neatly at the back of the walk-in closet. He’d severed all professional membership ties to the tour, and to a variety of private clubs, yet he’d retained the course guides and caddy books for every course he’d ever played.
Jamie Gale arrived in the early afternoon. The air was fairly warm and dry for early October, and the oaks and birch were now half naked, as much of their summer clothing had been blown off, to flutter on the autumn wind, and lay scattered in layers of muted browns and golden yellows. “Good to see you, Craig. How you been keeping?” Gale asked. The two men immediately fell into comfortable conversation that would last for hours, facilitated slightly by a dram or two of Glenmorangie. There, in the comfort of his living room, where the golden light of the late afternoon steamed through the panes, Craig Thomas revealed to his long-time friend that he’d rediscovered his love for the game, and more importantly, rediscovered himself.
Gale was speaking hands-free as he wound his forest green Astin Martin through the country roads. “Yeah… exactly. He’s got a good idea about what he wants, it’s just the routing that’s going to be a challenge… no, don’t worry about that – we’ve got the capital already. What he really needs is the expertise that you guys at the Dirty Ankle Mafia can provide.” He shifted down through the gears quickly, engine braking on the approach to hairpin that the DB 11 took with relative ease. Yes, it’s rolling countryside, with a rocky stream weaving through the valley. The course will have to wind through a collection of local farms that’ll have to be OB…. Yes, they’re active operations, so we need to protect the integrity of the land and the livestock…"
Craig Thomas’ friend and former agent had recently read about DAM and its golf design prowess in a recent issue of Golf Architecture. He’d read the feature on The Kraken, and had been deeply impressed. The conversation continued, as Gale found the M80 motorway worked his DB 11 through the power band. “No he doesn’t want that. He’d like soft, watered greens that still roll fast and true over both gentle and severe contours. That should be offset by a number of deep, penalizing bunkers…”
By the time he’d made it half way to Edinburgh, the details had been worked out. Terry Grayson and Eric Nesbit would handle the design and foliage, while Cockerill Heavy Air Support Ltd. would handle the logistics – their C-5M Super Galaxy would easily manage the eight Caterpillars needed to begin initial clearing and grading. For the DAM, this was a little more than a boutique job, one they completed in record time of just under two years. All the while, Craig Thomas had focused on scraping some five years of rust off his game, traveling to Glasgow for swing analysis, and Stirling for physio. The twenty-two months passed quickly.
He especially liked the view off the first tee. Reasserting his grip on his Taylor Made M3, and taking a final look down the fairway, Thomas concentrated on ignoring Cross Creek, and began his backswing. The launch was perfect – an ideal trajectory, with a slight draw to take the creek out of play. As he left the tee box, and was removing his glove, he heard the gentle bleating of the young kids, born just three weeks prior. All was indeed right in the world. He thought of Pithbitwood, and for the first time in so very long, her memory brought a smile to his face.
Par: 72
Distance: 7,259 yards
Fairways: Normal
Roll: Fast
Greens: Soft
Speed: 173
The 'True' Story of Pithbitwood - by Rob Scott (TreeWood )
In the low, golden light of daybreak, the dewdrops sparkled like diamonds strewn atop the verdant carpet that surrounded him. The swallows had already begun their morning songs, the air was cool with the dawn dampness, and off in the distance, Craig Thomas could hear the unmistakable burble of a Massey Ferguson coming to life. This was, after all, farm country – and had been for at least the last thousand years.
With driver already in hand, Thomas stooped to plant his tee, and then stepped back to survey the opening hole. To the left, the old McDougal farmhouse overlooked the first tee, while Cross Creek framed the right side of the fairway, running off into the distance, toward the heavy wood that covered the surrounding hills a mile away. All was right with the world. It was a sentiment that he hadn’t felt in quite some time.
The smell of fresh-mown grass was tinged with the sweet scent of wild clover, and he was immediately reminded of that seminal moment some five years ago. Then only 23, Craig Thomas had already achieved much more in his chosen profession than many men twice his age. He’d clawed his way up through the lesser tours, had put a season on the Web Tour under his belt, and eventually earned his PGA card. In just his first season on tour, he had a pair of tournament victories, and secured a sweet sponsorship deal with a boutique game developer out of Atlantic Canada.
In what would be his final PGA appearance, he’d been leading the field by a single stroke in the final round at The Club at Ravenswood. He was sizing up his 8-foot birdie putt when his caddy, Jerry Wagenheim, interrupted his concentration. “Craig, I just got a message from the tournament director’s office. It’s uh…bad news, I’m afraid.” Thomas looked up at him expectantly. “Well?...Did some a-hole phone in to complain about the drop I took back on 14?” Wagenheim squirmed a little… “Uh, no… Craig. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to tell you this, but… Pithbitwood’s dead.”
Time stopped. And all he could see was his caddy’s face. His lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying. In an instant, Craig Thomas was numb. The putter fell from his hand in slow motion, falling to the green at the same time as Thomas’ knees. The Sunday evening sportscast that night would show the footage. The cameras zoomed in to capture the anguish on his face, happily documenting the tears of grief that streamed down his cheeks before gravity called them earthward. In the years that followed, Thomas never could recall much of what happened after getting the news. Officially, it went down as a withdrawal, and Thomas never appeared on tour again.
“Hi Jamie, it’s Craig. I’m catching a BA flight out of JFK. If I make my connection in London, I should be there in around 8:30 in the morning, your time. I’ll call you later.” Thomas ended the call, set his phone to airplane mode, and continued down the jet bridge to the waiting Dreamliner. His agent, Jamie Gale, was a good man. He could have sat on the sad news of Pithbitwood’s passing until after his client had sewn up the tour win at Ravenswood, but his conscience had far greater value than any share of his clients’ earnings.
The twin GE engines roared with a combined 123,000 pounds of thrust, as the big jet climbed skyward, banked to the right, and rolled out at a heading of 060. Despite his loss, Thomas took some solace in knowing that Pithbitwood had lived a long life. Sixteen years was a pretty good run for a goat. He wondered if his beloved ewe had known it would be her final sleep, as she nestled down that afternoon atop the yellow and pink quilt of buttercups and clover that draped his grandfather’s south field. He, too, closed his eyes – and sleep came fast.
He dreamed of his childhood and the idyllic pastoral landscape of the green, gently rolling hills not far from Stirling, in southern Scotland. His grandfather, Stuart, had given Pithbitwood to him on his 8th birthday. Only a month old, the little ewe was still a wobbly-kneed bundle of gangly awkwardness. The two were immediately inseparable – the four-legged kid, tail flittering, followed the two-legged one wherever he went. They spent that first summer together exploring the massive estate and surrounding fields, unencumbered by the weight of the world that lay far beyond the hills and brooks they were so familiar with.
The estate remained, to some degree, an operational farm. His great-great grandfather had become a wealthy man with his tobacco plantation, arguably the United Kingdom’s finest. Over time, though, the operation had diversified to include grains and livestock – including a magnificent herd of English goats. On a farm, one learned of responsibility at an early age. Long before it became a corporate buzzword, the concept of environmental stewardship was a value that was lived out daily, not merely the term du jour that conglomerates copy-pasted into their prospectuses just to keep the environmentalists off their backs. And so it was that Craig was schooled in animal husbandry, learning to care properly for Pithbitwood, and along the way the two of them earned multiple ribbons and awards at the local equivalent of 4H events. Over the years, they evolved from joyful playmates to become trusted friends.
It had been almost two years since he’d been back to the estate. He stood for a moment before the grand house, taking it in. A wave of nostalgia crashed upon the coastline of his consciousness, and just as quickly receded into the depths of his memory – only to be replaced by a wash of guilt that he’d been away that long. Just then, the heavy golden oak door swung open, and Craig approached it as his grandfather stepped out to welcome him home. It had at one time been home, and for the next few years it would serve as such yet again.
Despite his success on the pro tour, the past few years had not been kind to the younger Thomas. He’d lost his parents in a bus crash some eight years ago, and his game had begun to crumble badly of late due to recurring bouts of bursitis in his left elbow. The recent loss of his boyhood friend proved to be the trigger that saw him step away from the game for good. They always said “You can’t go back,” or words to that effect, but Craig Thomas had never quite agreed with that commonly shared wisdom. Home had beckoned, and he’d been only too happy to heed the call.
Autumn came and went, followed by two more seasons. Financially, Craig Thomas was more than comfortable. His inheritance, tour winnings, and some shrewd investments along the way had seen to that. Almost imperceptibly, mourning had given way to something he couldn’t quite identify. Restlessness perhaps.
He purchased the old Burrows home nearby, and had it restored to its former glory. Although he’d been thankful for his time back at the Thomas estate, he needed his own space, and to begin a new chapter in his life. Not long thereafter he purchased two separate parcels of land on opposite sides of Cross Creek. The transactions took place more on instinct than anything else. Thomas asked himself what his purpose was. And although he didn’t have an answer, he knew it felt right. Within the next couple years, he’d accumulated an additional 10 land titles, bringing the total to 12, most of which were fallow fields, while a few were sublet to locals.
Thomas had stepped away from the pinnacle of the PGA on his own terms. Yet, he wasn’t wholly comfortable each time he heard the “ex- “ or “former – “ that preceded “pro” on those rare occasions when his name was referenced in the media. Becoming a pro in any sport, let alone the upper echelons of it, demands such an extreme degree of dedication that one necessarily becomes defined by it to a large degree. That’s why some guys had huge difficulties adjusting when their careers were over. They’d given too much of themselves to the game along the way, making it impossible to walk away intact.
Craig wasn’t exactly sure on which side of the line he stood, but at times he definitely felt he was straddling it. He’d never picked up a club again after retiring. Yet, his bag, containing his tour set was stowed neatly at the back of the walk-in closet. He’d severed all professional membership ties to the tour, and to a variety of private clubs, yet he’d retained the course guides and caddy books for every course he’d ever played.
Jamie Gale arrived in the early afternoon. The air was fairly warm and dry for early October, and the oaks and birch were now half naked, as much of their summer clothing had been blown off, to flutter on the autumn wind, and lay scattered in layers of muted browns and golden yellows. “Good to see you, Craig. How you been keeping?” Gale asked. The two men immediately fell into comfortable conversation that would last for hours, facilitated slightly by a dram or two of Glenmorangie. There, in the comfort of his living room, where the golden light of the late afternoon steamed through the panes, Craig Thomas revealed to his long-time friend that he’d rediscovered his love for the game, and more importantly, rediscovered himself.
Gale was speaking hands-free as he wound his forest green Astin Martin through the country roads. “Yeah… exactly. He’s got a good idea about what he wants, it’s just the routing that’s going to be a challenge… no, don’t worry about that – we’ve got the capital already. What he really needs is the expertise that you guys at the Dirty Ankle Mafia can provide.” He shifted down through the gears quickly, engine braking on the approach to hairpin that the DB 11 took with relative ease. Yes, it’s rolling countryside, with a rocky stream weaving through the valley. The course will have to wind through a collection of local farms that’ll have to be OB…. Yes, they’re active operations, so we need to protect the integrity of the land and the livestock…"
Craig Thomas’ friend and former agent had recently read about DAM and its golf design prowess in a recent issue of Golf Architecture. He’d read the feature on The Kraken, and had been deeply impressed. The conversation continued, as Gale found the M80 motorway worked his DB 11 through the power band. “No he doesn’t want that. He’d like soft, watered greens that still roll fast and true over both gentle and severe contours. That should be offset by a number of deep, penalizing bunkers…”
By the time he’d made it half way to Edinburgh, the details had been worked out. Terry Grayson and Eric Nesbit would handle the design and foliage, while Cockerill Heavy Air Support Ltd. would handle the logistics – their C-5M Super Galaxy would easily manage the eight Caterpillars needed to begin initial clearing and grading. For the DAM, this was a little more than a boutique job, one they completed in record time of just under two years. All the while, Craig Thomas had focused on scraping some five years of rust off his game, traveling to Glasgow for swing analysis, and Stirling for physio. The twenty-two months passed quickly.
He especially liked the view off the first tee. Reasserting his grip on his Taylor Made M3, and taking a final look down the fairway, Thomas concentrated on ignoring Cross Creek, and began his backswing. The launch was perfect – an ideal trajectory, with a slight draw to take the creek out of play. As he left the tee box, and was removing his glove, he heard the gentle bleating of the young kids, born just three weeks prior. All was indeed right in the world. He thought of Pithbitwood, and for the first time in so very long, her memory brought a smile to his face.