Sam!

Not the best front nine—and, make no mistake, there was a time when the lowered shoulder never rose. But the “Sam, Sam I Am” I saw today was mostly certainly a Phoenix.

His game left the scabbard on the back nine with towering bombs off the tee and laser irons clearly wanting part of the credit. A monster fairway wood into wind on twelve sliced through the wind and appeared actually to land on the upper tier where the blue flag resided. As the ball crept a hint back, the skulking white orb, ignoring the majesty and the mastery of the last shot, began a depressing descent back down from the top of the green and hurried in its shame, coming to rest in that familiar low-land portion where judging a putt to reach the pin often found one awaiting the embarrassing return for yet another effort.

He took it well. We all commiserated with him and shrugged that “Wanna-gonna-do” 40-50 feet of green. The ball came off the putter and we knew immediately that it would make the landing. Halfway, it was clear the ball might even be close. Normally on such a long putt, an intermission would be called for, but Sam would have none—swish! Pin left in, the ball never even tapped it. It fell into the cup like a napkin falling off one’s lap: silent, cocky, and conclusive. Birdie man spins and begins a small but growing laugh. We all shake our heads in amazement!

And so it went this day on this back nine. Sam shoots a one-over 37.  And we are all not a little surprised. Yeah, it’s been a while, but a few years ago, we wouldn’t have been surprised at all.

Welcome back, Sam—Retro Sam!