It was a blustery fall day, with the wind varying between a soft cool breeze to the occasional gusts that would take the hat off your head. It's been said that we only have two seasons in South Texas, summer and February, but that particular October day there was a definite chill in the air.

Cedar Creek golf course is one of the more challenging municipal courses in the San Antonio area. The regulars know to rent a cart because the hilly terrain can be physically draining, especially if your walking.

Me and three business associates had agreed to play eighteen holes on that Saturday morning, so I had secured a tee time and two carts the day before.

We met at the clubhouse around noon, which would give us ample time to visit the driving range as our tee time was not until 1:18.

Now, what I am about to relate to you, much to my embarrassment, actually happened.

None of our foursome are any threat to the PGA, although my friend Billy did attend Texas State (Southwest Texas State as it was known then) on a golf scholarship. Billy is a great guy, quite simply goodness personified. In fact I've only seen him mad once, and that was at himself on a golf course, for hitting what he considered a bad shot, but one the other three of us would have gladly claimed as our own.

Cedar Creek's number nine is a par five, 515 yards from the whites, and features several small bunkers and a slightly elevated tee box. About 90-100 yards from the green the hole crosses a small babbling brook, about 2-3 feet wide.

Number eight had seen me reach the green and hole out ahead of my buddies so the number 9 honors were mine. I calmly eyed the hole from the back of the tee box. Walked up to my teed Spalding ball, took my stance, and after a practice swing, pulled my driver back slowly.

Now, every round of golf, as far as I'm concerned, features at least one, sometimes two shots that, when you strike the ball, it just feels right. You know before you lift your head that Tiger Woods himself would be glad to put his name on that stroke. My number 9 tee shot was just that way. The club hitting the ball made a sharp cracking sound that resonated off the adjacent canyon walls like a rifle shot. I lifted my head slowly to find my ball in mid-flight at the apex of a trajectory that dropped in the absolute middle of the fairway about 230 yards down hole. After a heavy sigh that I'm sure must have seemed thick with arrogance, I stated after compliments

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