The costliest four putt of all time.

Never disrespect the sanctity of the golf course bet

"I just don't get why he had to four putt." Russ was still fixated on Chris' short game, two full days after it put him in the predicament that was to dominate the discourse of Tom's and my weekend in Charlottesville. "I mean, just get it close, man."

Russ is one of Lizzie's three older brothers. Tom and I bonded with Russ this weekend, just like we bonded with one of Lizzie's other brothers, Bobby. Russ and Bobby come from a very Italian, very Catholic family in Kentucky that does not exactly subscribe to the notion that the meek shall inherit the earth. While their dapper suits betray an image of men who wouldn't mesh well with two assholes like me and Tom, the reality is quite the opposite. Russ is blunt. Bobby, an instigator. And they both feel strongly about the sanctity of the golf course bet.

Tom is nodding in agreement as Russ goes on about the four putt, and I am too, as we convene outside of Pavilion VII on the Lawn, the center of the UVa campus.

"Yeah," Tom said. "Don't FOUR putt, Chris!"

"Especially when I'm lying six in the rough, off the green," I said, "and he's sitting four with the putter in his hand."

"He ran away," Russ said. "The guy ran, away."

It was an ignominious ending to a golf course that should have ended in permanent brotherhood. But he made the decision that he made, and there's nothing we can do about it now.

Here is what happened.

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It all started with a decision by Wes, our boy from our first year college dorm whose wedding weekend we were attending in Charlottesville, to put the three of us together in group 1B. Like men do, we played golf the day before Wes was getting married. Gathered together at Birdwood, the same course that the Virginia golf team practices on, was a melange of people connected to the groom through various means: college friends from UVa, his original beach kid crew from Virginia Beach, the male relatives/protectors of the bride, a few of Wes' own kin, and even a random girl of whose identity I'm still unsure.

And then there was Chris, the only one that didn't really fall into any of these categories.

We'd met Chris the night before at Mellow Mushroom, and he was a nice guy. Only a year older than us, he's a lawyer, and he lives in the same town as the bride's family. The reason he was at Wes' golfing event was because his girlfriend is one of the bridesmaids.

"Awww, the boys are playing golf before the wedding tomorrow. You should go! It would be a great opportunity to bond." That was Tom's impression of Chris' girlfriend, exhorting Chris to come out and play with us.

If only she'd known.

"I put Chris in your group because y'all are all like intellectual types," Wes said to Tom and me as we stretched on the first tee. "I figured you could have some interesting conversations."

Big mistake by Wes.

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"Of all the people to lose a bet to," Martha said, "you and Tom are the worst."

Martha is Tom's girlfriend.

"Martha! What are you talking about? The man made a bet on a golf course."

Tom is nodding vociferously as I admonish his girl.

"You have to follow through on it! It's a BET, on a GOLF COURSE."

Tom has a look of complete bewilderment that Martha is putting up any resistance to the notion that Chris was legally obligated -- verbal contract -- to streak.

There is a nasty rumor going around the wedding party, you see. It appears that Chris has let it be known that he's not going to do it. Even though he gave his word.

"I'm just saying," Martha kept saying. "He probably didn't realize how serious you both were about it."

"Martha," Tom said, taking over. "It's not even a big deal. You just streak."

"Says the man who probably WANTED to lose the bet, so he could streak again." (Tom's nickname in college was "Naked Tom.") "Put yourself in his shoes," she said.

We take a moment, pretend to be pondering, and then both sarcastically reply something along the lines of, "I would streak."

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Thomas Jefferson is the architect who designed the Lawn, which was the original centerpiece of the University of Virginia. That's the school where we met Wes in 2002, the same year Wes met Lizzie and fell in love. It's where Wes was to later propose to Lizzie, who didn't fall in love with Wes until 2004, maybe 2005 -- you'd have to ask her. And everyone who knows about this school knows it's about tradition. It's not your freshman year; it's your first year. It's not campus; it's Grounds. And in the same spirit, every student, by tradition, is supposed to streak the Lawn. At least once. So in a way, Tom and I were doing Chris a favor. He wanted to bond, right? No better way to do it.

All men are created equal, as Jefferson once wrote.




But only a select few have the opportunity to become more equal than others, by taking off their clothes, and running to the statue of Homer and back, at night.

That is the truth that Tom and I -- and Lizzie's brothers, and every other guy out there -- hold to be self evident.

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It began as a wager between myself and Tom, just to keep the round more interesting. Eighteen holes, skins style competition, loser doesn't even have to come out of pocket as punishment. He just has to streak. It's easy, and it's perfect, because it's funny.

"Y'all are way too intense," our detractors whined.

"You need to chill out," they lectured.

"Why do you care that much?" they asked.

And so on.

And the only answer we can give is the truth: the man made a bet, on a golf course. Who are we to say that it's okay to just not follow through? This is not Nam There are rules in this country.

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I was absolute garbage the first eight holes. Blame the beach kids.




A sextuple bogey to lead it off, a series of divots deep enough to pour a foundation into, one shot that I'm pretty sure lost yardage when you factor in the post-hit roll. I was dropping F bombs so ferocious they could've been dropped from the Enola Gay. The result was my name, scribbled with pencil onto the scorecard, and the following numbers to the right: 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0. We were using the same scoring system they use in the groups stage at the World Cup, so a win was worth three, and a tie worth one, and a loss, nothing. Tom had a commanding lead, and Chris was humming along with a six.

This, despite the fact that Chris had only been playing golf since the beginning of the summer. I was a country club kid who went to freaking golf camp a few summers.

"You need this hole," Tom said as our cart pulled up to the ninth tee. "Need to get some momentum going before the back nine."

And that's when I started to turn it on.

By the time we'd gotten to 15, Chris was trailing, and needed to win two of the last three holes to keep his clothes on.

It was the classic problem of rookie golfers: no short game. "It's his Achilles' heel," Tom said.

Just call me Paris.

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Then I choked. Chris wasn't going down so easily, and he began a furious rally with his back against the wall. Looking back, I guess I should have realized how badly the man did not want to streak by the way he responded, even if he was keeping up with appearances. Smiling, joking around, acting like it wasn't that big of a deal. Just having fun. Bonding. The problem is simply that people like Tom and I don't really realize that such an activity could be considered embarrassing for other people.

He won 16, watched Tom win 17, and all of a sudden, there we were, convened around the 18th green, with Wes, Chase, and the whole VB beach kid crew sitting there watching, waiting for me to chip on. I was lying six; Chris was lying four; my only hope was that Tom, who had only taken three shots, would either tie or beat our lawyer friend, which would secure my second place finish.

But Tom wanted to see a playoff.

"I was seriously prepared to throw it," Tom swore afterwards. "I wanted to see a playoff. Everyone wanted to see a playoff. To watch you having to struggle against Chris like that, to see who would have to streak, it would have been awesome."

"But you know I would have won it anyway." The playoff, if necessary, had been agreed upon as a three hole pitch-and-putt competition between the second and third place finishers.

"Oh, yeah. It's his Achilles' heel," Tom said. "But I still wanted to see a playoff. Then Chris four-putted."

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Chris avoided us for the rest of the weekend.

We had given him the choice after the round ended: do you want to streak tonight, or tomorrow night?

He chose tomorrow night.

"Good, that will give us more time to hype it up."

I truly believe in my heart that it was at that moment that Chris decided he no longer wanted to bond.

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Let's flash forward to Saturday night, as the wedding reception is winding down.

"We have to make him do it. How are we going to convince him?"

"I don't know."

Chase had talked a big game earlier, vowing to try and work the girlfriend angle. We'd passed the point in which we could just shame Chris into doing it; that wasn't going to work. The only prayer, in our estimation, was to convince his girlfriend that she was dating a half man. Embarrassed, she would then do the shaming for us. It was a perfect plan.

But just as I predicted, Chase was too nice to even attempt this mission, and left us with no other option than to negotiate.

(Actually, we opted for negotiations after the band refused to make a public service announcement on our behalf.)

Game plan: just make him.

Problem: he didn't want to "get arrested."

Reason: he's a lawyer.

Tom's solution: "What if we do it with you?"

Chris' answer: "Okay, fine."

Tom's condition: "You have to get the bus rowdy."

Martha's commentary when we informed her we had a deal: "I KNEW you would end up doing it with him!"

In all fairness, it was an exceedingly fair proposition. By no means were we obligated to offer to streak with Chris. It was his responsibility. Asking only one little thing of him -- get a bus stuffed with a bunch of open bar'ed 20-something's (and a few grown up relatives of the married couple) rowdy to the idea of him streaking the Lawn at 1 a.m. -- was nothing. We were just happy we had a deal. And to be honest, we were happy for Chris. He was going to look back on this experience and thank us. We were going to bond, after all.

But the bus driver -- she had other plans.

The kids who drive the UVa buses -- that's how we all got from the chapel on Grounds to the reception out by Foxfield -- are classic emo types who hate kids that get rowdy to streaking. They're "different." And they don't want to have to deal with people who are having that much fun.

This girl was a classic UVa bus driver.

"The bus is too full!" she shrieked.

No one paid any attention. The Sublime group singing continued.

"No alcohol on the bus!"

Right. That's like saying you have to fill out the census, or else.

"We're going to fine the bride's family $150!"

I think someone yelled "Who cares! That's nothing!" But I can't remember that clearly.

And then, just as Chris and Tom are about to squeeze on, the driver shuts the doors. The bus is officially full. There will be no streaking.

"Please! You gotta open the doors -- my friend has to go streaking tonight!"

Please. I'm Emo. And your breath reeks. Not gonna happen.

"Fine," I said after her silent glare of a reply. "Can I just get off the bus then?"

"Sure." First time I'd seen the girl smile all night. "Be my guest." And she opens the doors.

Just as putting is Chris' Achilles' heel, feigning defeat is my Trojan horse. The second those doors opened up, I yelled, "Quick! Get on, Tom!"

And Tom pushes Chris onto the bus, quickly following behind him.

Now she's really mad.

"THIS BUS IS NOT LEAVING UNTIL TWO PEOPLE GET OFF!"

She's pretending to not be completely arbitrary in the number she's choosing as a condition for pulling out of the driveway -- as if before these two got on, we were regulation, but now, we're suddenly in violation of some code or law -- but it's pretty transparent. Getting no response from the packed bus (now rapping in unison to 2Pac), she turns off the engine

I wonder if anyone even realized that we weren't moving. The emo girl seethes.

We are going to wait this out, I decide. Eventually, she has to go. There is no way I -- or Tom, or Chris -- am getting off of this bus.

But the driver was pretty hardcore sad emo girl. And stubborn as a mule.

Five, six, seven minutes go by? No idea how many minutes. A while. Engine is still off.

And then, a very unexpected person volunteered to get off of the bus. It was a moment I will never forget. Bobby, Lizzie's brother, and the man who maybe wanted to see Chris streak more than anyone else at the whole wedding, speaks up:

"I'll get off," he says, grabbing his wife's hand. "I'll get off the bus."

It was like the scene of a movie, one that we've all seen, but the title of which we can't quite place. The part of the movie where the loyal friend takes the fall for something everyone knows he didn't do, and willingly accepts the punishment, foregoing the event which the protagonist's crew had been striving for the entire time. I will never forget Bobby's chivalry that night. He, my friends, is the epitome of a real man.

As the doors shut behind him -- I'm sure the driver was pissed that I was still on board -- I got a little choked up. Goodbye, Bobby. This run's for you.

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All Chris had to do was get the bus rowdy.

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"Dude. I just watched him run away."

"Who?"

"Chris."

"I don't understand."

"Chris. He ran away! I watched him. He got off the bus, and I saw him darting behind one of the buildings at Boar's Head, running."

(silence)

"I cannot believe this."

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But it was true. Chris had run away when the bus stopped at his hotel, which was still 10 minutes away from where the rest of us were getting dropped off. There would be no streaking.

One runner in the direction Chris should have gone; one running away.

I was livid. What would Bobby have thought? He had sacrificed so much to make sure this came to fruition, and now, it had just unraveled.

"I cannot BELIEVE this! Who runs away? Who does that?" The open bar was still alive inside of me, and it was speaking in tongues. "I hope his reputation is ruined back home! I hope his girlfriend breaks up with him for this! I hope--"

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, Bayless." Inga, Chase's girlfriend, has what we call a "cooler head." I didn't see her point of view in the heat of the moment, but clearly, looking back, I know that some of my hopes were a tad over the line.

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But I wonder if Russ would agree with me.

He was one of the first people we ran into the next morning, after being up all night and sleeping until just before the breakfast outside Pavilion VII -- which is on the Lawn -- was about to end.

"I can't believe that kid f***ing RAN!" Ah, Russ. "And I was even with his girlfriend last night; she was out with us while he was at the Boar's Head."

Apparently, in running away from us, Chris had even ditched his own woman, and she was getting kind of upset with Russ' unending provocations.

"And I kept saying stuff like, 'What if, one day, you want to go eat at Qdoba, but Chris, he wants to eat somewhere else. What's he gonna do? Is he just going to run? Is he going to run away?'"

Analysis like this is exactly why it was that I had been telling Russ and Bobby the night before how much it sucked that Lizzie was their only sister. I want into this family.

"Every time I see him back home," Russ continued, "you know what I'm going to say, right?"

"What?"

"Why'd you have to four putt?"