Experience Golf Like Never Before with Golf Gifts & Supply

Arthur Pendelton stood on the first tee of Oakridge Country Club wearing a polo shirt so aggressively white it practically hummed, clutching a driver he was currently convinced weighed roughly the same as a Buick.

To Arthur, the annual Men’s Championship was the final exam of a year-long curriculum—a grueling cumulative test of every bucket of range balls hit in the rain, every instructional video watched at midnight, and every quietly muttered obscenity following a topped seven-iron.

Then came the first tee jitters. As the starter bellowed his name, Arthur's knees transformed instantly into warm gelatin while half the club membership watched from the patio. He swung with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, hooking a low line drive that clipped a pine tree, bounced off a port-a-potty, and miraculously landed in the fairway.

"In play! That’s golf!" bellowed his playing partner, Bob "Bogey" Higgins, kicking off the day's camaraderie and competition.

By the third hole, Arthur was deep into the Calcutta calculations. Thanks to a dismal practice round, he had bought himself for forty dollars, meaning a lower-tier victory might actually pay for his next year's dues.

And make no mistake: Arthur’s eye was not on the overall trophy, currently destined for a collegiate scratch-golfer named Chad. No, Arthur was seeking to win the second flight—the sweet spot of amateur golf, immortalized by a small, slightly crooked brass plaque near the locker room showers.

As the weekend pressed on, Arthur's secret weapon was his strict adherence to the rules. When Bob asked to nudge his ball out of a dirt divot, Arthur adjusted his spectacles with tragic integrity: "Decision 14.1/1, Bob. We must respect the game." Bob groaned, hacked out a massive wedge of sod, and later tipped his cap: "You're an honest pain in the neck, Arthur."

Amidst numerous side bets shouted across the course, Sunday afternoon arrived. Arthur stood over a four-foot putt on the 18th green. It wasn't for the overall title, but it was for the second flight crown—the graduation ceremony of his year-long practice.

He stroked the putter smoothly. The ball tracked dead center and dropped with a satisfying clack.

"That'll do, Mr. Second Flight Champion!" Sal shouted from the patio.

Arthur picked his ball out of the hole, tipped his white cap, and smiled. His back was destroyed, his neck was sunburned, and he had never felt more accomplished.