Tales of anxiety, ales and an ace at the RBC PGA Scramble National Final
Tyler King November 5, 2024
This is going to be a difficult article to write.
For starters, I’m not a professional writer. I’m also penning it the day after the RBC Scramble National Final at Cabot Cape Breton, where over the course of four nights I spent more hours in the bar — Whit’s Public House — than I did in my villa’s bed. But even if I didn’t have this crippling hangover, I’m not sure I’d find the right words anyway. How could I possibly do Cabot’s two courses, the tournament, the friendships made, the laughs bellowed, the Michelob Ultras drank — all the memories — justice?
I’ve heard that writers hate clichés, and editors even more so, so if I said this experience left me speechless the man overseeing SCOREGolf content would surely roll his eyes and regret giving me this assignment. But I’m just a 35-year-old hack who had the opportunity to play in the country’s greatest amateur golf event, held at two of its most iconic courses. So, if I’m left speechless or feel the need to express myself with an expletive, well then, sorry to all and here goes.
I should probably start with our local qualifier at Sleepy Hollow Golf and Country Club in Stouffville, Ont., our team’s home course and where the road to Cabot began for myself and my good friends Andrew McIntyre, Chris Mero and Jason Sikrtanc — a.k.a. Jay Sik, a.k.a. JAce (more on that second nickname later).
Looking back, it’s hard to fathom the countless breaks and bounces that went our way there. For example, we were 14 under (gross) going into the par-3 17th hole and feeling a little too good about ourselves. That’s when Jay Sik chipped in for birdie for what we thought was simply good measure. It turned out our 16 under (20.1 net) gross score was good enough only for a tie-breaker, which we won on a countback thanks to Sikrtanc’s awesome chip-in and the back nine of our collective lives.
Then, at our Regional Qualifier at TPC Toronto’s Heathlands course less than a month later, where we were joined by Sleepy’s head pro Matt Hillhouse (teams become fivesomes at the regional stage), we came to our final hole, another par 3, at 11 under (gross). This time, we weren’t feeling so good about our score. As the skin peeled off our faces from the 50 km/h winds, and as we cursed our poor judgment for what was, in hindsight, an incredibly dumb decision to take a limo bus full of beers to the course at 8 a.m., we all approached our final 40-foot circus putt thinking we had squandered our shot at glory away. So, we barely celebrated when Money Man Mero stepped up and drilled it, giving us a net score of -16.9 to at least restore a small sense of pride.
When we entered the clubhouse for dinner, we allowed ourselves a slight glimmer of hope when it became clear the Cabot-esque winds had left all competitors looking like they had just been through the seven rings of golfing hell. But even that momentary optimism was quickly extinguished at the buffet table, when we heard another group bragging about their net 17-under total.
I felt legitimately sick as we ate our dinner in silence and certain defeat. I could barely listen when I heard over the loudspeakers: “Time to announce the winning teams. In third place, with a net score of -16…”
Alright boys, silver ain’t bad, I guess.
“In second place, with a net score of -16.7… ”
Dear God. The names weren’t ours and suddenly I couldn’t care less about the potato salad running down my leg after my fork, knife and jaw hit the floor.
And that’s when everything went black. We were sure we finished at -16.9, which would make us the winner. BUT WHAT IF WE CALCULATED THE HANDICAPS WRONG? WHAT IF WE FORGOT TO PUT OUR SCORECARD IN? WHAT IF? WHAT IF? WHAT IF?
“And the team going to Cape Breton for the National Final …”
I briefly came to as I felt third-degree burns and realized I was kneeling way too close to a fireplace I hadn’t noticed. (I was deep in prayer, and I’m not religious.) Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sikrtanc and Hillhouse standing on their chairs, faces blank, while Mero and McIntyre simply had their heads in their hands. I’m still not sure which one of them was muttering, “No … no way … no ****ing way.”
Then: “… the winners by just .2, with a net score of -16.9, the team from Sleepy Hollow!”
It turns out the 17-under group had rounded up, and it’s because of their error that we need to apologize to all the other teams and the incredible kitchen staff at TPC Toronto. Although I can’t remember precisely what happened next, I’m fairly certain I chugged some random guy’s rum and coke before throwing the empty glass into the sun. We may have even flipped a couple of tables as we ran around the banquet room, screaming like we had won the Super Bowl. Which, with the benefit of hindsight, we all now realize we did.
Only instead of Disney World, we were off to some place better. We were off to Cabot.
Photo courtesy of Fourth Frame Films
The month leading up to the Final was probably the slowest, most painful of my life. Absolutely no work got done, unless you count the 40-plus hours a week watching hole-by-hole flyovers on Cabot’s website. Things got real once we received an email with our plane tickets from Wayne MacPhee, the operations manager for the PGA of Canada. Two more excruciating weeks of waiting, a couple of 7 a.m. airport pints of Guinness, and we began what would become the trip of a lifetime.
A tip for all of you lucky enough to make it next year: stash your travel bag with some “liquids” for the bus ride from the Halifax airport to Cabot Cape Breton. The libations we brought made the three-hour journey seem like three minutes, and the teams with something to offer their less-prepared counterparts quickly went into many-a-good books. As we would find out, karma is everything in this game.
When the bus pulled into the Cabot grounds around 5 p.m., we saw the PGA of Canada team and tournament sponsors there to greet us. After we made it through the handshake line and the mandatory “stare in awe at the 18th green” moment, we turned to grab our bags only to find they were already loaded on a cart and off to our rooms. Another tip for all you future finalists: if you can, spare no expense. You’re basically going to Cabot for free, so upgrade to that villa, get yourselves caddies and tip them handsomely. I don’t want to spoil everything, but also be sure to leave plenty of room in your bags because you’ll go home with some serious swag, and that’s not counting the stuff you buy in the pro shops.
The bus beers did their work and by the time Saturday’s Night Golf Shootout arrived, in which I was representing our team, I was feeling good and not at all nervous. But when our shuttle pulled into The Nest, and the floodlights of the par-3 course illuminating the 150-odd people lining the green that I’d be hitting towards, that’s when the enormity of this whole thing — and worry for the safety of my competitors — set in. Not even the endless Michelob Ultras could calm my brain from the thought of skulling an 80-yard wedge off the planet.
Well, somehow, someway, I stuck that thing to four feet and won the first round, and although my teammates had nominated me to take the shot, I know they also secretly expected I’d shank one right into an unsuspecting someone’s shin.
Unfortunately, not even the good karma from sharing beers with strangers could save me on the second shot. I don’t know who I wronged in a past life, but I hit a perfect, high wedge that landed two feet from the hole, bounced and HIT THE FLAGSTICK … only to ricochet off the green. Such is life, and such is golf.
After a few hours at the pub and only a few hours of sleep, it was time to ring the bell for Round 1. And let me tell you, if I thought the night golf was nerve-racking, try a first-tee driver at Cabot Links after TSN’s Bob Weeks announces your name. The white-capped and indescribably daunting, yet stunningly beautiful, Atlantic Ocean blocks your periphery and your walk-up song — in our case, “Levels” by the late great Avicii — rings in your ears. Fortunately, my necky-cut got in the air and found the fairway, and I count that as a win.
Photos courtesy of Fourth Frame Films
It took us about eight holes to finally put our cameras away and start playing some golf. It goes without saying that everything is just so picturesque, and if you haven’t been to Cabot, I’ll leave the actual beauty of the courses to online searches and your imagination. After all, you have to earn (or at least pay) your way there. Even scrolling through the 600 photos on my phone doesn’t quite capture the immensity of the place. The wide fairways lure you into a false sense of security right up to the moment you dunk one straight into the Northumberland Strait, which you will do at some point. Indeed, the ocean lurks constantly at Cabot, ready to slap you in the face when you hit “the big miss.” But then sea-salt air wafts through the pub windows and into your pint after the round as if the Atlantic is saying, “Hey man, nothing personal.”
It took absolutely everything in us to shoot 10-under gross (15-under net) that first day, putting us smack dab in the middle of the 20-team pack. That was particularly frustrating since there had barely been a breath of wind, and we all knew at some point Cabot was going to bare its Great-White teeth.
Our tough day was made more palatable when McIntyre shocked us that night first by showing up for the adidas Putting Contest — which for a minute seemed dicey — and then by winning the thing. He beat 19 other competitors, eventually capping it off in the head-to-head round with an eight-foot conversion in front of the entire tournament field. Along with the crowd jeering every miss, I think his greatest foe was Mr. Michelob. Or maybe that was his secret sauce.
The second-day hangover was expectedly worse, but boy-oh-boy, the golf was unexpectedly better. When my team had to basically carry me out of bed and into the shuttle that would take us to Cabot Cliffs, I admittedly had little expectation for our play. But when Horst, one of our caddies, showed up to the range and said, “I’ve got a funny feeling about today,” I think I believed him.
We just didn’t know how right he was.
Photo courtesy of Fourth Frame Films
Perfect days on the course don’t come around often. For some, maybe never. And you might think I’m taking this impromptu writing gig too far with all the hyperbole, but I can honestly say I can now die knowing I experienced one. There was truly something in the Cabot Ales that day, for we took Horst at his word and the course for all it was worth.
The highlight of our day, week and probably life came at the par-3 12th hole, surely one of the toughest one-shotters in Canada. It measures 194 yards, downhill, and though it’s not in play, that god-forsaken ocean is there chuckling in the distance. Sikrtanc was our leadoff hitter for the tournament. What he lacks in length he makes up for in heart, though I should probably eat those playful words since he gave us the moment of the trip.
When I’m 80 and decrepit and don’t know my own reflection from a toaster, I will remember his shot there. I’ve probably played north of 500 rounds with Sikrtanc and McIntyre, but Jay’s iron on 12 will remain the most flushed strike I’ve ever seen or heard one of us hit. When his ball spun on the right side of the green, we watched for a good eight seconds as it slowly tracked towards the hole. Five guys and their caddies began chanting, “Go … Go … GO!” Poof. Ball gone. A split second of dead silence, where the only sound in all of existence was the unmistakable ting of the metal-plated Cabot cup. Then, of course, pure and utter madness.
If they couldn’t hear our roars across the Atlantic, they darned sure heard them across the Cabot grounds. There is even a small section of my brain now dedicated solely to encoding the visual of Kody McWilliams, one of the event’s videographers and, as it happens, another of our Sleepy Hollow pals, appearing in the distance in full sprint and stumbling through the seemingly endless high, grassy knolls. Always the professional, he allowed himself one brief moment to laugh and cheer when he realized it was our group. Then his training kicked in and it was “roll camera.”
We have yet to come down from that high, so it’s not surprising that we all hit our worst tee shots of the tournament on the next hole. But like I said, this was a perfect day, and Mero proceeded to hit his best shot of the week — out of the fescue — which led to another birdie. We finished that round the only way we could: 18-under gross. The perfect day, the perfect game on the No. 1 ranked course in Canada.
The score got us right back in contention in the three-round tournament, but I think we and the golfing gods — plus everyone at the bar that night — knew we’d had our moment.
The third round delivered the gale-force Cabot winds we had heard so much about, and it became more about survival than a Sunday (Tuesday) charge. So, a huge congratulations to those units from Larters Golf and Country Club in Winnipeg who held onto the lead to win by four. And thanks for letting us drink out of the cup (even though the beers were free)!
To close the way I started, with yet another cliché, it’s true that all good things must come to an end, and I think part of reason I’ve rambled well over my allotted word count is because I simply don’t want it to accept that it’s over. I never want to stop talking about it. And I never want people to stop listening (or reading). But if there’s a story I think all you hopeful and future RBC PGA Scramble Final competitors should hear and remember, it’s this one.
On the final hole of our second round, at Cabot Cliffs, we had to make an eight-footer for birdie to shoot that perfect 18-under score. Sikrtanc putted first, and because of his hole-in-one we all forgave him when he didn’t even sniff the cup. The other boys had less of an excuse, but when they all missed too, it became clear this was one of those tricky putts that broke in different directions if you missed your line by a millimetre. Forget the wedge competition and the first tee; this putt was by far the most nervous I was all week.
Remember when I said we spared no expense during this trip? That meant all five of us had our own caddie for every round. They spent a lot of time deliberating amongst themselves over this putt, trying to figure out what in the hell it was doing. Finally, the youngest and quietest of the five, Scotty, did something that really fired me up. After hearing “right edge” from one of his seniors, he stepped in and spoke with a tone and seriousness that in all honesty kind of scared me: “I hate to do this,” he said, “but I have to overrule you. It’s inside left.”
As I stood over the ball, I could tell our loopers — Scotty, Horst, Nora, Glen and Gerry — were watching intently. Even though they were whispering, I easily picked out Glen’s voice right before I took the putter back. A former member of the Canadian Armed Forces who did tours in Afghanistan, Glen is the nicest, burliest man I’ve ever met. He also couldn’t whisper if he tried. So I cracked a small smile when I heard him say, “They have to ****ing make this. I want this so ****ing bad.”
After the ball fell, for me, there was no better feeling than the bearhug I received from a guy I barely knew and who — I wrongly thought — had no stake in our game. That moment, on that week, was as good as it gets. And by God was it ever good — for me, our team and all the 100 competitors who made it to Cabot Cape Breton.
