You Know You’ve Played a Good Golf Game When No One’s Killed

I can talk about it now. Now that I haven’t killed anyone.

That was my great fear as I stepped to the first tee--killing someone on the course. There’s got to be, like, what, a two-stroke penalty for that?

Earlier this week, I played in a charity golf match with three professional golfers at the Kemper Open.

Three pros. And me.

Grant Waite, Billy Andrade and Tommy Armour III, grandson of the legendary Tommy Armour, the “Silver Scot,” who died in 1968--and could still beat me. Among them, they have more than $9.5 million in career winnings.

I have a 22 handicap. I am not Tiger Woods. I am in the woods.

Oh, did I mention the gallery?

Yes, 200 people lining the fairways to watch us play. The only way they could guarantee their safety around me would be to stand in the middle of the fairway.

There I was on the first tee, my legs literally shaking. There was a pool of water at the base of my spine that could fill the Grand Coulee Dam. The sole reason I wore long pants was so nobody could see the drip down my leg. I chose a pewter shirt, to coordinate with my ashen complexion.

“Is there anything you need?” a tournament official asked me.

“I need a catheter,” I said.

*

It’s not like I hadn’t been warned against doing this. My friend Mike Lupica, big shot New York sports columnist, called and said, “I did this last year, and I was shivering in my shoes. And I’m a good golfer. I’ve played with you, Tony. You’re rancid. You’ll make a fool of yourself. Get out of it now. Tell them you’re having a liver transplant.”

Yet, there I was on the first tee for all the world to see, shaking like Tina Turner--only less appealing.

My friend Monty was caddying for me. He told me to take a deep breath and “think positive swing thoughts.”

“OK. I think I can. I think I can . . . avoid killing anyone. With luck, I’ll just maim them.”

So, the pros have already hit towering drives. It’s my turn. I call out to the crowd: “I’m a 22, boys and girls. Get ready to scatter.”

They laughed. Nervously.

“Slow backswing, and keep your head down. You’ll do fine,” Monty told me.

Instead, I froze, and did everything wrong. I swung way too fast. I jerked my head up like someone had just hollered, “Look, there goes Anna Kournikova!”

The ball squirted dead left into grass that hadn’t been mowed since disco was king.

“Mulligan!” I shouted, and the people echoed, “Mulligan!”

The second ball I hit solidly, though way off line, somewhere to the right of Tom Delay. I don’t want to say the rough I landed in was deep, but I found Amelia Earhart in there.

*

I didn’t hit a single shot onto the fairway in the first three holes. I crisscrossed the terrain so many times I felt like Lewis and Clark.

I was so embarrassed I went into the crowd to get my son, Michael, to hit a shot for me. But apparently, I’d embarrassed him, too. As I approached, he said, “Get away from me. Who are you? Somebody call the cops!”

Finally, on the fourth hole, I hit a drive straight.

“What happened?” Billy Andrade asked me.

“I think the drugs kicked in,” I said.

I got to the green in four shots. Andrade was there in two, looking over a 12-foot putt. “Can you give me a good read?” he asked.

“ ‘Tuesdays With Morrie,’ ” I said.

*

The fifth hole was my shining moment. I hit a good drive, with a 9-iron shot left to the green. Amazingly, I hit a shot as pure as heaven. It landed 4 feet from the flag, and stuck there like a dart. I walked to the green on a cloud. The gallery cheered.

I begged the pros for a “gimme.”

Whoever won each hole got $1,000 for his favorite nonprofit.

“I’ll split the money with you if this is a ‘gimme,’ ” I said.

They made me putt.

I tried to force good-swing thoughts into my head, but all I could think of was the Pamela Anderson-Tommy Lee tape. Which caused me to perspire even more.

I stood over the ball longer than “Battleship Earth” was in the theaters. Finally, I swung my putter. The ball went left but caught the hole in time. I’d made a birdie. I won the hole from three pros in front of 200 people.

I was the happiest journalist in the world. Well, maybe just behind that guy who married Sharon Stone.

Someone in the gallery called out, “What’s the secret of your success?”

“I wear women’s clothing,” I said.