The banquet hall was abuzz. The scramble foursomes ambled to their tables. I didn’t know what these sunburnt hackers were yammering about, but I could guess. Who was PJ Vaughn? Was he seven-feet tall? Eight? Were they regulation clubs? Was he a tour pro in disguise?
But before the rumors of messianic backswings spread like wildfire across Westover Golf Club, the Annual Mickey Romano Memorial Golf Scramble kicked off like any other: cheap beer, burnt hot dogs, dried-out tee boxes, and a loose adherence to etiquette. That day, my team included Tall J, Rudy, and a scramble tag-a-long we hadn’t met yet, Ted.
From the first hole on, we knew that club records—and even basic dignity—were out of reach. Every aspect of my game floundered. My fades hooked. My draws sliced. My putting was better suited for boardwalk mini-golf. And still, Tall J and Rudy made me look like a pro. They couldn’t make contact without sending the ball off in some errant direction. Ted had a few nice swings, but couldn’t save our team alone.
When none of us hit the green at the “closest-to-the-pin” hole, we were ready to raise the white flag. But we (and by we, I mean the taller, stronger teammates) had one final chance at redemption—“the long-drive” hole. At 5’11’’ and without a Rory McIlroy workout regimen, I was just happy to reach the fairway. But Tall J—at 6’6” the moniker was not ironic—had been a college swimmer and possessed more innate athleticism than the rest of us combined.
From the dusty tee box, we saw no marker to signify the current leader but assumed it was out there. I went first since I had no chance of winning. I swung so hard my face turned pink—exerting every last fiber of flabby muscle—and still dinked it off the bottom of my driver. My ball raced across the fairway, dribbling to no more than 230 yards. Ted was next and plastered the ball, maybe to 300. Rudy went third—“Four!” Right into the trees.
The competitor in J relished going last. He pulled out his driver from the bag the way I imagined a medieval knight unsheathed a sword. He lined up his feet against the teed ball and let it rip, his arms in perfect harmony with his hips. POP! Like a missile launching from a carrier, the ball soared off the tee box. I had never seen a ball hit with such violence outside Augusta Sundays on television.
J rushed us into our carts like a kid begging for ice cream. We raced to see how far it flew. Wind in our hair, beautiful summer afternoon, we ignored the rest of our drives—balls hit by mere mortals. We just wanted to see J’s. Once his ball came into view, we couldn’t contain our excitement. Dead center of the fairway, perched atop a perfect thin cut of grass. We managed some quick math and calculated—what?! 355 YARDS!!!!
After the initial rush died down, Rudy wondered aloud what none of us had yet considered: “Where’s the marker?”
He was right. There should’ve been a sign or post or something to mark the farthest ball. We gazed back at the tee box and scanned the fairway side to side. Nothing. Where could it be? I scratched my head. Ted turned and looked toward the hole. Then we heard a yelp.
“HOLY S—!” he screamed.
We whipped our heads around in a flash.
“That can’t be real,” he said in pure disbelief.
“What the h—!” Tall J barked.
A signpost emerged from the midday haze, but it was 75 yards farther.
Rudy crunched the numbers, “That must be … uh … about … uh … 420 yards? Huh!”
We went to examine. There it was, plain as day. Intentionally placed just off the green. Maybe it was an accident? Maybe the organizers forgot to leave it at the tee? Maybe no one had a drive worth recording yet—we were one of the first groups, after all. These were the only logical conclusions. But there, on top of the list read an almost illegible scribbled name, “PJ Vaughn.” Four hundred and twenty f— yards.
We were stunned. The air deflated from J like a sail in the doldrums. “Is it a lie?” he asked. No one else said, but we at least thought it.
“Who makes up such a crazy shot?” I responded.
“That’s pretty s— at a memorial,” Rudy added.
Just then, another foursome drove by and screeched to a halt. “What the f—!” one of the golfers yelled. “Is that the drive? Who hit it?” They could tell we lost all concentration.
“Uh—PJ Vaughn,” J said.
“Hmm, don’ know ’im.” Then they sped away.
So we moved on without glory and without the longest drive. With nothing left to play for, the beer began to flow, and our golf games went to hell—not that it could’ve gotten much worse. But on the back nine, something odd began to happen: word started to spread about that miraculous drive.
On twelve, there was a backup. A man in front asked: “Did y’all see that bomb? Who in the Jesus hit that?”
“Crazy!” I said.
“Can’ be real. Guy mus’ be part giant.”
We kept our eyes peeled for Goliath-sized golfers. Never saw any. Only middle-aged men with beer bellies.
On fourteen, a golfer said that he knew a guy, who dated a girl, who was cousins with PJ. Said he was a fitness guru, or something, had a massive Instagram following.
On fifteen, I grabbed a hot dog. Even the cart girl asked if I knew the golfer everyone was talking about.
On seventeen, a group said they heard PJ was an ex-SEAL-turned-scratch golfer. Had won medals in the Middle East for valor . . . allegedly.
Once we finished, I turned in our embarrassing scorecard. The organizers threw it right in the garbage, as it wasn’t worth keeping. I told the story about the drive, and the man at the scorers’ table said he recognized the name from one of the feeder pro tours. He prided himself on knowing all the up-and-comers.
We had no idea what to believe. By the time we entered the banquet hall, PJ Vaughn was all anyone was talking about. An image of Andre the Giant, crossed with Tiger Woods, in military regalia, lifting weights on TikTok, dug into our brains like a tick. But there were no obvious semi-pro golfers or war heroes in sight.
The banquet kicked off with the usual menagerie of speeches and thanks. We drank. We ate. We drank some more.
But once they started announcing contest winners, a conspicuous silence fell across the room. And as we got closer to the long-drive contest, the crowd began to rumble.
“And the award … for the longest drive … goes to … PJ VAUGHN!”
Everyone stood up with deafening applause. I couldn’t see over the crowd, but no giant crossed my eyeline. But the emcee was making eye contact with someone. The clapping started to dampen, replaced by light slaps and confusion. Someone started walking up the steps. But to the crowd’s surprise, a man shorter and rounder than me headed to centerstage. His beer gut rested just over his belt. He was not the third cousin of Paul Bunyan. Certainly no SEAL. He may not have even been a golfer, to tell you the truth. The room fell silent.
J leaned over, “He’s a liar, right?”
“Dunno man—why? He knew we’d find out, right?”
Hundreds of eyes lingered on this apparent fraud. He accepted his award but had the comfort level of someone about to have dinner with future in-laws for the first time. He leaned over and began whispering to the emcee.
“Think he’s confessing?” J mused.
Light heckling ensued. I heard an audible “Hack!” and “You lie!” come from the far corner like a late aughts SOTU—not to mention other, less kid-friendly language.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Who can say?” whispered Rudy.
BOP. BOP. The emcee tapped the mic to grab our attention. “Mr. Vaughn here wanted to explain, since it was a rather … well … unbelievable drive. I also thought it might be fake. Ha—I for sure did. But it’s kinda funny. Turns out, Mr. Vaughn hit his drive … uh … and the ball deflected off a clay yardage marker, and then hit the next marker, launching the ball an extra 150 yards—some amazin’ luck, ha!”
The room remained still for what felt like minutes, letting PJ’s tall tale marinate. Once the quiet became too much to handle, someone started clapping. Another joined. Someone else started in. Another cheered. And before we knew it, the room exploded. Men in different groups toasted their beers. Older golfers sang Irish folk songs. This improbable epic united the entire banquet. Even if it wasn’t true, watching this dowdy, 15+ handicapper, non-vet, non-pro, on stage chugging a beer, fist-pumping in triumph, was scramble golf at its best.
***
Matt Lanark is a writer and recovering attorney in the DC area. He writes about sports, culture, and parenting.
