As the late Donald Ross once said, “The man who doesn’t feel emotionally stirred when he golfs at Pinehurst beneath those blue skies and smells the pine fragrance in his nostrils is a guy who is fucked in the head.” Actually, those weren’t really the exact words of Donald Ross, but the implication is obvious, you’re in the golf Mecca of the world.

Neck’s Early Years

A middle-aged, short, squat homely man in 1995 re-read these lines so often that, by the beginning of the ’95 WDI tournament in August, he was “raring to go.” Young Mike “Neck” Nuechterlein, born of German immigrants, who left Nazi Germany on a small rowboat across the raging English Channel without a schilling to their name had an upbringing that would bring tears to your eyes.

Growing up in small, rural Frankenmeuth, Michigan (population 178), the middle of several Nuechterlein siblings, he started working at age three, shining the shoes of soldiers at a nearby army base. At age 10, young Mike would steal empty pop bottles from trash cans and sell them to the Mesick Indians for double their value. (It made the Mesick Indians sick.) Persecuted in high school due to his height, he vowed never to be bullied around again. He, therefore, bought platform shoes and grew a moustache (to make him look older). He got into golf accidentally; he was pawning his dad’s golf clubs one day during a lunch break from the local jail (he had already pawned his two brothers’ clubs) when he suddenly blurted out “Ach de lieber,” “let me try this sport.” With that, the “Neck had found his niche.”

The Players

At the ’95 Pinehurst WDI, Neck entered the contest not as a contender but as a pretender sporting a 12 handicap, and was hopeful of winning (however, all through his life he was a loser, never won anything). The other participants who challenged young Mike that autumn day were an awesome, well-known veteran group. Guys like everyone’s favorite all American Jorge Kapalua, the steel-nerved Snoot Doggy Dog, his older and more handsome bother, Bro Neck, his main foe, the always unflappable FloJo and several other “puds.”

The Tournament

The contest started off slowly with Snooter (handicap four) shooting a 78 on Pinehurst number 7 compared to Neck’s 88 (handicap 12) and FloJo’s 89 (handicap 13). Kapalua had incurred a bad round of food poisoning the night before and literally played his guts out shooting a 92. By day two, at Pinehurst number 2, Snooter fired a nifty 78 again to lead by three over Neck, five over FloJo, eight over Kapalua, and 30 over Robo the wonder boy who was currently in last place. Day three was moving day (everyone had to move out of the beautiful villa near the clubhouse due to bad gas that had seeped through somehow from Kapalua’s bedroom). When play finally resumed on Pinehurst number 5, Neck’s 85 had him one stroke ahead of Snooter’s 83 but one shot behind Flojo (85). Depression and anxiety set in.

That night as the Neck prayed in front of the statute of St. Frankenmeuth (he didn’t join the others for dinner) he asked the Saint not only for courage, strength, and a blonde 42-20-38, but also for lots of money- he had been rolled the night before when he passed out after dinner and was left on the putting green by his pals.

Midweek Drama

As the morning of the third day dawned, so did the Neck’s game. The sound of his 185 yard drives reverberated through the pine trees; his precise iron shots and keen putting shone through, and at the end of the day (an oft-used phrase), his 79 stood tall and alone at first place with one round to go: on Sunday a rematch with Pinehurst number 2. Tied for second, nine shots off, were the unflappable FloJo (92) and Snooter (81). The 93 shot by Kapalua and BroNeck dashed their hopes as well as Chas’ 96, Logan’s 90, and Robo’s 103.

The Comeback Kid

The morning of September 3, 1995 opened with hazy skies, warm temps and a large cock crowing outside Neck’s room. “This was an omen,” Neck thought, an omen that would spur him to victory. He had put all his financial resources on the line for Sunday (all 40 pieces of silver), but was he too cocky, too confident, too full of himself, so to speak. He would soon find out. The Neck, up at his usual 4:10 a.m. time, decided to consolidate his thoughts and get ready for the day’s battle.

Pinehurst number 2, the battle ground, is not for lightweights and/or amateurs. It will kick ass and take names. Neck, however, playing way too cautiously with no self-confidence, started to leak from all sides on the front nine. FloJo, smelling blood, attacked at will and came from nine shots back, tying the Neck at the 14th hole. Could he pull this win out? If not, his collapse would be monumental almost as bad as Napoleon’s debacle at Waterloo, Norman’s defeat at the Master’s (several times). He could hear his fellow WDI’ers ridiculing his play and laughing after the match over a few beers, especially Kapalua, “Boy, does the Neck suck, or what?” Finally, in a frantic last-ditch attempt, the Neck dug deep in order to find the Mojo to beat FloJo. Standing on the 15th tee, he took a deep breath and let his mind wander. He thought of his sordid past in Frankenmeuth, of embarrassing high school taunts, of his good wife, Katherine, of Bill Miller, of Adolf Hitler, and of falling into the water at Tarpon Springs on a blind date (uh, his date’s dog was okay) with Chas in 1970. Then, inexplicably, he found his game, laddie. After parring the famous 18th at Pinehurst number two, he had shot 85 to FloJo’s 87 and Snooter’s 80 to win by three. Exhausted, yet exhilarated by his stunning victory, the Neck basked in the warm aftermath and was swept up by a horde of tasty toots who had stormed 18 and carried him away into WDI immortality.

THE END