With Rule 33-7, the USGA and R&A have bifurcated the penalty for scorecard violations. For the mass of competitions, it’s disqualification. For professionals, especially in the most scrutinized competitions, it’s been waived — and maybe that’s ok.

Quick review, because it’s easy to forget in all the wordage and windage and outrage and blather (some of it mine): Was Tiger’s drop improper? Yes. What’s the penalty for that drop? Two strokes. Was he assessed two strokes? Yes, eventually. Did he sign a wrong scorecard, with a score lower than the correct one? Yes.

It’s the penalty for the scorecard–not any question related to the drop–that’s at the core of the argument.
If you are outraged that Tiger was permitted to continue in the Masters, it’s because the act of signing the scorecard is supposed to be the bedrock guarantee of the game’s integrity. This is how it has almost always been treated in the past, thus it is how it should be treated now.

Step back a second from precedent: Does this make sense in contemporary high-level golf? Or is it an archaic practice on this level of golf, unrelated to the true integrity of the game?

Roe and Parnevik in the 2003 Open.

It was absurd for Mark Roe and Jesper Parnevikto be DQ’d in the 2003 Open Championship for their silly error in forgetting to swap scorecards. Why do players in a major championship have to keep their own cards anyway? What’s the point? Is someone at the Masters going to get away with lying about their score?

Fred Ridley, chairman of Augusta National’s Tournament Committee, said in his press conference that the committee had reviewed the drop during Tiger’s round. If the committee had found a violation at that time, it would have informed Tiger prior to his signing the scorecard, and he would have signed for the correct higher score. This is the modern practice at highest-level golf: a player might (and should, and usually does) call penalties on himself, but if he doesn’t, a Rules official will inform him of one rather than standing back and playing Gotcha! after an incorrect card is signed.

Maybe that makes sense. Probably it does. When giant scoreboards track your score hole by hole, why should a mistake on your slip of paper result in disqualification? Correct the mistake, and move on.

It seems that 33-7 (technically it’s Decision 4.5 under Rule 33-7) ushered in bifurcation on this issue through the back door. People are outraged — I am one of them — that 33-7 should be used to circumvent a long-cherished principle of the game on the game’s highest stage — especially since 33-7, when introduced, was explicitly described as serving a diffierent purpose and excluding its use under these exact circumstances.

In general, I’m in favor of bifurcation of the Rules. The pros play a very different game than we do, and I see no problem in letting the rules recognize those differences in some areas.

The trouble is — and it’s why I haven’t yet let go of my outrage — the rules themselves say something different, and the weight of history says something different. Tiger feels fine about playing on because he’s operating on the basis of the practice and precedent he’s experienced on Tour and at the majors — where Rules officials go out of their way to inform players of penalties before they sign their scorecards. Is this recognition the reason for 33-7/4.5? That’s not what the rulesmakers said when they put it into the book. It’s not what the system used to be.

But maybe it’s not wrong. It’s simply bifurcation. And maybe it makes sense.

I put that proposition to a test on the final full Golf Road Warriors day at Casa de Campo, and I’m pleased to report that it’s true, though he had a bit of a limp on the morning after.

The day began with a quick short-game primer from the Jim McLean Golf School instructors at the resort, a welcome if belated exercise for me.  I’d spent some of the first day playing Ping Pong across the putting surfaces of Teeth of the Dog, as the skulled wedge seemed to be my one repeating swing of the day.

My newly-refreshed pitching skills were immediately tested at La Romana Country Club, the private course within Casa de Campo’s borders.  (The resort name may mean “house in the country,” but it often seems more like a country of its own.)   On the East Nine, completed in 2007 to bring the 1990 facility up to 27 holes, most of the greens were pinched up above the fairway approach, with significant falloff to at least one side.  It’s characteristic Dye, of course, and there’s always the option to hit the actual putting surface in regulation — a tactic I considered but one my swing rejected.

View from the second tee/East Nine

The most interesting of the new holes for me was the second, a par-five with a fairway whose right side off the tee slopes down towards a large bunker while the left side is flat.  This orientation is reversed on the second shot, where the flat layup area is to the right and the left portion of the approach banks downward.  I love two-way holes – the fifth at Bethpage Black is a particular favorite – and this angles-on-steroids version was a nice variation on the theme.

Though La Romana CC is private, it is often possible to get access to it through the resort’s concierge or its Director of Golf.  A letter from a home-club professional sent in advance doesn’t hurt, and will reveal if the course is available on the day you’d like.

With clinic, round, and lunch under my belt, there was only a brief interval before my scheduled lesson at the hillside tennis center.  The Sporting Life never rests.

Up at La Terraza Tennis Center, a fifteen-minute cart ride from my room, Emilio Vásquez presides over thirteen Har-Tru courts, ten of which are lighted for play in the more temperate evenings.  Señor Vásquez has been at Casa de Campo for 32 years; once one of the top players in the Caribbean, he represented his country in international play from 1972 to 1988.

I was greeted by one of the Assistant Pros, Miguel Mercedes, who took me out to Court 7.  I’ve played a lot of tennis in my life, though nearly all of it was many years and pounds ago. My father loved the game, so I took lessons as a child and played on my high-school team.  I kept at it with friends through college and into my 20s, though living in New York City makes it a bit tough to find courts and time.  In the last twenty-five years I’d probably played a dozen times, if that.

Miguel stood at the net and hit to my forehand for a while, then my backhand.  Neurons all around my lizard brain activated suddenly, recognizing the once-familiar stimulus of a fuzzy ball heading my way.  I know what to do with this, they said, and they sent out instructions to the arms, legs, and feet.  Unfortunately, those distant actors had long since forgotten their lines, and it took them a while to blow the dust off their scripts and slog into action where snap was required.

Brain of a dormant 25-year-old, meet body of a 56er.  I hope you’ll be very happy together.

With Miguel’s prodding, I taught the neurons to send the messages a little earlier than they had in the past, to allow time for decoding and translation.  I began to move in ways that felt thrillingly familiar, getting my feet into position in time to turn sideways, take a stance as I brought the racket back, and step through the stroke without relying too much on the wrist for spin.  Some solid strokes resulted: firm, flat forehands down the middle or cross-court; backhands laced with the right touch of topspin.  Miguel had me come up to net, where he reminded me to step into the volley, and good things resulted.  Even my spinning serve reappeared, though the hard reverse-twist will have to wait for another day.

I should mention that Miguel and I were not alone.  We were accompanied by a youngster there to spare us the effort of picking up the balls from my side of the net and Miguel’s back fence.   There is a strong and proud ballboy program at La Terraza.  Kids as young as ten years old can begin in it, earning money and learning tennis, working in time blocks staggered so they can also attend regular school.  While I was there, I saw two of the older ballboys playing sets with a pair of women residents.  Some rise to become teaching professionals or take the life skills they’ve acquired into other lines of work; one, Pedro Nolasco, was named to the Dominican Republic’s Davis Cup team in January 2012.

Emilio Vasquez and Pedro Nolasco

When Emilio joined us, he continued the excavation project in search of my game.  There was enough unearthed in the course of the hour that I could imagine playing well again, something he assured me would happen fairly quickly if I could find time to play even once a week.

I left the courts exhilarated and exhausted.  It seems that athlete really is still in me.  And the body that encases him is really grateful for ibuprofen.

In the interest of learning the breadth of those parameters, I spent part of this afternoon engaging in the second most ridiculous activity of my life.  The first, in 2004, was a bungee jump from a bridge in Arrowtown, New Zealand.

Today’s, which involved more laughter but less risk, was a spirited game of Donkey Polo.

Casa de Campo has fine facilities for the well-heeled who would like to play the more traditional game — or as I will forever think of it after today, “horse polo,” a linguistic back-formation akin to “analog watch” or “natural grass.”

I doubt those strong and elegant riders and their spectators spend as much time laughing as we of the asinine set did.

This “game” — there’s a ball and there’s scoring, but it’s really an exercise in mass hysteria, a clusterf*** of the first order — is played atop four-legged equus asini by two-legged homo sapiens who wield brooms used for hitting or sweeping a ball past a chalk line.

I’m not predicting that it will soon pass soccer and lacrosse on the ladder of sporting interest.  Not even ESPN8 is likely to carry it, and you won’t be selecting fantasy teams any time soon.

But if you’re up for a heavy dose of absurdity, with chance of falling off your ass and landing on same, this is the game for you.

"All I can say, dear burro, is 'I'm sorry.'"

I was game, so I ambled out onto the playing ground, and towards a waiting burro whom I’d be weighting heavily soon.  Stirrups?  No.  Helpful kneeling by the animal?  No.  You can swing your leg over a little donkey, can’t you?

I was relieved to discover that I was not expected to start, stop, direct, or prod the donkey in any way; the handler would accompany me, pulling the lead, trying desperately to keep me upright.  

I tried to grip the strap that held the green blanket in place — I was on the green team in this two-on-two battle (more like four-on-four even before you count the donkeys).  Andale, we called as the ball was tossed into the center.  Too many legs converged in a scrum from which a ball emerged, but not before much howling and thrashing, mostly by the spectators.

The bizarre encounter continued until at last we’d had enough, or could barely hang onto the brooms as we convulsed with laughter.  The after-adrenaline carried us to the nearest bar, much as it had when I did that bungee jump in NZ.

You run into them at resorts and daily-fee courses all around the world: the guys who position themselves along the way and offer you the golf balls they’ve found and washed clean.  It’s an enterprising piece of scavenging, though it’s usually discouraged if not downright outlawed at places that have licensed the “reconditioned ball” market to an outside company.

At Casa de Campo, chief marketing officer Peter Bonell said that they know it goes on, and they’re fine with it.  “It’s just a little something extra for the local economy,” he said.

Very little, really, though it is literally found money for the guys who do the washing and bagging.

I bought this bag of Bridgestones and Titleists from a guy for $12.  There are twenty-eight balls in the bag, mostly NXT Tours and e6s, with a few Tour B330s thrown in.  An interesting array of company logos, too. I have to wonder about the one labeled instinctive golf coaching (all in lower-case letters); if that coaching really were so instinctive and effective, I wouldn’t be holding this ball in my hand.

That is one of the worrisome things about buying such balls; they had all acquired bad habits or they wouldn’t have gotten lost in the first place.  I’m hoping they’re sufficiently chastened to stick to the straight and narrow path I have in mind for them.  If not, they’ll get another chance in the next life.  It’s downright Hindu when you think about it.

The other question is whether I should have bargained with the gentleman in the first place, or simply given him the price he asked for.  I didn’t really want to pay more than I paid, and I could have happily walked away without adding any extra balls to my bag.  I don’t know the answer; it’s an ethical calibration of value, exchange, respect, and expectation.

In the meantime, anyone want a couple DT SoLos or NXT Extremes?  The woods are full of ‘em.

I take the club back, and come down steep and fast and ugly.  The ball zooms left at a 45-degree angle to the intended line, past the dogleg’s inner bunker and on into impenetrable jungle.

It is a truly wretched shot.  It is not the only one I will hit on this day.  At least this one has gone into a lateral hazard; I’ve been spared the dreaded “lying two on the tee.”

On 15, a par-three, I hit such an ignominious dribbler that my instinct is to run after it to try to keep it from bouncing into no-man’s land.  When I was growing up, I once hit a tee shot so directly vertical that I had time to dash to the end of the tee box and catch it before it landed.

These moments might ruin a scorecard, but they couldn’t ruin my day.  I had known, when I came to Casa de Campo, that Teeth of the Dog was one of the finest courses in the world.  I had no idea that Dye Fore was as good as it is, good enough to stand alongside its older sibling on an equal basis.

Comparisons are silly, since the two occupy such vastly different terrain.  “Teeth” is essentially flat, enlivened by a creative routing that maximizes the effect of its coastal setting.  Dye Fore is broad-shouldered and brawny, a big-punching heavyweight on high ground with major elevation changes, sweeping views, and greensites on the edges of precipices.

The Chavon Nine. (Photo by Lawrence Lambrecht)

Brian McCallen has done an excellent job elsewhere on this website describing the process by which Pete Dye designed and created this hymn to maximalist golf architecture.  I won’t repeat what he said; I’ll simply note that I have played very few places with anywhere near the Wow Factor of Dye Fore.

I couldn’t help thinking as one great hole led to another, How did I not know about this place?  It is epic in scale, audacious in conception, a knockout in execution.  There isn’t a dull hole on the two nines we played — Marina and Chavon, the latter named for the river that runs below the cliffs on which the holes are perched.  (Maybe one — the final hole of the Marina nine is bland, if only in context of the fireworks before it.)

Is it better than Teeth?  Don’t know how you’d decide.  Are mountains better than waves?  Is chocolate better than passionfruit?  Is dancing better than rock-climbing?

However one might rate them, any destination that has one of these as its second-best golf course is doing pretty well for itself.

I had no idea Dye Fore would be so terrific.  It makes me eager to find out what else might be waiting around the next corner.

I can think of several I would put in its class: the 17th tee at Cypress Point; the 5th fairway at New South Wales; the 7th tee at Pebble Beach; the opening tee at Portstewart; the downhill approach to the 7th at Sugarbush in Vermont when the backdrop mountain is in full autumnal color.

But the 5th at Pete Dye’s virtuoso Dominican layout beats them all.

Fer gawd’s sake, just look:

(photo by Lawrence Lambrecht)

But it’s not merely the aesthetics that give this spot the pride of place for me, awesome as they are.  A note in the abstract may be beautiful or not, but most likely depends on where it falls in the concerto.

The first four holes at Teeth of the Dog gentle you into your round.  As at Pebble Beach you begin inland, aware that the coastline awaits but neither seeing nor hearing it.  At the fourth hole the gaps between the palms on the right provide a flash of glare off the water, a view to a distant point of land.  The routing has brought you out and away from the starting point, and now it has angled you towards the shore.

And then you turn the corner.  And you know why you’ve come.

The waves lap up against the rocks below and ahead of you.  White spray, blue water, green grass: the tranquil chromatic trinity is instantly pleasing.  In the distance beyond this green is another, the 7th, which will present pleasures and challenges of its own.

The shot from the fifth tee is not threatening; it’s 139 from the blue tees, 176 if you insist on going all the way back.  A short-to-mid-iron, depending on your strength or ego.  The land right of the green slopes down to it; the land left of the green is in Venezuela.

This moment is why you boarded a plane.  It’s why you thought about coming here.  It’s what you’ve been waiting for.

And best of all, it’s just beginning.  There will be three par-threes played along the coastline; the other two will present greater difficulty, greater distances to traverse, call for swings with greater margins for error.

The 5th hole is a coquette, a charmer, a cutie.

Perhaps you know that when Dye began pondering the layout here, he went out in a boat and surveyed the length of shore available to him, to see how many holes he could fit along it.  He wound up with seven, and routed the course in two loops, each heading out from the center and then turning back along the water.

And as you stand on the 5th tee, your pulse quickening just a bit, you have the pleasure of the moment and the joy of looking forward to more of it.

Tough to beat.  Nice work, Pete.

Nice work, God.

You, the reader — though I bear in mind that the average readership of the average blog totals one — surely are not looking to live vicariously through our adventures, but hope to read, watch, and consider whether this looks like someplace you’d like to go.

Journalistically, however, there’s a swarm of flies in this particular ooze.  You will be spending your own money.  We, for the most part, are not.  Does the generosity extended us prevent us from giving an objective view?

It’s a fair question.  And it wouldn’t answer the question if I were to point out that the arrangement makes us no different from just about any golf or travel publication or site out there.

You’ll have to make up your own mind on the basis of what you read or hear or see here. In the interest of helping you evaluate my own credibility, I thought I should share with you some of the things I believe (with apologies to Crash Davis’s speech early in “Bull Durham”):

I believe in the white tee markers, the hybrid, chipping areas, the ground game, titanium and graphite, the short par-4 and a hot dog at the turn.  

That a pint of Guinness is all the lunch a man needs between the morning and afternoon rounds in Ireland.

That two-thirds of “Golf In The Kingdom” is incomprehensible claptrap.

I believe Dustin Johnson was in a bunker.

I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing internal out-of-bounds and the Stimpmeter.

I believe the most dastardly thing a course designer can do is make a golfer think.  I believe I can think better than I can swing, except under pressure.

I believe blind shots can add occasional intrigue, and a punch-bowl green promotes happiness.

I believe in the sweet spot, uphill putts, cavity-backs, birdieable 17th holes, pine straw, buying NXT Tours instead of ProV1s, and I believe in quick, fun, warm, friendly walking rounds that last three and a half hours.

Now all I need is to hear Susan Sarandon murmur, “Oh, my.”

Six hours later, I landed in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, in bright sun, moist air, and a club-and-a-half wind.

Ah, the Wars we on the Golf Road fight.

It’s been many years since I’ve come to an airport whose primary design feature is thatch.  The terminal is styled as a series of connected huts, and the walk to the Customs area is like a stroll through a tropical village, albeit one where they decided to crowd the dwellings together like urban brownstones.

The primary occupation in Punta Cana seems to be baggage handler.  There were three per passenger, all vying zealously at the baggage claim to be of gratuitous assistance.  I consider it a victory that I reached the exit without being forcibly strapped to a hand-truck.

A van driver was waiting for me, holding a sign.  As we settled into the van, he reached into his cooler and handed me a bottle of ice-cold water, and a moist towelette for my sweated brow.  “You’ve done this before,” I said.  He apologized for his English, which was far better than my poorly-remembered high school Spanish.  We chatted in pleasant fits and starts on the forty-five minute drive past banana plantations and sugar-cane fields.  The highway was completed in August, and cut an hour-plus off the drive to La Romana.  I was alarmed when the toll taker rang up a $50 charge — 50 Dominican pesos, it turned out to be, about $1.25.

Then on to Casa de Campo, which belongs to that rarefied class of resort locations that provide worlds unto themselves.  Sprawling doesn’t do it justice; at check-in you are given the key to the golf-cart that bears your room number, and sits near your door.  This is to be your primary mode of transportation around the property.  The beach, I hear, is a good 15-20 minutes cart-drive from the rooms; by bicycle it would probably be half that, and the walk time is unknown, because who walks anywhere at a place like this?  The pool is closer, as is the spa and beauty salon.

Upon arriving at reception I was greeted by name and handed a cool, moist towel.

I think I’m going to like it here.

Islands End Golf & Country Club in Greenport, New York, predates the proliferation of wineries on Long Island’s North Fork, having opened in 1962 when potatoes were the main crop in the area.  It is surely a pleasant golf course under benign circumstances, with the era’s typical landing-strip tee boxes and pinched-up greens.

The course heads out from Route 25 in two loops that run towards the water before turning back to the clubhouse.  Superintendent Ray Viera was no doubt puzzled to see intrepid walkers on his course on New Year’s — though no more surprised than those walkers were to find him working on the morning of 2013′s first day.  The flagsticks were in their holes despite the light frost on some greens, and the pull-carts were lined up waiting for someone to take them on their appointed rounds.

He told us to check out the 16th, a 210-yard par-three that runs along the shoreline.  The tee shot presents a stout challenge, even when the day’s clothing permits a shoulder turn, as this day’s did not (see below).

A shoulder of fringe will help bump a ball away from the bunkers on the right; the real hazard, right of the fence, is obvious.  (In January, at least, a friendly four-club gale helps blow all but the most determined slice away from Connecticut and back into play.)

We took heed of the admonition not to feed the fishes (left).  The brisk tailwind made easy work of the inward walk, and soon we were in Greenport proper, warming our hands on a cup o’ joe.  One course visited in 2013.  Who knows how many yet to come?

Consider the following situation that plays out several times each season:

Your team leads by five points with a minute and a half to go in the game.  Your opponent has driven down to your one-yard line, where it’s first and goal.  You have no timeouts.

What is your optimal strategy?

You can try to shut them out of the end zone with a heroic goal-line stand.  It might work, but it’s a four-down situation where the opponent must have a touchdown.  You may stop them once or twice, but even if they just run four quarterback sneaks, they’re almost certain to cross at some point.

When they do, you’ll wish you had the time back on the clock for your offense to try to get a game-winning field goal.

If you have a good or even average offense, your chances of getting a field goal in a minute and a quarter after a kickoff are better than they are of stopping the opponent on the goal line.

So on first down, you basically stand aside and let them score, giving up the lead but preserving time for your offense.  You give up points in the present to improve your chances of winning in the future.

How is this different from tanking games to get a better draft pick?

Or consider this one:  In December 2007, with the Eagles leading 10-6 just before the two-minute warning in the fourth quarter, Brian Westbrook broke free on a first-down run from the Dallas 25.  He was untouched as he approached the end zone, then veered to the side and went down at the one.  The Cowboys had no timeouts.  Donovan McNabb took three kneel-downs and the game was over.

Westbrook wisely recognized that possession of the ball, not increasing the score, was the sure path to a win.  It is unlikely Dallas could have scored a touchdown, recovered an onside kick, and scored another TD – but it’s possible.  He sacrificed short-term gain for a larger goal.

How is this different from sitting your starters in a late-season game to keep them fresh for the playoffs?

These are the type of questions that arise at the end of an NFL season.  Or earlier, if you’ve been following the Suck-for-Luck campaign.

St. Louis and Indianapolis are tied for the worst record in the league at 2-13.  The Colts hold the tiebreaker, on the basis of strength of schedule.  (The team with the easier schedule gets the nod when there’s a tie for draft position; they both stank, but since the Rams stank equally against a tougher set of teams, they didn’t stink quite as badly for top-pick purposes.)

The Rams host the 49ers Sunday, and they would probably have no trouble losing even if they had no special incentive to do so.  San Francisco has considerable incentive to win, since victory clinches the #2 seed in the NFC playoffs and a week off.  (New Orleans can equal the 49ers’ record, but San Francisco has the edge in games against common opponents.  The Saints’ losses to Tampa Bay and St. Louis were crucial in this, and grow more inexplicable by the day.)

Indianapolis has won its last two games and goes to Jacksonville, where Blaine Gabbert is doing his best to undermine official recognition of 2011 as The Year of the Rookie Quarterback.  The Colts have nothing to gain by winning, and a great deal to gain by losing.

Why should they even try to win?

On the other end of the St. Louis/San Francisco matchup, we come to the matter of the Saints.  They have clinched their division, cannot be passed for the #3 seed, but will only move up to #2 if they beat Carolina (see “Year of the Rookie Quarterback,” above) and the Niners lose to the Rams.  Unlikely in the extreme.

Should they rest their starters?

I’m sure they’ve already given it a lot of thought.  It’s one reason it made sense for Drew Brees to go for the passing-yardage record on the final series against Atlanta on Monday night.  There’s now no record-related incentive to have Brees on the field on Sunday.  (I’m no fan of putting records ahead of the play of the game, as Sean Payton and Brees did on Monday, but this additional factor makes it okay in this case.  And, incidentally, before celebrating a yardage record, it would be wise to remember that it’s possible to lose yards, too.  One screen pass tackled for a loss of four, and the record’s Dan Marino’s again.)

There is no ethical problem when a team does what’s in its own best interest, even losing.  The problem is, pro football players have short careers, and the game hurts.  It’s hard to ask them to go out and get beat up.

Still, for a worst-case scenario in all directions, consider the Vikings last week.  Two season-ending losses would put them in the potential 2-14 mix with the Colts and Rams.  Instead of joining the great race to the bottom, Minnesota played to win, and lost Adrian Peterson to a devastating knee injury.  Worse draft position and the loss of their one great player made last Sunday at FedEx Field an almost perfect definition of “Pyrrhic victory.”

The NFL has actually done a terrific job of reducing the possibility of late-season manipulations.  Matching all teams against division opponents can create head-to-head battles for playoff spots, as with the Giants and Dallas on Sunday night.  (The Cowboys had their moment of weirdness last week; when the Giants beat the Jets it eliminated the Eagles, and the Dallas-Philadelphia game meant nothing to the Cowboys’ playoff prospects.)  Scheduling teams whose games affect one another so they’re played simultaneously this week – to the extent possible – is another smart move.

Still, when there is an incentive for losing, as there is with the draft, no one should point fingers at a team that chooses to lose.