The following is a Ydnar Vengeance Bedtime Story rated For Golf Course Superintendents only.

Of all the complex problems the GCS faces every day, most can be solved by studying how others have handled that particular problem.  But, once in a career, along comes a problem so difficult, it requires advice from seasoned professionals . . . or the act of a madman.

Once upon a time, 40 years ago, Dad got entangled in the Artie Hoosemun Incident, and to this day, I still have not figured out how he could have properly handled it.  

For several years, our favorite tournament was The Cup, a local two-man team event.  No matter what team configuration we used, no Wilson ever won The Cup; it really got on our nerves, especially since Dad was the GCS and the local harassment factor was strong.

That year, Dad was teamed with his idiot son and went into the last round tied for the lead in The Cup.  Dad was playing great and I contributed the occasional chip-in birdie.  (I chipped in a lot, not because I was good at it, but because I got lots of chipping practice due to my inability to hit greens.)

We were paired against Slick Nandino, a smooth-talking, cigar-chomping gambler and his partner, Artie Hoosemun.  Artie was built like Craig Stadler, but with a worse temper.  When Dad birdied the first two holes--putting us two up--Slick began to talk to himself, while Artie started flinching and jerking, complete with facial tics and sudden outbursts of swearing.  (This was designed to psyche Dad out, as everyone knew Dad had recently taken up church-going.)

On the third hole, Slick and Dad both had easy par putts, Artie had a putt in the gimme range for birdie, and I was 25 feet off the green, on a hill, in the rough.  Slick ignored me while Dad studied the green for disease.  Artie simply stared at me with a wicked grin as I bumped an 8-iron onto the 328/419 surface.

The ball bounced twice, rolled 20 feet across the green and into the cup.  Slick contorted into the standing fetal position, Dad cheered and I showed no reaction, for I had been taught to act like I had been in the end zone before.  Artie grimaced like he had steel wool in his underwear and then yanked his short birdie putt before exploding into a fit worthy of Tommy Bolt or even Uncle Virgil.

He screamed and then buried his Acushnet Blade up to the hosel in Dad's green.  I looked immediately at Dad and moved outside the blast zone.  (A former paratrooper, Dad could trigger cussing concussions, even though church-going had dulled his talent.)  

Slick was clearly stunned, but Artie made no attempt to apologize and busied himself with wrestling the putter out of the green.  Dad was frozen, in shock and unable to react.  Artie was not cussed, banished or even thrown into the lake.

Later that day, Dad confessed he was stumped by the situation.  "Should I have tossed this idiot off the course for intentional damage to a green?  People might have said we won only because I was the Superintendent . . . should I have just killed him and then withdrew from the The Cup?  That could have gotten me fired."

After the incident, we kept playing, but Dad was so unnerved that he began to miss fairways and putts, a true rarity, in my experience.  By the turn, Dad started airmailing greens, so I knew the end of time was near.  This placed me in the impossible position of anchoring the team until Dad could recover.  The pressure triggered my SDH condition, (Screaming Duck Hook) and we exploded to four over.  Artie and Slick giggled the entire back nine while Dad seethed in white-hot silence.  

We never played The Cup again.  I'm still not sure what action Dad should have taken.

Artie got away with it . . .  until 20 years later, when my evil twin Ydnar surfaced on the same day Artie showed up to play a tournament where I was the GCS.  For those readers unfamiliar with Ydnar's history, his motto was "Vengeance is Mine, sayeth Ydnar".  

After making a positive target ID of Artie on the practice green, Ydnar went out on the course and loosened the top plate screws on the metal covers of the Rainbird 51 greenside heads.  Whenever Artie attempted to putt, a momentary voltage surge to the valve--using the VT-2 electro-mechanical controllers--resulted in air screaming through the head like a TOW missile leaving the tube, followed by the plates popping up and clanking shut in a loud and violent manner.

After five holes, Artie began to flinch and twitch and curse the irrigation system, the greens and even Ydnar--who was monitoring the situation from his cart.  When Artie could take no more, he yelled at Ydnar, "What the hell is wrong with those sprinklers?"

Ydnar replied warmly, where everyone on the tee could hear, "Sorry, computer problems."  Then, in a cold whisper only Artie heard, Ydnar hissed, "Listen up, Pillsbury, every cop in the county plays free here, so you dig that putter in our bentgrass--you going to jail."