The dreaded fat iron. The scourge of scoring. Why is it they always seem to come at the most inopportune of times?
On the heels of mammoth drives or as you lay two on a par 5 with a mere 100 yards between you and regulation. Far worse than simply missing the green or sticking the shot in the green side bunker your club head burrows into the turf ridiculously behind the ball.
Even the unnerving shanked wedge seems to at least have some sort of logic behind its torment. Common shank refrains are “I came across the ball” or “I got too handsy” or some other lame proclamation of ineptitude.
But the fat iron is seemingly inexplicable, leaving you speechless. And worse, once you hit a fat shot, much like the shanks, your round descends into a fit of “fats.” It bores into your consciousness, haunting your round like a screaming stalker jumping out of the bushes.
So be kind when your playing partner hits a fat shot. Commiseration or quietude is the appropriate tact. Or better yet hit a thin shot and compare your agonies.