I’ll have a few stories coming next week on the opening of the Pound Ridge Golf Club, the new daily fee layout in, you guessed it, Pound Ridge that was designed by the legendary Pete Dye.

I was out there last week, and the course, transformed from a former 9-hole facility, is indeed a spectacular place. But it’s still open for debate how many people will pay $235 for a round of golf (or better yet, how many people will remain married if they spent $235 for a round of golf. See, I probably would if not for the fear of my wife coming at me with a 3-wood soon after seeing the bill).

There’s obviously no shortage of money in this area, and the prevailing theory from owner Ken Wang is that many people would prefer to pay the $235 tab 20 times at Pound Ridge instead of forking over six figures to join a private club (Wang explained there’s a rough formula for coming up with a greens fee, and it’s essentially $10 for every million spent on construction. Since Pound Ridge cost in the neighborhood of $50 million to build, Wang said he’s actually charging less than he should).

There is some validity to that. But I also know the daily fee market has been saturated by overbuilding in the ‘90s, so there’s definitely a question of whether there’s enough demand at that price. Maybe because it’s Pete Dye and truly unique, enough people will be on board. I don’t know. I play the course for the first time next Tuesday, so I’ll let you know how it goes.

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And with Pound Ridge’s opening, it’s about time I got around to my Pound Ridge story from when I was 13 or 14. This was back when the course was a modest 9-hole facility, and my older brother had taken  me up there for my first round of golf.

There are a couple of things you need to know about this. Like I said, I had never played golf on a real golf course before so I didn’t own any clubs, and obviously I didn’t have much regard for golf etiquette since I remember I was wearing not a golf shirt but wrinkled shorts and a tie-dyed Allman Brothers Band T-shirt.

So naturally if you work at a golf course and some kid in a tie-dyed T-shirt (the Allman Brothers no less!) without any clubs walks up to the first tee, you have reason to be skeptical. And sure enough, before my brother and I tee off, the starter calls out to my brother, “Has he ever played golf before?”

I looked at my brother. My brother turned to the starter.

“He plays in school,” he said, which technically was true as long as you consider hitting whiffle balls on a football field playing golf in school.

This was enough for the starter to at least not persist with any more questions, but he was obviously watching intently when I pulled a driver from my brother’s bag and stuck a tee in the ground for the first time.

So there’s me, standing over the ball. There’s the starter with his arms folded disdainfully across his chest. And there’s my brother knowing we’re probably one worm-burner away from being told we have to take our business elsewhere (my brother was a tennis pro in the summer in those days and he got roughly one day off a month, so if we did get kicked off, he was probably done for the season).

Of course all of this is going through my head as I was standing over the ball, and yet somehow I take the club back, swipe through it, and send a drive down the center of the fairway maybe 200 yards out.

My brother, not wanting to betray how extraordinary this really is, simply said, “Good ball.” The starter, suddenly satisfied, retreated to his starter’s hut. I picked up the tee, hand the driver back to my brother, and start off down the fairway, all the while smiling like a fool.

Needless to say, I didn’t hit another ball in the air the rest of the day.

But that drive was still the most clutch shot I ever hit.