I can tell you the exact day that I went from being a bad golfer who somehow found a way to make more putts than he deserved, to being an average golfer who missed putts that a skilled 8-year-old would drain at the local mini-golf-o-rama.

July 13, 1996.

“Lucky,” my friends used to call me. I always disagreed, and laid out my case: Somehow an odd mix of genetics, soft hands, and a left eye that is slightly crossed had turned me into a putting savant.

Then, on July 13, 1996, my days of curling in 25-footers to save triple-bogey ended.

My eye still crosses (I prefer the term ‘turns in’). My hands are still soft. But in a plot so simple and dastardly I still kick myself for not thinking of it first, a friend of mine turned me into a horrible putter with one (I thought) perfectly normal act.

He got married.

My good friend, whose family calls him Dick and whose wife calls him Tony (that’s another story for another day) decided to reward us ushers with gifts we’d cherish.

He gave us engraved putters, perfect mementos of a special day. We all shook hands, hugged, and put them into our golf bags. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure Tony-Dick chuckled when we did that.

Now, Tony-Dick’s a pretty smart guy. And as far as I know, he’d never, ever, in his golfing life come close to beating any of his ushers. I figure he decided to fix all that.

Believe me. He did.

For the last five years, I’ve stabbed and jabbed at simple four-foot downhillers for par and watched them turn into six-foot uphillers for bogey. Then I’d look at my beautiful putter, a gift from one of my best friends … remember his special day … and read the engraving that told me exactly how long it had been since I’d hit a good putt.

This spring, I decided the old Tony-Dick Special had earned a one-way ticket from my bag to a position of honor on my mantel (if I ever get one).

So I called another friend who used to be a golf pro and asked for help.

I told him that when I putt, the ball often hops in the air like it’s been injured, (or at the very least, seriously offended). I told him that it sometimes spins sideways and curves up the slope. I told him that I hit short putts long and long putts short.

“Well,” Ex-Pro said, pondering. “In the trade we call that ‘pilot error.'”

The solution, he figured, was practice. I quickly talked him out of such a drastic measure.

“I don’t want to practice,” I told him. “I want … something new.”

Ex-Pro used to sell putters to people like me … and happily pocket the commission. He figured my plan had merit.

But I still needed help. There are so many putters out there. … what do I do?

“Well,” he said. “You’ve just got to try them out. One of them will be right for you.”

He also said something cryptic about putters being like women (that, too is another story for another day) but I ignored that part.

Eventually, I settled on a nifty model that seemed to do everything my other putter didn’t. Like make the ball roll instead of hop … more or less straight.

Of course, I spent three times as much for it as I got when I sold my first car (if you count the fact that the junkyard I sold that clunker to towed it for free, that is). But man, did it look great … I mean work.

On Wednesday, I took it out for a test drive. First hole. 20-footer. For birdie (believe it or not). Crossed my eye. Putted. The ball rolled … tracked … fell in the hole.

And after I stopped my Tigeresque fist-pumping and touchdown dancing, I knew what I had to do next.

I’ve got to give Tony-Dick a call. I want to play … for money.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net