The wind was soft and deceptive as four figures climbed the steps to the 17th tee at the Eden Course. The air held that unmistakeable St Andrews tension — the kind that seems to whisper “out of bounds” directly into a golfer’s subconscious.

Denis Duncan, Barry Cunningham, Ally Greenshields and Scott Gowens stood at the tee markers like soldiers revisiting a battlefield — each man with his own memory of trauma on this precise patch of turf.

The right side of the hole stretched out like a white-fenced warning — out of bounds all the way down. To the left, the two fairway bunkers waited at 214 yards, like silent catchers’ mitts for anyone too cautious or too straight. At 407 yards, it wasn’t long — but it was unkind.

Denis was the first to speak. “This is where it all went wrong for me,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the fairway. “One yard inside the OB in 2021… then three shots straight out of play. I don’t even remember hitting the last one. I think I blacked out.”

His 12 that year had become part of Tour folklore.

Barry Cunningham nodded sympathetically. “I can still feel it too. 2022. Two tee shots that just… drifted further right the longer I stared at them. By the time I signed my card, I’d brought the 12 back into fashion.”

Scott chuckled dryly. “At least you got yours airborne. I topped my first one in 2025. Just… dinked it down the fairway like I was nudging a pet hamster. Then I sent three in a row out of bounds from the short grass. A 12 from the fairway. That’s artistry.”

Ally Greenshields grinned and shook his head. “I ripped three tee shots OB last year. Honestly, I think I’m allergic to the 17th.”

There was a moment of silence as they all stood and stared down the fairway — at the danger, the ghosts, and the memories of championship hopes lost to right-tilting golf swings.

“Well… who’s going first?” Barry finally exhaled.

Nobody volunteered.

Denis approached his ball then backed away. “Feels like the fence is magnetic.”

Scott stepped up. Placed his ball. Addressed it. Froze. Backed off. “Nope. Not ready. Someone else.”

Ally tried. A waggle, a breath, a pause. “Nope. I’m feeling a twitch in the danger muscles.”

The four men stood there, united not only by the game — but by the shared psychological scar tissue of a par-4 that behaved like a par-13.

“Maybe we all go together?” Ally suggested.

There was laughter — not mocking, but relieved.

Maybe the only way to face a demon is with company.

Four balls were teed.
Four swings were readied.
Four men inhaled.

Denis began the count: “One…”
Scott continued: “Two…”
Barry spoke: “Three…”
Ally hesitated, but too late — “Drive!” Denis shouted.

And the swings came.

One ball went left.
One scudded into the bunker.
One rode the wind safely down the middle.
One found the left rough but stayed very much in Scotland.

They froze, staring into the distance.

Barry broke the silence. “Is… anyone… OB?”

Denis scanned. “No.”

Scott pointed. “Nope.”

Ally held his breath — then exhaled: “I’m good.”

A grin broke across Barry’s face. “Well then, gentlemen…”

And together, four men who had each once dissolved on this tee…four men who knew the agony of catastrophic numbers…four men who had felt the spiral of the 12.

Raised fists and declared: “We didn’t make 12!”

They laughed as they walked off the tee — lighter than when they’d arrived.

Some holes are about the score. Some are about the challenge. And some — like Eden’s 17th — become legends not because of how they’re played, but because of how they’re survived.