Not A Turkey, But Will An Eagle Do?

About two weeks ago, twenty men (mostly from my church) ventured down slightly south of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, for one last glorious chance to take mighty swings at a tiny white ball. The group of men attending has grown from year to year, but this was the first time that I joined them on their outing. As an added bonus, my dad (also a golfer) was going to be joining us as well. We were supposed to play four straight days from Monday thru Thursday, but torrential downpours on Tuesday kept this fair-weather golfer safely dry and warm in the condo. My game actually improved during the course of the week; and since we were playing "best ball", that meant that more and more of my shots were being used. The best hole of the week for me had to be on a short par 4, during our last day there. I crushed a monster drive for about 210 yards, leaving a short 150 yards to the pin. We decided to use my ball, and Dan plopped one safely on the green, so I felt it was safe to "go for the gold". My iron shot wasn't the most beautiful to behold (it had a rather low arc, instead of a nice high parabola), but the important thing was where the ball wound up once it stopped rolling:
So close. So very close.

Where was Carl Spackler and his gopher-destroying dynamite when I needed him??