Few of us recognize fate when it rises to meet us, when history opens its books and offers an opportunity to add our names. So it was for me on a recent Thursday, when I hit a clunky drive to the left side of the fairway, a solid-but-over-drawn nine-iron short of the green, and a blind-luck lag putt to tap-in range. Said tap-in made it four strokes. Par, in other words. Yet another way to put it: Good, but unremarkable.