My problem is, when I'm on the golf course, a bad bounce is never followed by a good bounce. Anything that can go wrong does go wrong. Anything that can go right does go wrong. And anything that should be neutral turns terrible.

This has little to do with lack of skill. I have plenty of skill. Loads of skill! But bad luck ruins everything. My regular partners seem to disagree with me, but deep down they know I'm right.

You see, there is no fairness! The ball never stays 1 inch out of the water; it always goes 1 inch in. If I want the ball to stop, it bounces and skips into a deep bunker. But if I want it to keep going, it slams on the brakes like a panicked driver trying to avoid a rear-ender.

In fact, the only time anything good happens to me on a golf course is when I overcome this Incredibly Powerful Jim Melvin Bad Luck with the sheer skill of my shot-making.

And even then . . .

* * *

The I.P.J.M.B.L. began when I first took up the game, about 15 years ago. I was playing just my third round of golf, and I was teamed up with three veteran players on a difficult course in Dallas.

The first hole was a par 4, and I shot a 9. The second hole was a par 5, and I shot a 10. The third hole was a 160-yard par 3 with a narrow creek running diagonally across the fairway about 60 yards from the tee box. All three of my partners hit their shots onto the green. I worm-burned mine way off to the right, where it stopped just short of the creek.

It was 95 degrees, and there was no breeze. The course was jam-packed. Two foursomes already had stacked up on the tee box behind me, and all eight players glared at Mr. Stupido's back as I stood over the ball. For a beginner, this is enormous pressure, but I somehow managed to chip the ball over the creek and within about 10 feet of the green.

To say I was feeling rushed would be a huge understatement. To make matters worse, our group was walking the course and carrying its bags, and I was a good 100 feet from the little bridge that traversed the creek. I could sense the impatience of those behind me. It felt as thick as the roasting air. I turned back toward the creek. It was barely 3 feet wide, just a small channel, really, between two lakes. But it was deep. Five feet or more. Still, just one little hop and I'd be on my way.

I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder and walked to the edge of the creek. I bounced up and down a couple of times, trying to get my bearings.

Behind me, a sense of anticipation began to build, as the word spread. Mr. Stupido's going to jump. Now, THIS is worth watching!

I dropped all my weight onto my right leg and prepared to spring forward. Just then, the bank beneath my foot collapsed like a mini-avalanche. I tumbled into the deep water and became submerged from the brim of my cap down. But my legs never quit moving. With two more mighty strides I was out and walking toward the green, acting as if nothing had happened, choosing to ignore that everything except my cap and the top 2 inches of my head were soaking wet.

The explosion of sound behind me rivaled a Warrick Dunn touchdown at Raymond James Stadium. It was so loud, I was compelled to turn back. The eight golfers on the tee box were leaping around and slapping hands and wiping tears from their eyes. One had thrown himself onto his back, and his legs were scissor-kicking the air like a wounded cockroach.

Imagine the suffering I would have saved myself had I given up the game then and there.

* * *

But I didn't. And since the great wipeout, my luck on the golf course has never improved. It has become more fragmented, perhaps. Less grand, for sure. But it has remained consistently bad.

Just the other day, I was at Lansbrook Golf Club in Palm Harbor, playing a tight par 5 on the back nine. I hit a pretty good drive down the right side of the fairway, but when it landed, it leaped dead right into the trees (as my drives down the right side always do). Bitterly, I had to take a drop. I then crushed a 3-wood, but it went left and into the trees on the other side. When I got to my ball, I found it in the woods but with a surprisingly wide opening to the green, blocked only by one tree about 10 feet in front of me and 5 feet to my left.

As I stood over the ball, I tried to determine how the I.P.J.M.B.L. would strike, and it entered my mind that maybe, just maybe, it would force me to pull the ball left into that tree. So, I devised a clever plan: If the ball happened to strike that tree, I would duck. Brilliant!

I swung hard with a 7-wood. Hit the ball clean. Smoked it. Obliterated it. Heard the sweet clang of Titleist meeting tri-metal. The ball rose like a cannon shot, blistering the air. Ten feet later, it hit that tree square in the center. Kabloom! Sparks flew! Bark flew!

Even before the ball hit the tree, I believe I had begun my descent, flinging my entire body backward toward the ground. A master of karate could not have moved more quickly. The ball whizzed across my prone body, missing the tip of my nose by about the thickness of a single hair.

My partners came running over, convinced I had been knocked cold.

But I hopped up and prepared to play my next shot. Only, it took me a while to find it -- 150 yards behind me and hugging the root of another tree.

* * *

At Westchase Golf Course in Tampa, I stroked a nice drive on a par 4 but plunked my approach shot into a green-side bunker. Lying 2, I hit what I thought was a decent shot with my sand wedge, and the ball sprang out and landed on the grass above the bunker. It stopped there and held completely still for at least 3 seconds, then rolled back into the bunker and came to rest against the big toe on my right foot.

* * *

At World Woods Golf Club in Brooksville, there is a beautiful par 5 with an elevated green that is guarded by a massive bunker choked with trees and bushes. With my three partners and a ranger watching, I launched a 4-wood shot toward the green that was poetry in motion, flying high, straight and true. We oohed and aahed at its majesty, watching it soar over the trees toward the flag, where it surely would end up no farther than 5 feet from the hole. A loud, plunking sound confused us somewhat, but we leaped in our carts to go and admire the result.

There was no ball on the green. Huh? We searched and searched. Needless to say, the ball had landed about one-half inch from the lip of the bunker and plugged in so deep, Tiger Woods' best swing ever couldn't have moved it.

* * *

When one of my shots flies toward a cart path, one of two things happens. If I need the shot to hit the cart path to add distance, it misses it. If I need the shot to miss the cart path to avoid some kind of disaster, it hits it.

I once hit a drive 1 inch while my wooden tee went 20 feet.

I once hit a quarter-inch-thick power line 100 yards away and had the ball roll back 10 feet behind me.

At least eight times during every round, I will miss a putt by one-half inch or less. At least five times during every round, I will lip a putt out.

At least twice during every round, I will have putts literally fall into the hole and somehow jump back out.

* * *

Anyway, you get the picture, and I'm sure you now agree that my luck is exceedingly bad. If I had just an average dose of good luck, my scores would improve by 10 strokes per round. If I had some really good luck, I'd be a scratch golfer. In fact, it's amazing that I'm able to score as well as I do, considering how many bad things happen to me.

Think about it: If you're a golfer and you're reading this right now, can you possibly imagine any of this happening to you? Get real. Bad luck belongs to me, alone!

- Jim Melvin is sports design director for the Times.

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