Albatross

by Terry Fallis

  She was clearly taking this more seriously than I was. “But it’s not exactly a useful skill to have, is it?”

  “You mean compared to drywalling or cake-baking? Look, let’s not worry about that just yet. We have to see how far we can take this before the future even becomes a consideration. Have a seat, Mr. Coryell.” She looked at her watch. “Adelaide is fifteen and a half hours ahead of us, so it’s almost seven-thirty in the morning for the professor.”

  “Is he expecting our call or are we hitting him out of the blue?”

  “Perhaps a little of both,” she replied. “I emailed him with a short synopsis of your Gunnarsson score and our experiences yesterday, and asked if we could call him today. He didn’t respond, other than accepting my Skype contact info.”

  She looked at her watch again. “Oh, and it’s time.”

  We sat side by side behind her desk, facing the screen. She clicked Gunnarsson85 on her Skype contact list.

  “Maybe he’s not going to pick up?” I said after three or four rings.

  But just then, as if on cue, an older, bald man with a full grey beard materialized on the screen before us.

  “Professor Gunnarsson, I presume?” Ms. Davenport said.

  “Yes, that is I. Who else would be answering on my Skype number?” he replied in very good English with just a hint of what I assumed was a Swedish accent. “And I assume by the same principle that you are Bobbie Davenport.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  He leaned in to train his very focused gaze on the screen.

  “From your name, your appearance on my screen, and your voice, I cannot discern if you are a man or a woman. Could you clarify?”

  I was mortified. Bobbie turned quite slowly and looked at me, her brow furrowed, before returning to Professor Gunnarsson on the screen.

  “I’m sorry, professor, but I thought I heard you ask whether I am a man or a woman. And since that would be extraordinarily inappropriate at any time, let alone a first encounter, I realize now I must have misheard you,” she replied. “Could you clarify?”

  “No, no. You heard me correctly. I’m certain I was speaking clearly. I always try to because of my slight accent. And I can only assume that your hearing is sound. But I suppose I should probably explain something,” he said slowly and loudly, as though he were teaching English as a second language to the hearing impaired. “You see, I am afflicted with an often troubling combination of severe impatience, unbridled curiosity, absolute honesty, and a congenital indifference to what others might think or feel. My direct approach often makes people uncomfortable, but it certainly saves time. I meant no offence and apologize if my intention was unclear. I simply want to know whether I’m addressing a man or a woman.”

  “I see. You are very, as you say, direct, professor. So just to get this out of the way, I am a woman. Bobbie is short for Roberta,” she said. “At first, I could not tell if you were socially stunted, utterly oblivious, brutally direct, or simply deficient in English. So I appreciate your clear if unusual explanation.”

  “Oh, I assure you, my English is more than adequate. No, I have simply decided to remove the standard filter that exists between what I think and what I say. I admit this has caused me a lot of problems. And when I say a lot of problems, I assure you, I mean a great many problems. But I’m not searching for new friends, just the truth.”

  “Well, I understand how your particular, shall we say, social style could lead to trouble,” Ms. Davenport responded.

  “If I am being honest—and to be honest, I am always being honest—this little self-inflicted personal quirk at least partially explains why it is I am now in Adelaide and no longer in my beloved Stockholm. So there is sometimes a price to be paid for disabling one’s filter.” Professor Gunnarsson paused and then seemed to lean forward a little.

  “Now, may I assume this is your so-called golfing prodigy beside you?”

  Bobbie nudged me in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Um, yes. Hi, professor. I’m Adam Coryell. I’m not sure prodigy is the right word.” I wasn’t yet sure how I felt about Professor Gunnarsson and his strange manner. But it was somehow easier to talk to him knowing he was on the other side of the globe.

  “I suspect it is not,” Professor Gunnarsson replied. “I was employing sarcasm, exaggeration, and maybe a little irony. It seems I’m not very good at it.”

  “Oh, I see,” was all I could muster.

  “It is very unlikely your Gunnarsson score is as high as your teacher says. Incompetence in measurement and arithmetic calculation are almost always to blame,” he replied.

  “Because you have removed your filter, professor, I’ll overlook the charge of incompetence, but I can assure you I followed your measuring instructions to the letter and triple-checked our numbers,” Ms. Davenport explained with an edge to her voice.

  “We shall see.” He sighed. “I have been doing this for five years now and measured hundreds of subjects. I have never seen a number like the one you claim for—sorry, the name again?”

  “It’s Adam, Adam Coryell,” I said.

  “Yes, Adam,” the professor replied. “Anyway, back to my point. A ninety-nine score seems nearly impossible. You probably made a mechanical error.”

  “Professor, did you have a look at the two videos I sent yesterday?” Ms. Davenport asked. “The links were in my email and I consider them corroborating evidence of my more-than-adequate math skills.”

  “I saw the links but I have not watched the videos yet, because there’s something we need to do before we go any further.”

  Ms. Davenport sighed. “Okay, professor, what do you have in mind?” she asked, exasperated.

  “I’d like to watch you take Mr. Coryell’s measurements on camera. If the numbers and ratios are legitimate, then we can talk further. But as I am saying, I’ve never seen any subject come close to the ninety-ninth percentile.”

  “I can assure you, professor, the numbers are sound,” she replied with just the slightest edge, though I doubt the professor noticed.

  “Pray, indulge me,” he said. “If your numbers really do add up, you will have my undivided attention.”

  Ms. Davenport pulled the tape measure from her drawer, and I moved the two chairs out from behind the desk so I could stand there with arms outstretched and legs slightly spread in front of the laptop camera.

  “Back up a bit so I can see his full extension and then call out the numbers as you measure him,” Professor Gunnarsson instructed. “And turn the tape measure so I can visually confirm each number and the correct positioning of the tape measure on his body. I’ll record the figures myself and run the algorithm.”

  “I’m actually quite adept with the tape measure, professor, but have it your way,” Ms. Davenport said.

  “And Adam will need to take his shirt off so I can see exactly where the tape measure is placed, I guess you could say anatomically. I think we can handle measuring his lower extremities without removing his trousers.”

  “I’m sure we’re both relieved to hear that,” Ms. Davenport replied.

  As weird as this all was, I did as I was told and pulled off my shirt.

  There were more than a dozen separate measurements, so it took a few minutes. Ms. Davenport stretched out the tape, marked the right spot, turned it so Professor Gunnarsson could see it, and called out the numbers. Both the professor and Ms. Davenport jotted them down. Once he asked that the end of the tape measure be placed a millimetre or two from where Ms. Davenport had originally positioned it. The professor seemed to have a very serious commitment to precision. Finally, after calling out the last measurement, Ms. Davenport faced the screen again. “As I expected, these are almost precisely the same numbers I obtained the other four times I measured him.”

  “Be that as it may, I must satisfy myself that the data are accurate, or there is no point to all of this,” Professor Gunnarsson said. “Okay, stand by if you will, while I run my algorithm.”

  I put my shirt b
ack on. Then we resumed our side-by-side seats in front of the laptop and watched as the professor typed in the figures on his keyboard. A moment or two later, even across Skype and all the miles that separated us, we could see the expression on his face change, though he said nothing.

  We watched him re-enter the data and run it again. He nodded slightly and looked back at us.

  Finally, he spoke. “Ms. Davenport, I owe you an apology. Those measurements do in fact yield a Gunnarsson score of more than ninety-nine. I’ve never seen anyone above about eighty-nine, and they were top-notch, elite athletes, some with world championships and a few with Olympic gold medals. So ninety-nine is simply unheard of.”

  “Well, interestingly, golf is the only sport where Mr. Coryell seems to possess such wondrous natural talent, so this may shatter any aspirations he had of superstardom in soccer, baseball, or Greco-Roman wrestling.”

  “And I really had my heart set on a wrestling career,” I said.

  “Really? Why?” Professor Gunnarsson replied, perplexed. “Golf is so much more remunerative and much easier on the body.”

  “Oh, um, I was kidding, professor.”

  “Ahhh, thank you,” he replied. “I cannot always tell. That inability also has caused some friction with my colleagues. I have never really understood humour, though I do try from time to time to employ it, almost always with less than stellar outcomes.”

  “Professor, maybe I can bring us back to our little situation. Perhaps now you might take a look at the two videos I sent,” Ms. Davenport said. “They show you Mr. Coryell’s twenty-second shot ever with a nine-iron and his sixteenth shot ever with a five-iron.”

  We waited while Professor Gunnarsson downloaded and played the videos.

  “Quite amazing,” he said at the end. “Even with the substandard lighting, his swing looks beautiful and the shots themselves looked straight and long. I’m not a very good golfer, but I know enough to understand that those yardage numbers you sent are quite striking.”

  “They’re off the charts,” she replied. “So we have your attention?”

  “Yes, and as I promised, it is undivided.”

  I had to remind myself that they were talking about me. I felt a little strange. I mean, so what if my arms and legs and torso were a certain length, and I could hit a golf ball? What was the big deal?

  “I’m delighted and maybe a little shocked to think the wholly theoretical part of my theory might actually hold water,” he continued. “What an odd expression that is—hold water. Where and how could that phrase possibly have originated?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ms. Davenport replied. “But returning to the matter at hand, professor, what would you suggest we do to explore this phenomenon further? And to be clear, I’m referring to Adam’s golfing prowess and not the roots of esoteric expressions involving water.”

  “Yes, of course. I have a few observations and recommendations,” he started. “First of all, we’re operating here in the rarefied air of the ninety-ninth percentile. So, Adam, forget about any practising. If my theory holds, it will simply make you a worse golfer. Your arms, your legs, your midsection, your ankles, your feet, your shoulders, your neck, and every other body part will naturally guide your swing. It should be completely unconscious, unthinking, and above all, unpractised.”

  Ms. Davenport and I both nodded.

  “Also, you’ll have to be content with hitting the ball straight. You won’t be able to learn to fade or draw your shots, or shape them in any way. That would take too much practice and too many subtle swing adjustments. Your natural unthinking swing would be profoundly compromised. In your situation, practice will end your promising golf career. You’ll just have to hit the ball straight and manage the courses effectively within that limitation.”

  I really didn’t know what he meant, but Ms. Davenport seemed to.

  “Absolutely,” she replied.

  “Now, there are a couple of aspects of the game that you will have to practise. First of all, there’s putting. You see, your physical makeup and innate golf strengths, well, none of that has much of a bearing on putting. So you will need to learn how to putt—that means learning to read the greens, and judging the ball’s path, distance, and speed to the hole,” Professor Gunnarsson said.

  “We’ll spend lots of time practising on the putting green,” Ms. Davenport replied.

  I’d played miniature golf once or twice, and had done quite well. I figured I could learn to putt.

  “And that brings us to sand shots. I don’t imagine your ball will land in the bunker very often, but it will happen. You’ll need to learn how to override your natural swing when in the sand trap so you can actually employ the right technique to get the ball out.”

  What’s a bunker? That was something I didn’t know. Ms. Davenport noticed my furrowed brow. “Mr. Coryell, bunker is another name for sand trap. They’re the same thing.”

  “Finally,” Gunnarsson continued, “I think it’s important to enjoy yourself. The positive feelings will actually help you with shots.”

  Ms. Davenport had been taking notes and nodding throughout Professor Gunnarsson’s commentary, and she looked up. “Understood, professor, that all makes sense. But what do we actually do now to help this young man take the next step?” she asked, pointing to me sitting beside her.

  Gunnarsson nodded slowly with a thoughtful look. “Well, I’d suggest a bit more time on the driving range to make sure the natural swing technique works with all clubs in the bag and not just the nine- and five-irons. But not too much swinging at any one session. Not too much repetition. That would be dangerously close to practising. If my PIPP theory is valid, practice is, you could say, the nemesis of your natural swing. I quite like that. Nemesis of your natural swing. Yes. I do like that. Nemesis or enemy? No, nemesis is the superior choice. I’m just going to write that one down.”

  And he did, while we waited. Ms. Davenport and I just looked at one another. Professor Gunnarsson was one strange dude.

  “Okay, I am back,” he said after putting down his pen. “And then, you have to get out on a course and just see what happens. I expect putting will be the weak link in Mr. Coryell’s game, or those shots that require anything less than a full swing. And so the moratorium on practice should be lifted when it comes to putting. He will need to practise that, along with his bunker shots. But that’s about it. For just about every other shot, you must tune out the game completely. Choose the right club for the distance to be covered. Think of anything but golf, and swing away, naturally.”

  “Thank you, professor. Filter or not, I hope we get a chance to meet in person sometime,” Ms. Davenport said.

  “If all continues in a positive way, you will not be able to keep me away. Please keep me updated on the progress. There may be a groundbreaking paper in Mr. Coryell’s golf exploits, and if I am very lucky, a triumphant return to Stockholm.”

  I walked home in a bit of a daze. Sure, I guess I was curious to explore my golf abilities, but none of it yet felt real. It still seemed like a long shot—but maybe a very straight, very long shot.

  * * *

  —

  WITH MY PARENTS‘ blessing, Ms. Davenport and I spent Saturday afternoon together, this time at a different driving range that was longer than the one at the Ladies’ Golf Club of Toronto. She was skeptical that I’d be able to hit the driver with as much mastery as I had the irons. It took a while to get used to the length of the driver, but twenty minutes after we started, I was hitting the Callaway Big Bertha Diablo driver straight and far, every swing. And when I say far, Ms. Davenport and her binoculars reported that I routinely drove the ball between 360 and 375 yards. Those are estimates, because the markers at the driving range stopped at 325 yards. I was, again, hitting the ball right through the driving range.

  After the driver, we worked our way through the other clubs. My shots were straight and far, almost every time. It seemed that Professor Gunnarsson’s theory was holding up for every
club in the bag, except, as he had predicted, the putter. Later in the afternoon, we drove back to Toronto Ladies’ to begin my putting instruction. Man, putting is boring. I started by spending over an hour putting ball after ball from various distances on the practice green. Ms. D. had me use the same grip but told me to lock my wrists and shoulders and bring the putter head back and then through the ball in one easy, smooth motion.

  “Since you’re still a vestal virgin in golf terms, I’d like you to try this newfangled heads-up putting technique that’s all the rage these days,” suggested Ms. Davenport. “Jordan Spieth has had considerable success with it from shorter distances.”

  “You’re not going to make me look up into the sky while putting, are you?” I asked, half seriously.

  “No. I don’t think that would be particularly effective,” she replied. “It means reading the green and lining up your putt as one always does, but when you’re standing over the putt, instead of focusing on the ball below you, train your eyes on the hole. It’s all about concentrating on the ball’s destination, not its starting point. Studies suggest golfers find it easier to make it all the way to the hole when they’re looking at it and not at the ball.”

  I worked on this for quite a while. And she was right. I was definitely a better putter when I fixed my eyes on the hole when making the shot. As a complete rookie, it helped that I didn’t have to unlearn the traditional putting style before embracing the heads-up method.

  We hit bunker shots after that for a good forty-five minutes. I was learning the technique, even though I couldn’t always execute it and the wind routinely showered me with sand when I hit the shots. On a positive note, the sand showers made the endless swinging marginally less boring.

  “I feel like Lawrence of Arabia, without the cool robes,” I said.

  “Come on, now, one more,” she pushed. “Remember, hit your sand wedge behind the ball.”

  “As soon as you said ‘sand wedge,’ I was suddenly hungry.”

  “Everyone’s a comedian.” She sighed. “Okay, why don’t we call it a night?”