by Terry Fallis
To my relief, we didn’t talk at all about golf on the ride home. Instead, we discussed books, writing, and fountain pens—three of my favourite subjects—at least until we pulled into my driveway.
“Okay, Mr. Coryell, I think it’s time to take the next step,” she said.
“Will it be more fun than on the range, or on the putting green, or in the practice bunker?”
“I promise it will be. After all, there’ll be lovely views, the flora and fauna of a natural setting, good conversation about anything but golf, and the ever-present threat of an errant ball beaning you from a distant fairway.”
“Well, when you put it that way.”
“I’ll speak with your parents. We’ll aim for Sunday if that works for you.”
Chapter 4
SEPTEMBER 2013
MS. DAVENPORT PICKED me up at two-thirty on Sunday afternoon. She was wearing another Ladies’ Golf Club of Toronto shirt, this time in green, and dark pants. I was wearing a short-sleeved blue collared shirt and what she called black dress shorts. We pulled in to the club and found an empty spot in the parking lot. She popped the trunk, reached in, and handed me a pair of golf shoes.
“I think we’re about the same size. Try these on. They’re mine, but white really isn’t my colour.”
“Can’t I just play in my running shoes?” I pleaded. “What if someone sees me in those, those very white women’s shoes. I’d never live it down.”
“Mr. Coryell, these are actually men’s shoes. They fit me better,” she began. “More importantly, golf shoes are essential. They help you keep a stable and solid setup for each shot. You’d be slipping around in those Nikes, and I really want to get a clear sense of how you play this game.”
“Do you have a different colour? I’m not sure I should be wearing white shoes after Labour Day.” When she just kept looking at me, I kicked off my runners and put on her golf shoes. I was surprised that they fit.
“For once in my life, my water-walker feet have come in handy,” Ms. Davenport said, giving me a thumbs-up.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone refer to their feet as handy.”
“Very nice.” She sighed. “I see your sparkling wit is in full plumage this afternoon.”
“Sorry, I can’t help it.”
When we reached the pro shop, she disappeared into the women’s locker room and I went to see Duke to pick up the rental clubs Ms. Davenport had arranged for our game. Duke produced a full bag of clubs from the back room and handed them over to me.
“That’s the full set of the Callaway Diablos you used on the range,” Duke said. “Bobbie tells me you hit them pretty well for a stone-cold rookie.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I replied, but I felt good anyway.
“Well, playing on the course ain’t the same as hitting balls on the range.”
“Ms. Davenport said you would say that,” I replied.
“We’ve been pals for a long time so I guess she knows me pretty well,” Duke said. “By the way, I shoved some balls and tees into the bag so you don’t have to buy any. And here’s a golf glove someone returned because it was too small. I can’t really put it back on the rack, so you might as well use it. I think it should fit.”
“Thanks so much,” I said, pulling the glove on. “It feels a little snug.”
“It’s supposed to be snug,” he said, looking at my gloved hand. “It wouldn’t work if it were any looser.”
“Got it. Thanks again.”
“I put Bobbie’s bag on that end cart. You might as well put your bag on, too.”
I thanked Duke again and lugged my golf bag out the door. It seemed to weigh slightly more than a subcompact car. I hoisted the bag onto the back of the cart next to Ms. Davenport’s, then climbed into the driver’s seat, excited. Truthfully, I was more excited about driving the cart than I was about playing my first official round of golf. A minute later, Ms. Davenport sat down next to me.
“Ready?”
“I guess so,” I replied. “I really like driving the cart.”
“This is all about how you drive the ball, not the cart,” she said. “If Professor Gunnarsson is right, this could be a very important day.”
I sighed. She was so serious about it all.
“But, we’re doing all of this for the privilege of hitting a little white ball into a hole in the fewest strokes possible,” I declared. “It’s not exactly saving the world, is it?”
“You’re right, Mr. Coryell. It is a game. But do you know how much money Jordan Spieth earned at the tender age of nineteen when he won the John Deere Classic PGA tournament last July?”
I shook my head.
“Eight hundred and forty-six thousand dollars.”
“U.S. dollars?”
“Yes.”
“For one tournament?”
“Yes.”
“Which way to the first tee?”
“Right. That’s more like it. Just drive up and park next to that ball-washer,” she said, pointing up the path.
I pulled up as instructed but wondered about the big noise I heard behind us.
“Uh oh,” I said to no one in particular.
It sounded like a big golf bag falling off the back of the cart. I stopped and looked behind us. My big golf bag had fallen off the back of the cart.
I was horrified and hoped I’d done no damage. As I hopped out, Ms. Davenport was massaging her forehead as if in the throes of a migraine.
“Mr. Coryell, it’s customary to secure your bag to the cart using the strap provided,” she deadpanned. “See how my bag is held in place?”
“So sorry about that. I hope I didn’t break any of the clubs,” I said, dragging the bag back to the cart.
Ms. Davenport got out to take a peek.
“They look fine. Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Here’s how it works.”
She passed the strap through the handle on the golf bag and then secured it in the plastic clampy thingy. It was so simple, a two-year-old could have figured it out.
“Okay, Mr. Coryell, with that calamity behind us, here’s where we really put Professor Gunnarsson’s theory to the test. Grab your driver, a ball, and a tee, and step this way, please.”
“That’s the biggest club, right?”
“Yep, it sure is.”
I did as I was told as she grabbed her own driver and led the way to what I now know is referred to as the first tee.
“What ball are you using?” she asked.
“My ball,” I replied.
“I’m well aware that it’s your ball. But what kind is it?”
“Oh, it says TaylorMade on it, and a number three,” I replied, holding it up for her to see.
“Fine. I’m using a Titleist Velocity, number four,” she said. “Okay, have a look here at the scorecard. It tells us that this first hole is 354 yards and it’s a par four, which means you’re trying to put the ball into the hole in four shots. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“You can see the flag out there. So, for that distance, you’re going to hit your driver. Almost every golfer would hit their driver on this hole.”
She took my ball, rested it on a tee, and holding both in her hand, pushed the tee into the ground so the ball sat a couple of inches above the grass.
“So go through your pre-shot routine like we did on the range.”
I lined myself up, gripped the club as she’d taught me, and relaxed my body. She adjusted my alignment ever so slightly.
“The pin is on the right side of the green, so you want to aim for the left side of the fairway to give yourself a better angle coming in on your next shot,” she said.
“Fairway?”
“Sorry, that strip of closely cut grass that leads directly from here to the green where the pin and the hole are. You always want to be on the fairway.”
“Okay,” I replied. “So you’re worried about what side of the fairway I should aim for, while I’m worried about making contact with the ball.
”
“Shush, now. Don’t think so much,” she scolded. “Just empty your mind and listen to your body.”
“My body is feeling a little peckish right now,” I replied as my stomach growled.
“Mr. Coryell, you are a seventeen-year-old boy. You’re always hungry. But I confess I’ve never met one who can use the word peckish correctly in a sentence.”
“I love that word. I think I read it in a New Yorker short story.”
“You may also be among the few seventeen-year-olds who has read a short story in the New Yorker, though I might be selling a whole generation short.”
“I’m not the only one, Ms. Davenport. If you hang around with Allison long enough, you’ll learn lots of new words, and she’ll lend you her New Yorker magazines when she’s read them.”
“Yes, you’re right, son. That does sound like Ms. Clarkson. She’s a fine wordsmith. I can see why you two are close,” she said. “How about this: try thinking about Ms. Clarkson and swing the club.”
So I did. I swung and heard that distinctive thwack I remembered from the range.
I lost sight of the shot almost immediately, so instead, I watched Ms. Davenport as she watched the ball. After what seemed like a long time, she shook her head.
“Good night, nurse!” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Let me offer a more contemporary idiomatic translation to assist your comprehension,” she said. “‘Holy shite, but you just hit that a mile!’ Forgive my colourful language.”
Until she told me, I had no idea my shot was solid. I guess I was pleased with myself.
“To be precise, Mr. Coryell, your ball finally landed on the left-hand side of the fairway just short of the green, or about 340 yards from where we now stand. All I can say is, all hail Professor Gunnarsson.”
Ms. Davenport then teed up her ball and hit it straight down the fairway about 220 yards.
“Was that as far as you can hit the ball?” I asked.
“Yep, that’s about my limit, and I hit a pretty long ball for my heavyset, older, strong-like-bull, women’s demographic.”
I drove us up the fairway to where her ball had come to rest. Her second shot landed on the green and rolled about ten feet past the hole. She was clearly pleased, so out of respect, I clapped and she bowed.
I had a little trouble with my second shot. My ball was only about thirty yards from the hole, so with Ms. Davenport’s guidance, I used my pitching wedge but didn’t give it a full swing. But I swung a little harder than I should have and the ball rolled well past the hole.
Ms. Davenport handed me my putter. Her ball was blocking my line to the cup, so she marked it and picked it up so I could make my putt. I lined up the shot, taking note of the slight slope as I’d been taught to, and putted the ball. It rolled towards the hole but stopped six inches short.
“Blast!” I said.
“No need to beat yourself up. That was a nice lag, as we say,” Ms. Davenport said.
“Thanks. I’ve always been very good with the lag. I’ve worked tirelessly to perfect my lag. Lag Coryell is what they often call me,” I replied. “…I have no idea what a lag is.”
“Clearly,” she said. “On long putts, where sinking it is highly unlikely, a good lag putt brings the ball up close enough for a simple tap-in on your next shot.”
“Like this?” I asked as I walked up and tapped the ball towards the hole. It hit the pin and dropped into the cup.
“Yes and no,” she replied. “The lag putt was solid, but you just violated at least three all-important rules of golf etiquette.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as I pulled my ball from the hole.
“Number one. My ball was further from the hole than was yours, so you should have marked your ball and let me putt first. Whoever is further from the hole shoots next. It’s called ‘being away,’ ” she explained. “Number two. When you tapped in, you were standing directly on my putting line, and that’s a big no-no. And number three, when all balls are safely on the green, the pin must be pulled out and set down on the green so that it doesn’t affect the putt.” She smiled at me. “Golf is a game of etiquette, tradition, and rules. Lots of rules.”
I lifted the pin out of the hole as she put her ball down on the green just ahead of her ball marker, which she then picked up. She missed her putt, but not by much, and then tapped in.
“Well done. We each put the ball in the hole in four strokes. We shot par on that hole, so we mark a four on the scorecard for us both.”
“And we have to do that another seventeen times to complete the round?”
“You’re a quick study, young Adam.”
Other than when we were putting on the greens, we talked about everything but golf. On each shot, Ms. Davenport would suggest the right club based on her detailed records of how far I could hit each one. She also helped to ensure I was properly lined up for each shot, although with each completed hole I was getting better at that part of the game.
My biggest problem remained putting, but I could feel myself improving as the game wore on. I liked the discipline of focusing on the hole when I putted the ball. I guess I was enjoying myself. It was kind of hard to tell, as I was also bored for a good part of the round. Even to my inexperienced eye, Ms. Davenport really looked like she belonged on the golf course, and she hit some awesome shots very close to the hole. But her back flared up around the seventh hole, and by the tenth she’d picked up her ball and focused all of her attention on my game.
“Okay, you’re about 175 yards from the pin. What club should you hit?” she asked.
“As I recall, I was hitting the nine-iron 175 on the range, right?”
Ms. Davenport handed me my nine.
“So what are your grail pens?” she asked as I approached my ball in the centre of the fairway.
“Grail pens? I don’t know what that means,” I replied.
“It’s a reference to the search for the holy grail,” she said. “What fountain pens do you covet, even if their cost puts them out of reach? Those are your grail pens.”
“Hmmm. How long do we have? This could take a while.”
“Make sure you’re lined up with the pin.”
“I’m all about pins and pens,” I said.
I checked my positioning and made a small adjustment in my stance.
“I’d really like an Aurora Optima in the blue Auroloide finish,” I responded.
Thwack!
“Nice ball,” she said, watching my shot. “You’re dancing.”
I looked at my legs. “Dancing?”
“It means you’re on the dance floor, or your ball has landed on the green.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t have the Optima but I do have the Aurora 88, which is essentially the same pen but with rounded ends. It’s really lovely, though the nib has a touch more feedback than I would like,” Ms. Davenport said.
“I love the 88, too. Maybe I could see yours sometime.”
“Sure. What else?” she prodded as I drove up the fairway.
“Okay, one day I’d love to have a Conway Stewart Wellington in their Classic Brown acrylic, but that’s like saying one day I’d like to own a Lamborghini Aventador. It’s not going to happen.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a Conway Stewart—or a Lambo, for that matter—but you clearly know your fountain pens. That particular CS might just make my grail list, too. The material is stunning.”
By this time we’d pulled up to the green.
“Mr. Coryell, just so you know, you’ve parked a little too close to the green and that bunker. The cart should stay on the asphalt path when we’re up here near the green. Okay?”
“Right. Thanks.”
Golf is full of little rules of etiquette. I swung the cart around and parked it back on the path before grabbing my putter. Much to my surprise, I actually sunk the eight-footer for a three on a par four. There’s a name for that, but it slipped my mind. On to the next tee, though I don’t
remember what number.
“Now, clear your head. Think about fountain pens, or Allison, or anything else you want. Just let your body do the work and don’t think about your swing.”
“Right.”
Thwack!
My drive was long and straight but not exactly where I wanted to go. It landed just off the fairway in what Ms. Davenport called the first cut of rough.
“Good swing and nice ball flight, but you weren’t quite lined up right. You hit the ball exactly where it was supposed to go, given your setup,” she said. “You really have to check each time to make sure your body and club head are aligned to send the ball where you want it to go.”
“Okay.”
“Do you like broads?” she asked when we were back in the cart and heading for my ball.
“To some, that might seem a rather personal question,” I replied.
She just stared at me, shaking her head.
“You’re right, that was lame,” I admitted. “But to answer your question, I swing both ways. If it’s a Japanese nib, I prefer broads. But on European pens, particularly German, I’m more likely to go with medium. I’m just not a fine or extra-fine kind of guy.”
“Mr. Coryell, we have a lot in common. I feel the same way. There’s too much feedback on finer nibs. I like it nice and smooth.”
We carried on. I shot. We talked. I drove. She shouted. I slowed down. We talked and I shot. Playing a round of golf sure eats up a lot of time. It took hours, maybe three or four.
I thought I was doing quite well—at golf, I mean, not at cart driving—but I really didn’t know enough about the game to be certain. Ms. Davenport was encouraging and very helpful, but other than on my opening shot, she wasn’t exactly doing handsprings and hurling superlatives whenever I finished a hole. Maybe she was a little jittery from my driving. But honestly, there were only a couple of close calls, and she wasn’t even in the cart for one of them. We finished the eighteenth hole and after handing the rental clubs back to Duke, we had a drink on the patio. Ms. Davenport looked a little shaky, even stunned. I was a little concerned. She downed her Arnold Palmer—iced tea and lemonade—in two big gulps.
“Are you okay, Ms. Davenport?”
“No. No, I can’t say I am,” she replied, shaking her head. “This is absolutely shocking, and I suspect it has never happened in the long and rich history of the game.”