Albatross

by Terry Fallis

  “I already apologized,” I protested. “I swear I thought I had steered clear of that garbage can. And how was I to know the pond was right behind? My view was completely blocked. It was an accident.”

  “Mr. Coryell, I am not referring to your sudden and unauthorized immersion in the water hazard. The golf cart will dry out, eventually. I’m talking about your golf game.”

  “Oh. Okay, then,” I replied. “But I do feel kind of bad about the whole driving-the-cart-into-the-pond thing.”

  She consulted the scorecard. “Well, you finished with a seventy-four, which for men is four over par on this course.”

  “Well, that’s a little disappointing. Aren’t you supposed to make it around in par?”

  “Mr. Coryell, only a microscopic slice of recreational golfers ever, ever, shoot par, and even those who do have played the game for years. It’s quite possible you are the one and only first-time golfer ever to have shot four over par on an eighteen-hole championship course. Heck, most golfers in their early rounds shoot four over par on every blessed one of those eighteen holes!”

  “Oh. So I did okay?” I asked hopefully.

  “Okay? Adam, if I may call you by your given name, if Sports Illustrated happened to have had a reporter on the course today, you’d be in next month’s magazine, possibly on the cover.”

  “Cool. I guess I’d be one of the few non-athletes to appear in those pages, I mean except for the swimsuit issue.”

  She ignored me and studied the scorecard, which featured not just numbers but notes as well. Finally, she spoke. “So listen up. That was a great first round. In fact, it was astounding. What is even more impressive, however, is that you achieved that seventy-four with nine three-putt greens. If you could turn each of those nine three-putt greens into two-putt greens, you would have shot a sixty-three and would be a PGA-calibre player!” she marvelled. “Holy shuddering shite, that makes my mind a maelstrom. Pardon my language.”

  “I got a few of those birdie thingamajigs, too, didn’t I?” I asked.

  “You surely did. Six of them, in fact.”

  “I guess that’s pretty good.”

  “Listen, Mr. Coryell,” she said, leaning forward. “I’d really like you to play on the high school golf team. I only had one player show up, and he promptly sprained his wrist at football practice and is out. If I can get you registered for the tournament next week, will you play?”

  She seemed very excited. I’d forgotten there was a golf team.

  “Will you be there so I know what I’m doing?”

  “I’ll be there, but I can’t coach you during the tournament. It’s not allowed. So you’ll have to memorize the distances you hit with each club so you know which one to choose based on the yardage markers in each fairway. Just like we did today. So what do you say?”

  I felt a slight twinge of panic. This was getting a little out of hand. What about my writing? What about Alli? I already had a lot on my plate. “I’m not sure, Ms. Davenport. Can I think about it?”

  “You get the whole day off school, Adam.”

  “Okay, I thought about it. I’m in,” I replied after deep deliberation. “So I get to take a cart all by myself?”

  She smiled. “Ah, no. You walk and carry your own bag in tournaments.”

  “Wait, I have to walk the whole course, carrying that heavy bag?”

  “I’m afraid so. That’s how tournaments work,” she replied. “And did I mention the day off?”

  “Okay. I’ll walk.”

  “Splendid. I’ll try to make the arrangements.”

  * * *

  —

  EVERYTHING MOVED QUICKLY after that. One minute I was just a regular student with a girlfriend, stressing about my grades as I navigated my last year of high school. The next, I apparently had boundless potential as a golfer and was wearing my school colours in a tournament. I was having a hard time keeping up. It was like being swept along on the crest of a massive wave. If I windmilled my arms, I could just keep my head above the foamy, swirling water.

  The tournament the following Friday was held at a public golf course just a little north of the city. On the drive up, with the clubs borrowed from Duke in the back, Ms. Davenport grilled me on the distances I could hit each of the clubs. She also tried to school me on golf etiquette. But there was so much to remember.

  By the time we arrived, most of the other players were practising on the driving range. Ms. Davenport and I went directly to the putting green so I could try to get used to the speed and behaviour of the greens. I got the hang of them quite easily, and within a few minutes I was getting the balls quite close to the hole from various directions. I noticed I was one of the few players using the heads-up putting technique.

  Finally it was time.

  “Now listen, Mr. Coryell. The wind is picking up. At its current strength, if you’re shooting against the wind, you need to club down one. What I mean is, if you were going to hit a six-iron with no wind, take a five-iron against the wind. If you’re hitting with the wind, club up one. Hit the seven, not the six, when the wind is with you.”

  I nodded. I could remember that.

  “Here’s your scorecard and a couple of pencils. Carry them in the your back pocket. You must remember to mark down your own score after each hole. Just record your own score and don’t worry about the other guys’ scores. They’ll keep their own.”

  I nodded again.

  “I’ll be walking along the edge of the fairway to cheer you on, but I really can’t be seen to be giving you any counsel. But feel free to look my way if you get into trouble. I’ll see what I can do. Finally, take this book. I want you to read it whenever you’re not actually shooting.”

  I took the slim paperback volume. It was The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I wasn’t expecting that.

  “Have you read any of the Holmes stories?” she asked.

  “No, but Allison is a huge fan, so I’ve been meaning to dip into them.”

  “They’re wonderful and, best of all, very distracting. I want you to get wrapped up in those stories while you’re on the course. Think about the mystery Holmes is solving, not your golf swing,” she said with a smile. “You might start with ‘The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.’ It’s one of my favourites. Now get up there, and good luck.”

  I played in a foursome with three other students from other schools in our district. I shook their hands before we teed off. I wasn’t sure I was supposed to do that, but it seemed appropriate.

  “Hey, who are you?” one of my opponents asked me when I offered my hand. He was wearing an ugly neon-green ball cap with his high school logo on it.

  “Adam Coryell, from Leaside.”

  “I didn’t see you on the range earlier. And I haven’t seen you at any of the other tourneys either. Did you just move here?”

  “Um, no, I grew up in Leaside,” I replied. “But I just started playing golf a couple weeks ago. This is my first tournament and only my third time playing on a real course. And I’m not supposed to go to the range. Practice hurts my game.”

  “Yeah, right. So it’s like that, is it?” the guy snarled. “You’re already playing head games, eh? Just like a Leasider.”

  “What? Sorry?” I had no idea what he meant by his Leasider crack.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the 9:40 tee time and our fifth of ten foursomes. First on the tee, Adam Coryell, Leaside High School,” crackled the starter over a very bad PA system.

  I looked at Ms. Davenport and she nodded towards the tee. I pulled my driver out of the bag and set my ball on the tee at just the right height. I lined myself up so I was aiming for the middle of the fairway. Then I thought about Allison and how I really needed to get moving on the next chapter in our antiphonal novel. There was so much going on, I hadn’t yet written a word.

  Thwack!

  I looked up just in time to follow the ball on its trajectory. It seemed like a pretty good shot, dead straight and about the height my driver shots usually r
eached.

  “Holy shit!” said neon-green ball cap as he followed my ball. “Your third time playing, eh? As if! Looks like you must be on the ‘roids, too.”

  I also had no idea what he meant by that.

  Using the distance for each hole in the scorecard and the yardage markings on the sprinkler-head covers in the fairway, I could generally determine how far I’d driven the ball and how far away the hole still was.

  When all four of us had shot, I hoisted my bag onto my shoulders and started walking and reading ‘The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.’ I was soon so absorbed in the story that I walked right by my ball.

  Two of my three opponents hit it about 275 yards, while my new friend in the retina-threatening green lid hit it deep into the woods. My first drive flew and rolled about 325 yards. The wind was in my face and I estimated it was about 125 yards to the hole. I remembered I could hit my sand wedge about 145 yards. So against this wind, I figured that was the right club. I pulled it out when it was finally my turn to hit and glanced at Ms. Davenport, who was standing on the cart path about thirty feet to my right. She gave me a subtle nod.

  I lined myself up, thought about Sherlock Holmes, and swung.

  Thwack!

  “Nice ball, Mr. Coryell,” Ms. Davenport said. “Nice ball.”

  It landed short of the hole but then rolled forward a bit and ended up about three feet from the cup.

  I carried my bag up to the green and set it down before grabbing my putter.

  “Hey, you can’t put your bag on the green,” said the tournament official following our foursome. “What is this, your first time on a course? Come on!”

  “Sorry, sorry!” I said and snatched my bag off the green. “I’m still learning the rules. My mistake.”

  “Next time, that’ll cost you a stroke!” he snapped.

  He was really steamed. I worried he might not only take a stroke from me, but have one himself.

  About ten minutes later I sunk the putt to birdie my first tournament hole.

  The rest of the day unfolded in much the same way. I made some etiquette and club selection mistakes that others were certainly happy to point out. But in the end, I thought I played reasonably well, not that I had much to compare it to. I managed to read four of the Sherlock Holmes stories while walking the course. I loved them and just wanted to talk to Ms. Davenport about them, but she was so excited at my performance she had some difficulty focusing after we finished up on the eighteenth hole.

  I had just recorded my scores for each hole but hadn’t added them up at the end. Turned out I’d scored a seventy-one, or one under par. I guessed I was satisfied with that, though Ms. Davenport’s reaction, and the effusive comments made at the awards presentation, clearly suggested I was entitled to feel something more than merely satisfied.

  I won the tournament by three strokes, and the next two tourneys as well. That’s when the trouble started.

  Courtesy of media coverage that included a look at Professor Gunnarsson’s theory, news of my special gift spread quickly, and aroused more than curiosity. A group of parents of competing golfers from other high schools complained to the Toronto District School Board that it was unfair for me to compete, that I had an unearned advantage. Ms. Davenport was appalled but kept me out of the official proceedings.

  I probably would have been fine with a decision to exclude me from the Toronto District School Board City Championships coming up in a few weeks. I didn’t love the game, and it took so much time. But Ms. Davenport considered the idea to be a grave injustice, and became my advocate. The protest culminated in a public meeting of the school board, where both sides could argue their case before a decision was rendered.

  The meeting was to be convened in the auditorium in a neutral school nearby that had no golf team. More than a hundred people showed up, along with reporters and videographers from three different Toronto television stations. My parents and Ms. Davenport came for moral support. My mother gave an impassioned plea from a parent’s perspective that seemed genuinely free of anger, though I knew she was very angry. A few others spoke in my favour, but the vast majority of presenters were not fans of my newfound golfing prowess. The final speaker, who wanted me banned from playing in the city championships, summed up the argument quite nicely, I thought.

  “Madame Chair, my son played his first golf game eleven years ago, at the age of six. Since then he has lived and breathed golf almost every waking hour. He’s a good kid and a good student. He practises hard and long and has become a very good golfer. He embodies the principle his mother and I, and his teachers, have always tried to communicate—that there is a relationship between hard work and success. That nothing comes easily in this life. That perseverance, dedication, and commitment are important.”

  By the time he was halfway through his remarks, I found myself nodding in support.

  “Madame Chair, Adam Coryell’s rapid rise to the top of high school golf in this city flies in the face of that principle. We have nothing against Adam and I’m sure he’s a good kid. But his success has not been earned. His ability as a golfer is not rooted in hard work, practice, and a passion for the game. His apparently perfectly proportioned fluke of a body is what is winning golf tournaments. For crying out loud, he’s only played on a course a handful of times in his life. He hadn’t held a golf club in his hands until a month ago. It is unfair to all the other golfers who have dedicated themselves for years to get here to make them play against a freak of nature.”

  After he finished, I was ready to cross the floor and join their side. I thought he made a lot of sense.

  Then Ms. Davenport spoke.

  “Madame Chair, on the surface, the argument my friend makes seems to have some merit. I can understand his position, and I feel for the high school golfers who have worked very hard to make it to this annual championship tournament. So let me take a different approach. I have always believed that one of my principal responsibilities as a teacher is to help students find what they’re good at. We help reveal students’ strengths, sometimes when we have more confidence in them than they do. Adam Coryell is also a good student. And he’s a very nice young man who is kind to those around him. He is funny. And he has passions, too. He wants to be a writer. Several weeks ago, I had the opportunity to help Adam Coryell discover something else about himself that neither he nor his parents knew. He has a rare gift for golf.”

  Ms. Davenport was very good on her feet, though I knew this already. It was very quiet in the room as she continued.

  “I have played a lot of golf in my years. I know something about the game. And I have never seen a more natural talent than Adam Coryell. It is true he knew nothing of his physical affinity for the game until I put a club in his hands in September. But that does not diminish his gift. In fact, it makes it more impressive, more exciting, more profound. Does he have the same passion for the game that some of his competitors out on the course do? Not yet, and who knows, perhaps he never will. But in the end, Adam Coryell is a seventeen-year-old boy, just like the other golfers. He’ll be swinging a regulation club and hitting a regulation ball, just like all the other golfers. There is nothing separating him from the other players on the course except, it seems, that his body is very well suited to this special game.”

  I have to confess, it was very strange hearing her talk about me in those terms. It was kind of like watching a movie.

  “Should he be penalized for something that is completely beyond his control? Of course not. Would it contravene natural justice to ban him from playing in the championship? Absolutely. Would it violate his rights to exclude him? Yes, I believe it would. This is a matter that should be decided on the golf course and not at a board meeting. Let this extraordinary young man play.”

  I switched my allegiance back to my own cause in the middle of Ms. Davenport’s address. In the end, the board ruled in our favour, and I was cleared to play.

  Two days later, Professor Gunnarsson arrived from Australia to s
ee me, and my game, for himself.

  Chapter 5

  OCTOBER 2013

  “IT WAS NICE to learn that the theoretical part of my theory—the flight of speculation, if you will—seems to be true. That there should be a few individuals whose bodies are so perfectly and naturally designed for a particular sport that practice, which inevitably alters the natural perfection of their bodies, will actually make them worse. Adam Coryell is such a specimen. He is the first evidence, the early and so far only, proof that this portion of my theory is sound,” Professor Gunnarsson said. “Also, it is very hot and bright in here.”

  Even on television, I could see the sheen of perspiration on his face as he shifted in his chair. He wiped his brow and squinted under the extreme illumination.

  “It’s just the lights. That’s television for you,” the host said with a chuckle.

  The media seemed fascinated by the movement to ban me from the city championships. When word somehow leaked that Professor Gunnarsson was arriving, the issue became even hotter. Ms. Davenport and I were in the pro shop at the Ladies’ Golf Club of Toronto watching Professor Gunnarsson’s interview live on TSN, Canada’s sports network. I wasn’t much of a sports fan, but it was kind of cool to hear a guest on a talk show mention my name.

  “So, professor, have you seen Adam play since you arrived from Australia?”

  “Yes. Yesterday I watched him on the driving range and then followed him for nine holes with his high school coach.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And how did he do?”

  “As expected. He hit the ball very long and very straight. He shot it right through the far end of the driving range sometimes. And his swing looks like the product of years of practice when in fact he is new to the game, and it is just his arms, legs, torso, hands, and feet all working naturally and perfectly together.”