We each got a hundred balls out of the machine, went into adjacent bays and started hitting. I used a number 7 iron and my first hit had the ball sailing towards the two hundred-yard line. From watching the professionals on TV (never let anyone tell you TV isn’t educational), I’d worked out that the swing was meant to be smooth, the legs steady, the strength coming from the arms. After I’d hit about fifty balls, I looked over at Dad to see how he was getting on. He was scowling at his feet. I went around to see what was up.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘There’s something wrong with these balls. I think we’ve been given putting balls by mistake. They just won’t go into the air.’ Staring intimidatingly down at the ball, Dad scooped it up. The ball plopped down ten feet away. I grabbed his club. ‘This is not a hurley,’ I told him. I could see he was going to need some tuition: Remedial Golf.
‘First, let’s get your stance right.’ I squared him up and tried to straighten his S-shaped back. It became a C. ‘STRAIGHTEN UP! Legs like so, then you’re going to swing the club … but not this club …’ I took the club from his hands. ‘This is your putter.’ I went and got the 7 iron. ‘This one you swing with, that one you putt with.’ We had left Mum at home introducing Mozart to a cat litter and I realised I was talking in the same sort of voice.
‘Look, I’ll show you.’ I took the iron from him. He stood right behind me. ‘Farther back, Dad. I’m going to swing this club.’ I demonstrated. ‘I could have your head off if you stand there. Now, I look down at the ball so I know where it is …’ – believe me, you need to explain the basics to some people. I’ve seen this man play darts; he hasn’t worked out that the idea is to aim for the dartboard – ‘… then look up and swing.’
A sharp cracking noise and the ball again flew high into the air and landed by the two hundred-yard sign.
‘Now you have a go.’
Dad took the iron and got into position. His shoulders were still hunched, but I decided to let that go. I placed a ball down. ‘Look at it.’ Sullivan had us doing visualisation exercises, so we envisaged scoring tries, but all I wanted at this stage was Dad to remember where the ball was that he was trying to hit. ‘Now swing!’
Dad’s arms came up, he went boss-eyed and made strange, irregular movements with his legs and arms. The club brushed against the top of the ball and it tricked a few inches, but as Dad let the club flop, it caught the ball again and drove it against the back fence where I was standing. Instinctively I dodged out of the way and covered my head. He’d got a minus score: he’d driven the ball minus five feet. He looked forlorn, so I decided not to joke that he might do better if he turned around and tried to hit the ball backwards. I watched him try to hit another five balls, but then despair overcame me and I went back to my own bay. The way Dad was moving when he tried to hit a ball reminded me of the way he looked when he was on the dancefloor – everything was moving, but without pattern or purpose. And forget rhythm!
When we’d finished – I had hit the hundred balls; I’m not sure what Dad did with his – we drove out of the golf range in silence. I couldn’t blame him for being demoralised. Fortunately, only I had witnessed his performance, but surely he wouldn’t want to be seen thrashing away like that? I wondered if you could be sent off a golf course, like in rugby. Imagine, Dad escorted off the greens ‘for bringing the game into disrepute’.
Q. What do you say to the inflatable man on an inflatable golf course with a pin?
A. You have let the game down. You have let yourself down …
My sad old Dad. He was bad, very bad. Me, I was good, very good.
The importance of etiquette
‘Not in here, David!’
‘Why not?’ What’s a sitting room for if not a little gentle putting? I reckoned the carpet had about the same friction as grass. Dad had bought a putting machine that made a satisfying noise when the ball went in. I guess he was trying to buy his way into the game. Added to his golf clubs and golf bag, he’d acquired a putting machine, golf trousers, golf jumpers and golf shoes. He was even kitted out with those socks with little diamond patterns on the side. He looked the part, walked the walk, talked the talk.
When Mum asked him how much it had all cost, he muttered something about getting a ‘great deal’. Could the salesman see him coming! Finally he’d admitted he had got a discount of €300 and Mum had shrieked, ‘If that was the discount, what was the price?’ But Dad wouldn’t tell her the percentage discount, knowing she’d get me to work out the price.
Maths Problem
If one gullible man walks into a golf shop and is duped into thinking he’s getting a good deal when a salesman tells him he’s getting a discount of €300, and that discount is X percent, how much would an even bigger idiot be prepared to pay?
So far, I didn’t have any golf stuff of my own, but I was the one putting six out of seven balls. Let me loose on Crazy Golf at Bray and I’d be cleaning up!
Mum didn’t see it like that. ‘Golf’s an outdoor game, David. Why don’t you go up the driving range?’
‘This is putting. See? The ball doesn’t leave the ground.’ That’s how most of Dad’s shots ended up. That, or a clump of grass flew into the air. It’s called a divot. I was jenning up on golf lingo by watching Sky Sports. Mozart had squeezed into the room with Mum. The kitten was getting bolder by the day, venturing out of the kitchen and utility area, exploring. When I hit the ball, it pounced on it. M immediately pounced on the kitten and the two of them rolled around the room. I prized them apart, but Mozart threw himself at M. I had to separate them again and give the kitten to Mum to hide in her apron pocket.
‘Here, watch this.’ I putted the next ten putts, even with the distraction of M going for the ball each time. Mum watched. Ten out of ten. I waited for praise. ‘Outside,’ was all she said before she left. If there isn’t a degree in it, my parents just aren’t interested. Tiger Woods’ dad had him golfing when he was three years old! He didn’t have to worry about how to get his hands on a set of golf clubs.
Ian sailed in. ‘Wanna practice,’ he said, sitting down at the grand piano. ‘Shove off.’
‘Shove off yourself. I am practicing.’ I lobbed a ball at him. ‘This is called chipping.’
He let out a girly little yelp. ‘Do that again and I’ll …’
I did it again. Ian groaned and I thought I might have overdone it, but then I realised that, with his batlike ears, he’d heard Mum talking to a visitor in the kitchen.
‘Brendan,’ he hissed.
Sullivan had once tried to engage Ian in friendly conversation. He thinks everyone follows sport. And as he’d started working at St Joe’s after Ian had left, he had no idea what he was up against. He asked Ian what he thought of Manchester United’s chances in the Cup. By the time he had explained who ‘Man U’ were and which Cup he meant, he realised he was unlikely to get an informed opinion. He didn’t ask me, of course. He never forgot I was Stirling, one of his wingers. That was okay with me. I never forgot he was my rugby coach and History teacher.
I hesitated. It was Sunday, three days since I’d stood up to him in class. We hadn’t even had a rugby practice yet. I still had the full humiliation of practicing with the B team to look forward to. I heard tinkly laughter coming from the kitchen. Maybe I should stay where I was, wait until he was out of the way? But this was my territory, not his. He was in Stirling Country now.
I left Ian playing something fast and furious on the piano and went into the kitchen. I was greeted by the sight of Sullivan with his arm around Helen, all lovey smiles. Pass the sick bucket, please! Mum was trying to persuade them to have a cake. I put my hand over the plate she was holding in front of them and scooped up a couple.
‘Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.’
Helen scowled, but she watches what she says in front of boyfriends. She likes them to think she’s sweet. Sweet as a scorpion.
Sullivan nodded in my direction. I nodded back, my mouth full of cake. M trotted in
behind me and sniffed around them. Sullivan slammed one of his enormous hands down fast on M’s back and ruffled his coat. According to Helen, he’d grown up with dogs and knew how to handle them. He was a country boy and thought every dog was like a working dog, so he acted as if he were a shepherd and M was rounding up a flock of sheep. I don’t think so! M growled and bared his teeth, but just when it was turning interesting, Mum said, ‘Davy! Put M in the garden.’
Reluctantly, I dragged M out just as Dad came in from the garden. ‘Hello Brendan!’ he said cheerily. Though he doesn’t rate my rugby, he’s impressed by Sullivan’s international career. He’s always getting it into the conversation.
‘Mr Stirling.’ Sullivan flashed a smile. ‘All well with you?’
‘Fine, fine, just, er …’ Dad was struggling to find some common interest, ‘… just taken up a new hobby actually.’
‘Sport,’ I corrected him. ‘Golf’s a sport. Restyling your hair, basket-weaving, crochet work, they’re hobbies.’
‘What are your plans today?’ Mum asked quickly.
‘We’re out to lunch,’ said Sullivan.
‘That’s a permanent condition with you!’ I said promptly. I was the only one to laugh. That’s good enough for me.
Sullivan was still standing. I sat down on one of the six seats around the big kitchen table. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ I said, pulling out a chair. He glared at me. ‘Sit down,’ I repeated.
‘Yes, where are my manners? Do sit down, Brendan,’ added Mum. I grinned.
‘Sit down,’ I said again, fixing him with a look. ‘Sit down.’ I was enjoying this. I gave him a look that I hoped said, You can’t win.
Reluctantly he sat down. I gave him a wonderful smile, then stood up. I knew he wanted to throttle me, but it was worth it. He took a minute to recover. Then he said to Dad, ‘Golf. So, where are you planning to join?’
‘Dimbrook. It’s just down the road.’
Sullivan whistled. ‘Tough. It’s very popular. There’s probably a waiting list for membership.’
‘Dead man’s shoes,’ I explained. Sullivan was trying to squeeze me out of the conversation, but I wasn’t having any of it. ‘Dad’s got to wait till some member dies. Mind you, since Helen drives past the entrance everyday, the chances are well good.’
Dad gave me a look. ‘I’m being proactive,’ he said grandly. He’d been calling in at Dimbrook’s public bar and coming back smelling of Guinness.
‘Play of seven myself,’ said Sullivan, smugly. I glared. Another thing he was good at.
‘Dad’s put his work first. Isn’t that what you said the other day, Dad? That you wouldn’t have dreamed of taking it up when you were younger because you have different priorities?’
‘Err … what do you think of our chances in the Six Nations this year, Brendan?’ Dad asked, clearly put out to have his words thrown back at him in front of Sullivan.
‘Yeah, Brendan,’ I asked in pally fashion, leaning on the work surface, ‘what’da ya think?’
For a second his eyes bulged to hear me call him Brendan and then he said, ‘Strong squad. Naughton’s playing like a demon! What a star!’
Dad agreed, nodding vigorously. Helen was nibbling on single crumbs of a cake and Mum was fussing with Mozart while this farce of male bonding was going on.
‘I reckon Naughton should be scrapped.’
Dad gaped at me. ‘But he scored two tries last Saturday.’
‘Yeah, throw him off.’
‘And his kicking is superb,’ objected Dad.
‘B team stuff. What do you think, Brendan?’ I guess he’d worked out that I hadn’t told my family what he’d done. They didn’t know I’d been relegated to the B team. He managed a grin. ‘I think … I think …’ He stood up and turned to Helen. ‘I think if we don’t go now, we’ll miss our restaurant reservations.’
‘Don’t let us keep you.’ I gave him a little wave and a smile. ‘Byeee, Brendan.’
Ian waited until Sullivan had driven away with Helen before coming out of the sitting room. ‘Wot an ape!’ he said. ‘Fick as two short planks.’
‘Thick as the trunk of a tree sandwiched between two short planks,’ I agreed.
‘How can that be?’ asked Mum indignantly. ‘He teaches at St Joseph’s.’
I explained. ‘It be because he played rugby for Ireland. St Joe’s would have him on the staff whatever. He could have a walnut for a brain. Don’t blame me if my history stinks. I’m being seriously misinformed. When was the Easter Rising? Some time around Christmas?’
Dad shook his head. ‘You were talking utter rubbish about Naughton. Sometimes I wonder what you’re on.’
‘Indignation sprinkled with righteous anger,’ I told him. I picked a cherry off the top of a cake. ‘Topped off with some nice juicy revenge.’
‘Whatever about all that nonsense, I’ve got some news about my application,’ Dad told me. ‘The waiting list is closed at the moment.’
‘Closed! You mean you’ve got to wait before you get to wait?’
‘On a conservative estimate, it could be ten years before I get in.’
‘Ten years! But I’ll be in my twenties by then. I wanted to be playing by next weekend.’ But Dad didn’t look as disappointed as I’d expected.
‘There is … a loophole.’ Dad loves loopholes – plugging them when he is at work and going through them when he isn’t.
‘So?’
‘There are vacancies in the youth section.’ Dad was looking everywhere but at me. Basically, he was telling me that I could get into the golf club, but he couldn’t. The idea was killing him.
‘Hard luck. Still, you weren’t making much progress, were you? Can I have your clubs?’
‘Not so fast! And what do you mean, not making much progress? I hit that ball nearly a hundred yards, you said so yourself.’
‘Into the car park, Dad. The car park.’
‘Be that as it may …’ Dad was having difficulty getting something out, ‘… as far as membership of Dimbrook is concerned, I can play if you’re a member.’
‘Okay.’ More than okay. I imagined Dad, standing waiting, all dressed up in his golfing trousers, his golfing jumper, his special golfing socks, needing me. I would be a member; he would be my guest.
‘So, how about it?’ asked Dad.
‘Well … there’s one problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We can’t both play with the same set of golf clubs, can we? It’s not allowed. The etiquette of golf doesn’t allow it.’
‘Since when were you into etiquette?’
Since it got me my own golf clubs.
‘That’s the way it is,’ I said firmly. ‘No golf clubs. No membership. No chance.’
‘Alright. I’ll buy you some.’
Result! ‘A full set?’
‘If you must.’
Oh, I think I must. ‘Pings?’
‘Pings! Are you mad? Surely you could make do with some second-hand ones?’
‘Sorry. No can do.’ I wanted her to see me with the best set of clubs on the market. ‘Brand new Pings,’ I insisted.
The sound of Dad over a barrel was more beautiful than any music. ‘Go on then.’
‘Great. Thanks Dad.’ When the kitten came up to me, I picked him up. Mozart. He wasn’t the only genius about!
‘Everybody’s mad but thee and me …’
I dragged myself and my kit off the bus. I’d caught it with seconds to spare. I hadn’t even had time for a shower after rugby. Training with the B team had been the hell I had expected. My new team-mates were determined to show they were as tough as an A team player, so I’d had more than my fair share of booting and winding. There was a long scratch down one arm and the seeping blood was cold against my skin. I’d washed my face, but the mud had dried on my legs. A crappy day all round.
I wanted chocolate. I had just enough energy to make it to the village shop. The notice on the door said Closed. I looked up at the shop sign: McDonnell’s 2
4/7. What the hell was it doing closed if it was a 24/7? I rattled the door, but it was definitely locked. As I turned to go, I bumped into the red-haired girl. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. The look she gave me wasn’t unfriendly, so I was hoping she’d forgotten our last encounter.
This was my chance. She was carrying two golf clubs again, so I said, ‘Off to the golf range?’ As soon as the words were spoken, I wished them back again. She was carrying two golf clubs. Where else did I think she was going? Fishing? Ballet class? Talk about stating the obvious!
But she gave me a smile and said, ‘Yeah, I’m a member up at Dimbrook. You play?’
‘Going to,’ I said quickly – definitely going to now.
‘Okay, see you.’
‘Yeah, see you.’
I ran home. The dried blood didn’t seem to matter anymore. I wanted to get my hands on my own set of golf clubs and start practicing.
I started on Dad the first chance I got. ‘So, when are we going out for my golf clubs?’
‘Oh, you’ve not forgotten then,’ he said gloomily.
‘No chance,’ I assured him.
‘Well, how about Saturday, after rugby. Do you have a game?’
‘No.’ The B team wasn’t playing till the week after, but Dad didn’t keep up with my schedule, so he hadn’t worked out that I’d been dropped.
‘Saturday then.’
‘If we’re going into Dublin, can Joe and Abbas come back with me?’ I could go to the range with my new clubs, and if she was there, I’d have proper back-up instead of Dad doing his comic turn.
‘And you’re going to mow the lawn twice a week all summer?’ Dad asked.
‘Won’t Ian be back again by then? Shouldn’t he take a turn?’
‘Ian has to be careful about his hands.’ It’s like I’m expendable! But I wanted those clubs more than ever. I nodded.
‘And you’ll build that rockery?’ Dad was determined to get his money’s worth of jobs out of me.
‘I’ll need some gloves and golfing trousers.’
My Nutty Neighbours Page 4