by Carl Hiaasen
What I had not been able to do was to get good enough at golf to be satisfied. Such a distant state of mind might be attainable, but slogging onward carries the risk of poisoning me forever against the game, which would be a damn shame.
The decision won’t be easy. As every golf addict knows, all it takes is one great shot to keep you hooked.
Sometimes it doesn’t even have to be your own.
D-Day
In the weeks following the tournament, I’ve played a couple of rounds without disaster or distinction. The orthopedic surgeon says there’s not much to be done about my bum knee, and advises me to take a pill whenever it hurts.
On the day after tomorrow I’m supposed to show up at the PGA complex in Port St. Lucie as a one-day substitute in an informal tournament that includes a half-dozen of my old high school classmates. I’m reluctant to put my present golf game on display, but it’s a favor for Leibo—the least I can do after conscripting him for my Member-Guest. After this I’ll be able to throw out my Callaways and have a clear conscience.
Or not.
From Feherty comes droll Irish advice: “Finish the book, and then give up golf again. That way you’d feel good twice in the same day.”
Not a bad plan, although it’s possible that he’s kidding.
This afternoon I drive Quinn out to the Sandridge Golf Club, where I haven’t shown my face since sinking that cart. I wear no disguise, but I tiptoe past the pro shop like it’s Ann Coulter’s sex dungeon.
The club hosts a weekly clinic for youngsters, and today’s event is a three-hole “scramble.” First prize: An honor pin from the Disney Wildlife Conservation Fund, which has nothing to do with golf but it looks pretty cool.
Since I haven’t a clue how a scramble works, Quinn’s coach patiently explains: The kids are paired in teams and play off the best ball. Each golfer takes a shot from that lie, the best ball is again chosen, and on it goes.
Quinn’s partner is a tall, sturdy kid named Dakota, who is blessed with a splendid short game. Quinn’s having a banner day with his driver (“The Big Boy,” he calls it), so the two of them are ham-and-egging from tee to green. My job is to pilot the cart and, still skittish from my last tour of The Lakes, I navigate with heightened caution.
Approaching the final hole, a par-3, we think that our team might be leading the match. Quinn belts another straight drive, Dakota pitches to the fringe and moments later we’re putting for bogey.
Both boys are a bit exuberant with their lags, and now there’s a ten-footer sneering back at us. Dakota goes first, the ball dying two inches shy of the lip.
The other players, who finished a few minutes ahead of our team, are gathered at greenside with their parents and the coach. Except for a couple of kids playing tag around the bunkers, everybody watches quietly as Quinn Hiaasen lines up his putt.
“Just take your time,” is Dad’s brilliant contribution to the effort.
Showing no fear, no yips and—most importantly—no genetic predisposition to choke, my youngest son drills the ball straight into the back of the hole. I am totally surprised. Quinn is not.
The small crowd breaks into applause—Quinn and his buddy have won by 4 strokes. The coach presents the medals, and gently cautions against overcelebrating. There will be days, she says, when it’s someone else’s turn to win, and your turn to clap.
Back in the cart, my boy is chattering and antic with joy. The great part is, he’d be no different if he had missed the putt. Sometimes it’s astonishing to think we have the same DNA.
When I put him on the phone with his mother, Quinn adopts a more Norwegian attitude about his first golfing victory. “It’s just a kids’ tournament, Mom,” he says.
Nice try, but I couldn’t help notice the 500-watt smile when his ball dropped in the cup; the glow was unforgettable. There’s nothing to do but admit the truth: Regardless of my own foolish and overwrought tribulations, this really is a great game. Truly it is.
I see warmer days ahead, when a certain young player might want his old man to join him for nine holes after school. For some reason he enjoys watching me hit the ball, so I suppose I’ll bring my clubs.
What the hell.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of fourteen novels and two children’s books. He also writes a weekly column for The Miami Herald.
ALSO BY CARL HIAASEN
Fiction
Nature Girl
Skinny Dip
Basket Case
Sick Puppy
Lucky You
Stormy Weather
Strip Tease
Native Tongue
Skin Tight
Double Whammy
Tourist Season
A Death in China
(with William Montalbano)
Trap Line
(with William Montalbano)
Powder Burn
(with William Montalbano)
For Young Readers
Flush
Hoot
Nonfiction
Team Rodent: How Disney Devours the World
Kick Ass: Selected Columns
(edited by Diane Stevenson)
Paradise Screwed: Selected Columns
(edited by Diane Stevenson)
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2008 by Carl Hiaasen
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hiaasen, Carl.
The downhill lie: a hacker’s return to a ruinous sport / by Carl Hiaasen.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Hiaasen, Carl. 2. Golfers—United States—Biography. 3. Golf—United States. I. Title.
GV964.H43A3 2008
796.352092—dc22
[B] 2008005840
eISBN: 978-0-307-26943-0
v3.0