by James Ross
Tank and Dickie Doo witnessed the skirmish from the other side of the tee. “I guess he can’t take not having the lead all to himself,” Dickie Doo said with a chuckle.
Tank gave his caddy a sideways glance. “There’s something more than that going on.” He walked up to Opur. “Are you going to make it?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.” Opur bent over, lost his balance and stumbled while putting his tee in the ground. He caught himself before falling to the turf as Tank moved out of the way. J Dub took a step to try and stop him, but Opur turned and yelled, “Get back!” He fumbled in his pocket for a ball, regained his balance and looked at J Dub. Opur held his hand out. “Throw me a ball.”
J Dub reached into his pocket, checked it for the proper markings and tossed it underhanded to Opur. The young man missed it and stared at the ball as it lay at his feet. He raised his hand to his face, shook his head slightly, then reached down and placed the ball on the tee. Seconds later he assumed his stance, took a few practice swings and got over the ball. As if he was on autopilot, Opur took the club back and unleashed his body at the ball.
“Unbelievable!” Trent shouted from the booth.
“He can hit the ball like that in his sleep,” J Dub said to the official.
Opur didn’t watch the flight of the ball. His vision wouldn’t allow him to follow it. He glared at Dickie Doo. “Now wipe that smirk off your face.” Opur kicked his foot at an errant tee and walked toward the fairway as the wooden peg bounced off Dickie Doo’s leg.
Chapter Eighty
“In all my days on the professional golf circuit, I’ve never seen an outburst like that,” Trent said. “Is he that upset about losing the lead?”
“We may have to check with Monique about that,” Callum answered. “Tank’s caddy was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s more to it than being tied in the golf tournament.”
“While we wait on word from Monique, would you describe the hole to the viewers, Callum?”
“I’d love to. Number fourteen plays slightly downhill. It is four hundred and ninety-nine yards with a portion of the gorge dissecting the fairway three hundred and eighty yards off the tee. The players have room to launch their tee shot, but anything off the fairway brings the boulders, slag bunkers and heather into play. A lay up to the gorge leaves the player a 9-iron or wedge into the green.”
“Just your average five hundred-yard par four,” Trent snickered. “A lay-up with a driver? These guys play a different game, don’t they?”
“Today it’s playing downwind so it’s a little shorter for them.”
Morgan’s emotions got the best of her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she walked with Julie and the group from Prairie Winds. “I’ve never seen him act like that.”
“Neither have I,” Julie said.
Curt grinned. “There’s nothing wrong with a little fire in your belly. He’s trying as hard as he can to win.”
“That was more than a little fire in his belly. He was acting like he was crazy,” Morgan maintained. “Did you see the way he turned on us?”
“He’s just fighting for his life on the golf course,” Curt said. “I wouldn’t make too big of a deal out of it.”
“You had to do that once, didn’t you?” Julie commented.
“It got a little tense there for a while,” Curt admitted.
“Fill Morgan in on what you went through,” Julie said.
“Oh, no. Come on, Julie, there’s a time and place for . . .”
“Quit being like that. Tell her what it’s like to fight for your life.” Julie turned to Morgan. “Curt had a battle with cancer. He’s a survivor.”
“For now anyway,” Curt said. “Is there any wood around for me to knock on?” He walked five paces away from the girls and tapped his knuckles against a tree trunk.
“Tell her what you went through?”
“It’s strange,” Curt began. “Your body kind of tells you that something isn’t right.”
“Do you think that’s what Opur’s going through?” Morgan asked.
“It’s hard to say. You notice subtle things that you once did that become more labored,” Curt continued. He looked at Opur as he strolled aimlessly by himself down the fairway. “I don’t want to throw a bunch of false signals your way, but maybe some of the things that he took for granted are becoming more challenging.”
“You wouldn’t know it by that drive,” Julie said. “He knocked the cow poop out of it.”
“What did you notice?” Morgan asked. Her curiosity was piqued.
“I was playing golf and it was little stuff like getting light-headed placing the tee in the ground and walking to the ball or leaving the green and walking to the cart. At home it was going to the mailbox and getting the mail or taking the trash out. I was so run down and lacking energy that I knew something was wrong.”
“He’s not havin’ any problem walkin’,” Morgan replied.
“Except on that hole where he pulled out the umbrella. He looked disoriented there.” Curt paused. “But we’re talking apples and oranges here. He doesn’t have cancer.”
“I heard J Dub say that they think he got food poisoning,” Julie offered.
“That’s guessing. They don’t know what’s going on inside his body,” Curt said.
“What’s it like gettin’ cancer?” Morgan asked.
“You mean the news or living with it?”
Morgan shrugged. “Both, I guess.”
“You’re anxious about the unknown,” Curt started. “Then you have to listen to the doctors and evaluate your chances.” The subject hit home. It had only been a couple of years since his diagnosis. “I was lucky. Up until then I was healthy so that helped a lot. Cancer affects different people different ways. There’s breast cancer, lung cancer, colon cancer, skin cancer, brain cancer and on and on and on. You see a lot in the cancer center.”
“I had a good friend die from it.”
“Some people only have a glimmer of hope while others fight it head on.” Curt began to choke up. “The disease does not discriminate. It affects young and old, black and white, male and female.” He looked out at Opur as he stood by his ball. “He’s battling something right now. And it looks like it’s something he’s never had to face before.”
“That was ugly on the tee.”
“You’re going to find out a lot about him right now,” Curt guessed. “What’s he made of? How determined is he? How hard is he going to fight?” He watched as Opur and J Dub discussed their options. “At the end of the day it’s really all about looking in the mirror and answering yourself.”
“What do you mean?” Morgan asked.
“Did I give it a 100 percent effort?” Curt said. “That’s the question he’ll have to ask himself. If the answer is yes, then there won’t be any second guessing.”
“Is that what you asked yourself when you got sick?”
“Sure. Everyone’s dealt a different set of cards. What’s undetermined is how you play them.” Curt reflected. “I was lucky. Some of the others I sat next to in chemotherapy weren’t as fortunate. All you can do is give it your best shot.”
On the course the marshal approached Opur and J Dub. “You’re welcome to take some over the counter medicine if you’ve got it with you,” he began. “However we really can’t stop the golf tournament and have you go through an examination. If you walk off the golf course and do not finish the round then it would be treated as a WD.”
“A withdrawal,” J Dub complained, “because he got sick?”
“I sympathize,” the marshal said, ’but there’s not a lot I can do.” He turned to leave. “Oh, and by the way, they wanted me to issue you a warning for slow play. Now you’re officially on the clock.” He turned and walked away.
Opur turned to J Dub. “That’s ridiculous. How far out are we?”
“You’ve got one thirty four to the pin and it’s slightly downhill and the wind is helping.”
“Hand me my wed
ge.”
“Keep it left of the hole for an uphill putt.”
Opur got over the ball. “It would be a lot easier if I didn’t see two of them down there.” He waggled the club then looked up, visibly shaken by what the marshal said. “Who’s out?” He looked over at Tank, motioned to his competitor and stepped away from the ball. “Sorry, you’re out!” he yelled across the fairway.
“We were wondering if you’d figure that out,” Dickie Doo yelled back.
“The official wants us to speed it up!”
“If you’d step away from the ball we’ll get things moving!”
Opur turned to J Dub and mumbled,” I’ve had enough of the little twit.”
Dickie Doo had a smug grin on his face. “He’s rattled, boss. Your play and my jabs have him reeling.”
Tank grinned. “What did you say? One forty-eight?”
“Yeah, that’s to the pin.” Tank reached for his 9-iron.
“That’s the stick, champ. Get it close.” Dickie Doo stepped away seconds before Tank put the shot within thirty feet of the hole.
Opur didn’t waste any time. He got up and knocked the ball to twelve feet of the stick. “You read it and tell me where to hit it. I can’t see much of anything.” He tossed the club against his bag and headed for the green.
“What’s been going on down there, Monique?” Trent asked.
“Opur looks like he’s upset,” Callum added.
“J Dub, Opur’s caddy, asked for some medical ruling or relief on the tee and the marshal said none was available. To add insult to injury the officials have put this group on the clock.”
“What’s going on between Opur and Dickie Doo?” Trent asked.
“It started on the tee. Opur’s not in a good mood right now and Dickie Doo is trying to get under his skin.”
“Look out for that cornered dog I was talking about,” Callum suggested. “He’ll make this putt and go back into the lead.”
After Tank rolled his putt an inch left of the hole J Dub went to work on Opur’s line. He walked to both sides of the hole, squatted down and picked the spot out that he wanted Opur to aim for. “Now concentrate on the back of the ball and if you have to putt with your eyes closed, then go ahead. You practiced that all summer when you were growing up.”
A moment later a thunderous ovation erupted over the back nine. “Opur takes the lead by one with four holes to play!” Trent announced over the air.
J Dub bent over to retrieve the ball out of the cup. After giving a high-five he returned the pin to the hole and took the putter from Opur. On the way off the green the kid glared at Dickie Doo. It took fourteen holes, but Opur finally got the tee from Tank.
Chapter Eighty-One
“We’ve got a match going as we make the turn and head for the clubhouse,” Trent said.
“I’ve been saying it all day,” Callum answered, “that the kid has a great golf game. He’s battling some elements and hasn’t had much golf luck this afternoon, but he’s not backing down from the world’s number one player.”
“And whatever is going on between him and Dickie Doo looks like it might escalate into punches being thrown,” Trent theorized.
“Oh, that’s rubbish,” Callum countered. “The kid is getting fired up. Tank and Dickie Doo haven’t exactly been reserved with a lot of their celebrations. I’m sure he was getting tired of watching it. The game is tough enough. There’s the media, a crowd that is pulling for the favorite and the fact that he’s not feeling well. Opur needed to start making something happen and at the same time let Tank know that he’s got plenty of shots too.”
“The next four holes play into the wind,” Trent said. “How tough will it be to make up ground, Callum?”
“Look at those clouds.” The pair looked at the monitor.
It showed a close-up of a front moving into the area and dark clouds building in the distance. “We’ve got a storm rolling in. It’s questionable whether they’ll be able to finish play today.”
“In that event the players will pick up tomorrow morning at ten o’clock,” Trent informed the audience.
“That’s if the rain stops and the grounds crew can get the course in playable condition. But let’s see if we have to come to that,” Callum replied.
“And of course we might have a playoff situation shaping up,” Trent reminded the viewers. “In that instance the competitors would go back to number eighteen and replay that hole first. If the match remained tied, then they would move to the par five tenth hole and play until a winner emerged.”
On the course Tank pulled Dickie Doo to the back of the tee box and watched as Opur and J Dub conferred about the tee shot. He craned his neck and whispered to his caddy. “Leave the guy alone and stay focused on what we have to do. I don’t want to have to tell you again, dammit.” He gave Dickie Doo a hard stare. “This guy can play. We’ve got our hands full.”
J Dub pointed in the distance. “I’d tell you where the target is but you can’t see it,” he said as he smiled. Their mood had lightened after J Dub read the putt and found the mark that he wanted Opur to putt over on the previous hole.
“Stand behind me and get me lined up. We’ll try to get this round in with my eyes closed,” Opur replied. “Just don’t stand behind me when I’m bringing the club back.”
“I know. That’s a penalty.”
Back in the booth Trent turned to Callum. “Would you tell the folks at home what is in store for the players on number fifteen?”
It’s not a long hole,” the Englishman started, “but it is visually intimidating.”
“Tell me about it,” Trent interrupted. “It’s like hitting a line drive into a brick wall.”
“The tee box sits down in a hole,” Callum continued. “The player stares at a quarry wall that is approximately two hundred yards away. The landing area is at least eighty feet above the tee. With the uphill view the depth perception is skewed. From the tee it looks like you’re going to hit the ball into the ravine. The ditch then runs up the right side of the fairway and the green sits on the edge of it.”
“But these guys are long enough to carry the trouble,” Trent reminded the audience.
“No question,” Callum agreed. “But with the wind kicking up, crazy things can happen on the golf course.” He shook his head off camera. “If the ball rides up the elevator shaft and comes down in the vast wasteland, a player could be looking at a very big number on this hole.”
“We saw Jimmy Mack take a nine on this hole earlier today,” Trent commented.
“For a short four hundred and twenty yard hole it can wreak havoc,” Callum agreed. “The green complex is a nightmare. When they blew up the rock in this quarry they must have left some of those big boulders lying around up there and the committee covered them up when they built the course. All you need is a clown’s face or some windmills on this green.”
“What do you mean?” Trent asked.
“Then you’d have a miniature golf course.”
“Don’t let the committee hear you say that,” Trent warned. “They may not renew your contract.”
“It’s not meant as criticism. I understand why this green is constructed like that. It’s to toughen the hole.”
“And they’ve got a monster of one here.”
“Yes, only five birdies here all day,” Callum added.
On the tee J Dub was getting Opur lined up properly. “Aim at the small divot two feet in front of your ball. That will get you in the landing area,” J Dub encouraged.
After contact Opur shook some cobwebs out of his head. He walked to his bag and handed the driver to J Dub. “This is going to be an adventure doing it this way,” he whispered.
“We have to do what we have to do on the fly. Let’s get it done one shot at a time.”
Tank and Dickie Doo advanced to the tee markers. “What do you like here, driver or 3-wood?” Tank asked.
“It’s into the wind. Just make sure it stays left or left center of the fairway.”
Dickie Doo picked the bag up, moved it three yards and set it down on the edge of the box. “You can let the shaft out here.”
Tank followed the advice and slammed a drive to position A on the golf hole. “Got that one, Dickie.”
“Let’s put the next one tight.”
Tank and Dickie Doo took off like they had plans for dinner and were running late. Opur lagged behind J Dub. He was laboring. It was an uphill climb to the ball and the players had to walk over another footbridge that was over the gorge. “Go on. I’ll catch up.” He lifted his chin and felt the stiff breeze blow through his hair. Storm clouds moved briskly across the sky. The smell of rain was prevalent.
Outside the ropes Julie turned to Morgan. “Your man is showing the world what he’s made of.”
“I’m proud of him no matter what,” Morgan maintained.
“There’s a lot of golf to be played,” Curt said. “This wind will be tough on both of them.”
“Are you Opur’s wife?” a voice asked. Morgan turned to see the female who again asked, “Are you?”
Morgan recognized the woman as one of the four that they had stood next to earlier. “No, not yet. We’re engaged.”
“I want to apologize to you,” the brunette in the blue culottes said. “My girlfriends are drunk. You know how that can be.” She placed one hand on top of her head so that her hat wouldn’t blow away. “I’m the designated driver.”
Morgan grinned. “They didn’t know.”
“You talk like us,” the brunette said. “Are you from around here?”
“South Alabama.”
“We’re from Memphis and Nashville-sorority sisters in college.”
“And you get together a few times a year to keep the memories alive?”
“We’ve been doin’ this for years. This is girls’ weekend away from the hubbies.”
“You’d think that they would be the ones that would be here,” Morgan said.
“They come earlier in the week and give us the tickets for the weekend. They played golf somewhere this morning and watch the final day on TV.”