by James Ross
“You forgot about the green,” Trent reminded.
“How foolish of me,” Callum said out loud. “You know, you make a pretty good straight man,” he chuckled. “The committee must have found one of those dead elephant herds and covered them up with dirt because it looks like you could host a giant slalom ski race on that putting surface.”
“We’ll join Monique as the players reach the tee.”
Chapter Eighty-Seven
“The drops I felt a few moments ago have increased in intensity,” Monique reported from the seventeenth tee.
Opur unzipped his bag, reached in a pouch and pulled out a pair of waterproof rain pants. “We’ve got to get this over, J Dub.”
“Keep grinding,” the caddy encouraged. “I don’t know what else to tell you. We’ve come too far to stop now.” He opened the umbrella and held it over Opur’s head.
“Don’t worry about me. Keep the grips dry on the clubs,” Opur instructed. He took the sunglasses off and blinked as the light got brighter.
“You don’t want to keep them on?” J Dub asked as Opur handed the pair over.
“It’s gotten darker out. Let me see if I can focus a little better under normal daylight.” He chuckled at the irony of playing golf with limited vision. “Now I see three balls instead of two.”
“Do you want them back?”
“Not right now. I’ll figure out which one to hit when I get the club behind the ball.”
J Dub unfolded Opur’s rain jacket and offered it to him. His right arm held the umbrella over the bag and the left hand held the jacket. “Here.”
“I’ll put the jacket on in between shots. I want some freedom in my shoulders,” Opur reasoned. He pointed to his bag. “I’ve got at least six new gloves in the bottom pouch. We’ll need a dry one on every shot.” He moved over next to the bag to stay under one side of the umbrella.
“You know what you’re doing in these conditions,” J Dub commented.
“If there was anything I learned over in England it was how to play in the rain,” Opur said.
J Dub pulled the yardage book out and the duo looked at a diagram of the hole. He then peered down the fairway. “See that church steeple in the distance?”
“Are you kidding me?” Opur followed. “I can barely make out the form of the ball.”
“Okay, I’ll get you lined up when you get over the ball. Same thing we’ve been doing.”
They watched as Tank drove the ball down the right side of the fairway. “He’s put the ball where he needed to,” Monique declared.
J Dub walked with Opur out to the hitting area, all the while holding the umbrella over the player. After the ball was teed up the caddy stood behind the ball and got Opur’s feet positioned so that he was lined up to the steeple. “You’re good to go whenever you feel like it.” J Dub stepped off to the side. Opur made a picture perfect swing. “Leave it alone wind,” the caddy coaxed.
“You could probably throw a picnic blanket over those two shots,” Monique announced. “From my vantage point it doesn’t look like three paces separate those two balls. Both are very nice plays under the declining weather conditions.”
“They are both in excellent shape,” Trent said as the camera zoomed in to the fairway.
“So tell me Monique, have you ever had a shot or two on the course under these circumstances?” He paused. “Not a golf shot, mind you. One of the other variety.”
“Callum, women don’t talk about those things.” She smiled into the camera. “But don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Even when bundled up in rain gear Monique kept her cuteness.
“Have you been walking with this group for a while?” Julie asked.
“Ever since they started today. My wife and I thought we’d come out and watch.” The man craned his neck to see when the players would be hitting again. “This might be the prettiest place that I’ve ever set foot.”
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Julie agreed. “I haven’t seen a weed on the property.”
“Goes to show you what money can buy,” the guy said. The pitter patter of raindrops hit the umbrella.
“Who are you pulling for?” Julie asked.
“My wife loves the guy with the long hair. He’s the one we’re following.”
“We’re pulling for Opur too,” Morgan said.
“Yeah,” Julie said. She saw rain hitting the man’s head and shoulder. “We’re not hogging the umbrella from you, are we?”
“We don’t want you or your wife to get wet,” Morgan said. “She’s got her own.” He nodded his head toward the ropes.
The lady with the white sundress covered with navy blue polka dots was standing near Fred.
Not too far away the girls noticed Pork Chop going through the trash container. He had dozens of tickets strung to his belt. In his hand he held several programs and napkins with The Classic insignia. He rummaged through the garbage and pulled out a cup with a logo, even a used hot dog wrapper.
“This stuff has value on e-Bay!” he yelled over to Fred.
“Would you hold it down?” Fred said in a muzzled voice. “They’re getting ready to hit.”
Pork Chop pointed to his head. He had the satellite radio feed piped into his ears. “I’m listening. We have another minute or two.”
YouWho pulled a camera from his pocket. “Don’t let the marshal see that. We’ll get kicked out of here,” Fred chastised him.
“I want my pic’sure taken wit’ Pork Chop.” He tapped the woman with the polka dots on the shoulder, handed her the camera and hustled over to his golfing buddy. The woman followed.
The two crept under the limbs of a tree. YouWho put his hand on Pork Chop’s shoulder and smiled. Pork Chop, with his protruding belly, stood as stiff as a board with his hands straight down by his side. He looked like a poster boy for The Classic with all the paraphernalia hanging from his neck and belt. Both his hands were full of used wrappers and programs.
“I’m sorry that we have to claim those two,” Julie apologized. “They’re part of our group.” The trio watched as the man’s wife snapped a picture.
“One mo’. One mo’,” YouWho urged. “Jus’ in case firs’ one dint take.” The woman obliged.
“That’s embarrassing,” Julie said. “He’s got more trash on him than a truck going to a landfill.”
The guy laughed to himself. “It looks like he’s going home with a few souvenirs.”
“Yeah, and if Opur can win maybe he’ll autograph everything for Pork Chop,” Julie replied.
Outside the ropes Julie and Morgan struggled to stay dry. A man noticed Morgan’s condition and offered her his umbrella. “Well thank you. That’s thoughtful,” Morgan said.
“We thought we’d beat the rain back to the clubhouse,” Julie said, “but I guess we missed it by a half hour.”
“That incident on the last hole put them behind,” the man drawled.
“Wasn’t that awful?” Morgan commented. “That woman and her friends stood by us earlier in the day.”
Chapter Eighty-Eight
After inching toward the landing area Opur stood under the umbrella as J Dub figured the yardage for the next shot. The dizzy feeling that Opur felt threw his equilibrium off. It made a simple chore like walking next to impossible unless J Dub held him up as they walked along.
“We can’t get to the green with the wind blowing at us like it is,” J Dub said as he came back and opened the yardage book for Opur to see. The player leaned his neck forward and tried to focus on the diagram of the hole that was printed in the book. “We’ve got traps on both sides of the fairway in the landing area.” He pointed to the bunkers. “We need to get to the left side of the fairway. That will give us a good angle into the pin.”
Opur’s mind was in a lull. He wanted to win, but his physical impediment was wearing down on his thought process. “Whatever.” He took a deep sigh. “Just tell me what club to hit and in what direction.”
J Dub pointed to a sand trap on t
he left side. “We need to come inside that. I’ll line you up.” The caddy reached into the bag for a 5-wood. “There’s plenty of room over there. Just put a good swing on it.”
“Everyone thinks that this is automatic, don’t they?”
J Dub grinned. What had been easy for Opur all of his life was a constant battle for the hordes of people that enjoyed the sport recreationally. “How is your glove?”
“I took it off and kept it dry.”
J Dub held the umbrella over Opur’s head as the player took off his rain jacket. “You can make this shot in your sleep,” he encouraged.
“I don’t need that umbrella. This stuff is coming at us sideways.” The wind drove the tiny pellets horizontally and served as a constant aggravation. He took a stance over the ball. “How does that look?”
“Reset your feet slightly. Aim a little more right.” Opur made the adjustment while J Dub studied the alignment. He walked back to the bag. “Pull the trigger whenever you’re ready.”
Opur took a smooth, fluid swing. Callum had an opinion of the shot from the booth. “He’s got a tidy right to left movement on that shot. That should bore into the headwind.”
Opur still had his head down looking at his divot. “Is that where you wanted it?” He didn’t bother to watch the ball. “I couldn’t tell where it went if I tried to follow it.”
“Perfect,” J Dub confirmed. “That’s position B. We should be on our yardage mark.”
Monique spoke into the mic. “I don’t know if the folks at home can appreciate the teamwork these two are using out here or not.”
“What do you mean?” Trent asked.
“Opur is not doing any work. His caddy is clubbing him, lining him up and essentially telling him to make a smooth swing,” she pontificated.
“For not doing any work, he sure is executing the shots amazingly well,” Callum replied.
“It’s almost as if he’s in a trance,” Monique said. “J Dub told me several holes ago that the kid could swing a club in his sleep. I laughed, knowing how hard it is for some people. But can you imagine?”
“Sleepwalking?” Callum asked.
“Or making a perfect swing?” Trent wondered out loud. Monique giggled. “Having the God-given talent to make a pass at the ball so effortlessly and trusting your instincts,” she explained.
“It’s beautiful to watch,” Callum voiced on-air, “and the amazing thing is that he’s not even on his game today.”
“Tank’s made up six strokes on him,” Trent reminded his partner.
The broadcasters watched as Tank and Dickie Doo conferred about their shot. “What do you think Tank will do here?” Callum asked.
Monique had gotten closer to the pair. “From what I can understand it appears that they just want to match Opur shot for shot. They don’t need to take any chances with a one stroke lead.”
“I don’t know about that strategy,” Callum questioned.
“Actually in this spot that is decent logic. I don’t believe that Tank can get it to the green with the wind blowing like it is,” Monique disputed.
“Why do you feel differently, Callum?” Trent asked his partner.
“It’s a mindset,” the Englishman said. “When you try not to lose instead of playing to win, strange things can happen.”
“In this situation I don’t know what can go wrong,” Trent said in a differing opinion. “If he can make pars it forces Opur to birdie twice to win. That would be almost unheard of with the wind blowing like it is.”
“We’ll know in due time,” Callum conceded. The announcers watched as Tank hit a frozen rope in the same general direction as Opur’s ball.
“From my vantage point that appears to be inside Opur,” Monique announced.
The camera carried a close-up of Tank’s shot on the monitor. “He’s inside him by about fifteen yards,” Trent validated, “and in great position.”
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Tank and Dickie Doo charged ahead to their ball. The champ played to the crowd that lined the fairway. He had been in this situation before. Final rounds in the mid-sixties were his forte and he had come from behind on many, many occasions. Tank waved to the spectators and broadcast his pearly whites for everyone to see. Congratulatory shouts from the gallery fueled his emotions and Tank could turn on the charm when he wanted to.
J Dub turned to Opur. “You take your good ’ole time, my friend.” The pair crept along at a snail’s pace as Tank and Dickie Doo easily outdistanced them. Opur could hardly stand up let alone walk at a decent pace.
“What do you plan on doing?” Opur asked.
“Make them wait,” J Dub answered matter-of-factly. He had the bag over his shoulder and one hand on Opur’s arm, just like they had been for three or four holes. Opur shielded himself from the rain as well as he could with the umbrella. “There’s no reason to get in a hurry now.”
“I don’t think I could if I wanted to,” Opur said with a moan. He voiced his concern. “So how are we going to beat this guy?”
“We’re going to play our game,” J Dub said.
“Which is?” Opur asked as the two plodded along.
“You know the tortoise and the hare story don’t you?” J Dub asked.
“Don’t we all,” Opur answered. If nothing else the conversation served as a way to relax and take his mind off his throbbing noggin.
“Then I won’t tell you that one,” J Dub said. He looked ahead at Tank and Dickie Doo. The duo had reached Tank’s ball and turned to look back at their competitors who were still at least seventy yards away. “If you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you stop, squat down and tie your shoe?”
“Why?”
“Just because it looks like your shoelace is coming undone,” J Dub said as he grabbed the umbrella. He held it over Opur’s head as the shoe was tied. When the task was finished he reached down and lifted Opur to his feet. As he handed the umbrella back to his friend, J Dub looked at Dickie Doo who was bitching at Tank. “Now where was I?”
“The tortoise and the hare.”
“That’s right,” J Dub recalled. “There’s a little better version of that story that Fred likes to tell in the clubhouse.”
“How’s that?” Opur asked as the two continued their journey down the fairway.
“It’s applicable to our golf course because of the farm fields that are close by,” J Dub stated. “But the way Fred tells the story it’s about the papa bull and the baby bull instead of the tortoise and the hare.”
“And?”
“The principle is the same. The pair of bulls is standing on top of the hill looking down at all of the cows below.”
“Okay. I can see that.”
“Now stop me if you’ve heard this one. It’s as old as the hills.”
“No, go on.”
“The baby bull looks over to his old man and says, ‘Let’s run down there and screw us a cow.’”
“Hah. Can’t blame him for that,” Opur said.
J Dub looked up to see Tank and Dickie Doo watching Opur laugh. “So the papa bull turns to his son and says, ‘I’ve got a better idea. Rather than run, let’s walk down there and screw them all.”
Opur roared. The release of laughter served a dual purpose. It relaxed the player and infuriated Tank and Dickie Doo. “That’s a good one,” Opur said as he walked up to his ball chuckling.
J Dub whispered in his ear. “We don’t need to take any time on this shot. The main thing is to keep it below the hole. You want to be short left.” The caddy handed Opur his club. The player quickly got over the ball. After J Dub set Opur’s alignment he said, “Fire away.” Opur did as he was told. The ball came to rest forty feet from the hole leaving an uphill putt. The two traded high fives.
Now it was Tank’s turn. He and Dickie Doo had hordes of time to figure out what they wanted to do. In fact Tank already had the club in his hand and seconds later knocked the shot to within fifteen feet. The gallery roared as the ball hit and released.
J Dub turned and whispered to Opur. “That’s just what I was hoping. He’s dead right now. It’s impossible to make a putt on this hole from above the cup.”
Chapter Ninety
“As the players walk to the green, let’s switch to Monique and get her take on the situation,” Trent said.
“It’s fairly clear what’s going on,” Monique started. “Tank’s fans are buzzing. With a two putt from Opur and a makeable birdie putt for Tank this match could be over in a matter of minutes.” She paused to wave at some of her own fans as chaos was about ready to break loose on the seventeenth green. “I guess it wouldn’t technically be over if that happened, but Tank would take a two-stroke lead going into the eighteenth hole and cap an incredible final day comeback.”
“Has the rain affected the speed of the greens?” Callum asked.
“If it has, I sure haven’t noticed it,” Monique commented.
“Does Opur have much of a chance?” Trent asked.
“Anytime you have a putter in your hand you have a chance to make a putt,” Monique began. “We’ve all said that today. But realistically he’s around forty feet away. You certainly don’t expect putts of that length to be automatic.”
“I’ll have to go back and look at the stats,” Callum said, “but I think he’s only had something like twenty-three putts through sixteen holes. That blade of his has certainly kept him in this golf match.”
“That would be nine one-putts today,” Trent verified. “That’s amazing on greens that are as slick as . . .”
“ . . . a comb going through Elvis’ hair,” Callum interrupted.
Trent smiled. “Thank you for that visual, Callum.” He gulped. “Speaking of which, Tupelo, Mississippi isn’t too far away from this site,” the broadcaster mentioned.