James Ross - A Young Adult Trilogy (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  “What’s that have to do with The Classic?”

  “That is where Elvis was from,” Trent answered.

  “Oh.” Callum was silent. “How foolish of me.”

  “Just because you didn’t know that doesn’t mean that you’re foolish,” Trent said.

  “Bad choice of words then.”

  “You certainly know your golf,” Trent admitted. “What do you see in this situation?”

  “Once again we’ve got a multitude of scenarios. Tank can close him out right here. He’s known for his killer instinct. Let’s join Monique for the action on the green,” Callum replied.

  “J Dub is stalking the putt,” Monique reported. “This is almost surreal how they are working. Obviously in an effort to conserve energy Opur has positioned himself behind the ball. He’s staying dry under the umbrella while J Dub has looked at the putt from both sides of the cup.”

  The caddy returned to the side of his player. “Is it going to do much?” Opur asked. Together they stood under the umbrella.

  “No,” J Dub answered. “You can make this.” He walked up once again and pointed to a spot on the green.

  “You don’t see much of that anymore,” Callum commented from the booth.

  “What is that?” Trent asked.

  “Spot putting,” Callum answered. “But it’s a very effective way of insuring that the ball stays on line.”

  “Why have they gone to that?” Trent asked. “What are your thoughts?”

  “By the way Opur is acting he must be having some sort of problem with his vision. He’s allowing his caddy to do the work.”

  “Isn’t that risky?” Trent asked.

  “Are you kidding?” Callum answered. “With the egos of some of these players, they want to do it all on their own. Opur is showing 100 percent trust and faith in J Dub.”

  “It’s been working thus far.”

  “Opur is technically a robot. J Dub is telling him where to hit the ball and he is so good that he can execute the instructions to perfection.” His voice broke on air as he remembered the relationship he had with his caddy. “I have to marvel at their relationship. This is so rare, but beautiful to witness. He trusts him all the way!”

  “It’s almost as if J Dub is getting his shot to win The Classic but Opur is carrying out the shots,” Trent broadcast.

  J Dub returned to stand behind Opur. He leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “You can make this. It doesn’t move much. It’s slightly uphill so you can have good pace on the putt.” He slapped Opur on the butt and took the umbrella. “Get up there and knock it in. Hit that mark and you’ll make it.”

  Opur stepped forward and positioned himself on the left side of the ball. He took several practice strokes. J Dub held the umbrella over the player’s head.

  “Close your eyes and envision the putt going in,” J Dub leaned forward and whispered. “You can do it.” He removed the safety net from the rain that the umbrella provided and retreated to the middle of the green.

  “The only problem I have is watching that Gawd-awful setup and grip,” Callum said from the booth. “That is truly one for the ages.”

  “We’ll know shortly,” Trent said. “He’s pulling the putter back.”

  “The speed is excellent,” Callum verbalized as the ball started to roll.

  “It’s got a chance!” Trent said as the ball neared the hole.

  “It needs to keep its speed.”

  “He made it!” Trent exclaimed as the putt rattled into the cup. The gallery sent sound waves across the countryside. The roar was deafening. J Dub pumped his arm.

  Opur matter-of-factly bowed his head as if a prayer had been answered. He dropped his putter, leaned over and put both hands on his knees. His lack of emotion was in stark contrast to the celebratory cheers coming from the crowd. He watched as J Dub retrieved the ball and returned to his side. With a humble grin he slowly moved across the green with J Dub steadying his balance.

  “He’s hurting,” Callum said on-air. “There is something seriously wrong with him.”

  “Hopefully it is not anything that winning The Classic can’t cure,” Trent said. “Opur has moved into a tie for the lead.” The pair looked into the monitor as Tank moved forward to place his ball on the putting surface. “All of a sudden this is a big shot to put him back into the lead.”

  “Monique, what can you tell us about this putt?” Callum asked.

  “It’s downhill and moves right to left. When I first saw how close Tank was I thought he would make it, but after looking at it from both directions it is a tricky and very slippery putt,” the French woman voiced.

  Dickie Doo and Tank took turns walking around the hole in an attempt to read the line of the putt properly. The pair conversed about the line as Dickie confirmed with his hand motion that the ball was breaking from the right to the left. Right before Tank walked to the ball Dickie Doo whispered. “It’s fast.”

  Tank shook his head in agreement as the last thought stuck in his head. A second later Callum shouted, “That won’t get there!”

  “Could that have been nerves?” Trent asked incredulously.

  “He certainly respected the speed,” Callum said.

  “It was almost as if he yipped it,” Trent added.

  Tank stabbed at the ground with the bottom of the putter. “Oh, come on,” Callum groaned. He criticized the champ. “That is such an overused reaction. That ball didn’t hit anything.”

  Tank yelled at Dickie Doo. “The rain took the speed out of it!” He went up to tap the ball in the hole. It had fallen short by four inches.

  “The match is tied once again at The Classic!” Trent yelled through the microphone. After a group whine from the gallery the crowd rushed to the eighteenth tee.

  “That’s twenty-four putts through seventeen holes,” Callum said, “if anybody is keeping track. We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Chapter Ninety-One

  xcitement clamored through the gang from Prairie Winds that had assembled by the eighteenth tee. Despite the inclement weather, they had all managed to stick close to each other and planned on watching the climatic finish together.

  “Can you believe we’re here at the eighteenth tee on the final day of The Classic?” Pork Chop asked whoever was willing to listen. “I never dreamed I’d get an opportunity like this.”

  “And then to have our home-grown boy playing Tank Oglethorpe is icing on the cake,” Fred followed.

  “Don’t forget your head pro on the bag,” Julie said. “I guarantee you he is as pumped up as any one of us.”

  A gust of wind lifted Pork Chop’s ball cap off of his head. He reached up too late to catch it and chased after it as it flew ten yards away. A short explosion of rain accompanied the wind causing people to scramble but the precipitation quickly returned to a steady, annoying drizzle.

  Morgan stood on the tips of her toes in an effort to catch a glimpse of her fiancée. The man with the umbrella caught up with his wife in the polka dot sundress. He had told Morgan that he would get it before they walked away from the green and exited the property. “I hope they can finish this today,” she said to Julie.

  “They can play in this as long as it doesn’t get any worse,” Julie replied. She looked into the distance. “It may not last very long. I see pieces of blue sky up there.”

  “The tree falling, the rain, the last hole in the round, you kind of wonder how all of this is going to play into fate,” Morgan said.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Julie agreed.

  “Can you believe this?” Pork Chop said to Captain Jer, Dr. DV, Scottie P and Elia.

  “Why don’t you feed yourself another half dozen hot dogs?” Captain Jer replied as he stepped back and looked at Pork Chop. “You’re so fat I can’t even see your belt buckle.”

  “That’s because my shirt is hanging out.”

  “I know,” Captain Jer said. “I can see a three inch gap of skin between the bottom of your shirt and your zip
per.” He paused. “You have an outtie.”

  “You can see that?” Pork Chop wondered out loud.

  “Yeah, and it’s not pretty.” The pilot stopped. “Why don’t you cover that up with more day passes? Do you think you’ve rummaged around in the trash for enough trinkets?”

  “You’ll be envious when this stuff makes me a small fortune online.”

  “Just buy me a beer with your profits. I hope it doesn’t use up all your proceeds.” He walked away.

  Pork Chop puckered his lips and rattled his head back and forth. “He’s hateful and full of venom today.”

  “That’s because he’s sober,” Julie chimed in.

  “If he gets that foul when he’s dry somebody needs to get him a shot or two of scotch.”

  “I would,” Julie volunteered, “but he’s got to fly us home after the tournament is over.”

  “Here they come!” Pork Chop announced. “I’m going to inch my way up there and try to say hi.” He started pushing his way through the people.

  “No, don’t do that,” Fred reprimanded him. It was too late. Pork Chop was on a mission.

  “I want to see Tank up close.”

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  “Who would have thought that we’d be tied on the eighteenth tee of The Classic when this day started?” Trent asked his broadcast partner.

  “It certainly makes for good theater,” Callum replied.

  “Why don’t you take a second and talk about the final hole?” Trent asked.

  “The eighteenth hole at The Classic measures four hundred and eighty-three yards. That brings the total length of the course to a little over seventy-nine hundred yards.”

  “Seventy-nine hundred?” Trent shouted. “That’s absurd! I remember when I started these telecasts the length of the course was barely seventy-two hundred yards.”

  “That shows you how the game has been altered by these big hitters,” Callum explained. “The committee made a decision several years ago to stay up with the changes in the sport and we’ve witnessed the lengthening of the holes over the years.”

  “What do you attribute all of these modifications in the game to?”

  “It’s a variety of things, Trent. Better technology in the clubs. A juiced up golf ball. Add that to the outstanding physical conditioning programs for the players. We could stay busy all day listing reasons why.”

  “Most certainly the game is different today than what it has been in past decades.”

  “And the average recreational golfer has a tough time identifying with how it has evolved.”

  “It’s like these guys are from a different planet,” Trent guessed.

  Callum shrugged. “It’s all relative. These kids have been doing it since they were tiny whippersnappers.”

  “Sorry for going off on a tangent. Go ahead and tell us about the eighteenth.”

  “Sand traps line the left side of the fairway. The committee decided to hide four pot bunkers on the right side. The players know they’re there, but they can’t see them from the tee.”

  “So what you’re saying is that it looks like it’s wide open on the right side, but if you hit the ball over there it’s liable to be a severe penalty.”

  “Exactly,” Callum agreed. “The proper tee shot is short on the left side. That leaves a long shot into the green which will play longer today into the wind.”

  “Anyone that tries to power the ball long here will likely end up in trouble. Is that a correct assumption?” Trent asked.

  “Yes. You need to stay back on this hole and be smart about it,” Callum advised.

  “What about the green?”

  “It is similar to the others. Those mammoths are ever present here, somewhere under all that dirt,” the Englishman stressed.

  “After that birdie on seventeen, Opur has honors on the tee. Let’s join Monique.”

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  “We’ve had an incredible development on the tee,” Monique started. She instructed the cameraman to zoom in on Opur who was sitting on the bottom end of his bag as it lay on the ground.

  “What’s wrong?” Trent inquired.

  “Opur has told J Dub that he doesn’t know if he can walk from tee to green,” Monique went on.

  J Dub was on one knee and face to face with Opur. The kid was holding his visor in his hands and was bent over with his elbows on his knees. J Dub had wrapped a wet towel around the back of Opur’s neck. “Are you sure you want to quit?”

  Opur shook his head negatively. “I don’t want to quit.” He raised his head and looked at J Dub. “I don’t think that I can walk this hole. I can barely stand up.”

  J Dub took the towel and wiped Opur’s forehead. “Listen, you’ve come this far. I’d hate to see you walk off the course with one hole to go.” He paused and looked squarely in Opur’s eyes. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “What?”

  “If I’ve got to pick you up and carry you up there, we’ll put a score on the card. Anything is better than a DQ.”

  “I don’t want to be disqualified either, but there’s nothing left in my tank.” Opur leaned his head back and exposed his elongated neck. He took a deep breath and let out a sigh. Rain splashed outside the confines of the umbrella.

  “You won that hole. You’ve got honors. Are you going to hit or not?” Dickie Doo yelled over to the pair. “It’s raining out. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Opur took a heavy breath, rocked forward and reached out with his hand, inviting J Dub to help him to his feet. “We’ll figure it out, just to appease the son of a . . .”

  J Dub helped Opur to a standing position. “Now remember to keep it left here. Those pot bunkers eat anything up that drifts to the right.” He handed him a 3-wood.

  The two approached the tee marker. J Dub put the tee in the ground and placed the ball atop it. Opur seemed extremely casual and nonchalant, almost indifferent to perhaps the most important hole in his life. “Line me up.”

  J Dub stood behind him and aimed Opur down the left side. “Put it in automatic. You’re ready to go.”

  The marshals around the tee had their arms spread-eagled in the air asking for quiet. Gentle rain fell on the participants. Opur bent his knees and stood for what seemed forever over the ball. He stepped back and turned to J Dub. “I need a new glove.”

  “For God’s sakes,” Dickie Doo grumbled to Tank. “He needs to get moving and hit the damn thing.”

  Meekly, Opur turned to J Dub. “My glove is wet.”

  J Dub fetched a dry glove out of a lower pouch. He took the new glove out of the wrapper and walked to Opur, holding the umbrella above them to shield them from the rain. Opur made the change. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go.” A newfound energy seemed to revitalize Opur.

  J Dub worked on Opur’s alignment and when he was satisfied walked back over to the bag. “If you haven’t noticed, this is an important shot,” J Dub said to Dickie Doo. “Gloves get wet when it rains.”

  The scene repeated itself. The marshals once again placed their arms skyward. The crowd stood deathly silent. All eyes watched as Opur drug the club back. As he began his downswing and was exploding into the ball a voice from the side of the tee broke the silence.

  “Paul! Over here!”

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  “Oh my goodness,” Callum shouted from the booth. “Somebody yelled in his backswing.”

  “He’s pushed the ball into no-man’s land,” Trent followed.

  “If it carries long, he’ll find the knee-high heather. If it gets down, it will certainly end up in a pot bunker.”

  “Can you believe someone did that?” Trent asked in disbelief.

  The guys from Prairie Winds were all over Pork Chop. He had his back to the tee and had his headphones on listening to the satellite broadcast. At an inopportune time Paul, the silver fox from Prairie Winds appeared out of nowhere. He had been at the tournament all week working as a walking score
keeper. Since his work was finished for the day he went back onto the course looking for his friends. As he made his way back to the final hole to watch the action Pork Chop spotted him.

  “What are you thinking about?” Fred yelled at his buddy.

  J Dub recognized the voice and scoured the crowd for the culprit. “How can you do that?” he yelled, wishing not to call Pork Chop by name.

  Pork Chop wanted to crawl in a hole. There was nowhere to hide. Security personnel quickly confiscated his radio and had him by the elbows. “I screwed up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Julie said. “You just don’t know when to zip it shut, do you?” She was fuming. “See how much you collect off of e-Bay now.”

  “Sometimes what’s not said is more important than what is said,” Captain Jer followed as he gloated and grinned at Julie.

  “Don’t get involved,” Julie scolded him. “You’ve got a lot of room to talk.”

  Morgan was heartbroken. “Isn’t this just great? All that hard work right down the crapper.” The highs and lows of the week all culminated in one fateful second.

  “You owe her an apology,” Julie shouted as the guards whisked Pork Chop away. She comforted Morgan by placing her arm around her shoulders.

  Opur was too wasted to pay much attention to the chaos in the crowd. What little energy that remained needed to be used on the course.

  “Okay champ, let’s finish them off,” Dickie Doo said. “All we need is a 3-wood here. Keep it on the left side.” Tank took the club and watched as Pork Chop was hustled away. He wanted to wait for things to quiet down before making the important shot. In his peripheral vision he saw that Opur was bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees.

  “They’ve whisked away the rowdy spectator,” Trent announced to the viewing public.

  “They needed to escort that wanker off the grounds.” He looked at the monitor that showed a close up of Opur’s ball in a pot bunker. “I’ll be darn if Opur’s ball didn’t find one of those crusty dragons,” Callum added.

  “Did you see Opur’s caddie?”