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

by James Ross

  “He was cheesed off, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And he had every right to be.”

  “You know what we say in England?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cheerio.”

  “Say goodbye to the tournament?”

  Callum shrugged. “You can’t waste a shot on this hole. What that fan did has put Opur in a real dog’s dinner of things right now.”

  “I see that Tank took full advantage of the situation. He’s placed the ball perfectly in the left center of the fairway.”

  “It will leave him at least two hundred and twenty-five yards,” Callum projected. “But he’s in the fairway.”

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  “This has gone far enough,” Morgan said to Julie as she watched J Dub and Opur walk slowly up the fairway. J Dub had the bag over his left shoulder and his right arm wrapped around Opur’s waist holding the golfer up. The umbrella was packed away in the bag. Both were getting soaked.

  “It will be over in ten minutes,” Julie assured her. “J Dub wouldn’t be doing all of that unless Opur wanted to keep fighting to the end.”

  “I never should have thrown that phone at him.”

  Julie rolled her eyes skyward. “At least you didn’t bust him with a long neck beer bottle.”

  Morgan made a move to go through the rope. “I have to help them!”

  Julie grabbed her. “You can’t go out there. They’ll march you out of here like they did Pork Chop.”

  “Let me at least take an umbrella to them!”

  “Quit talking gibberish,” Julie said. “You sound like you’re whacked out. You’ve got no chance of running out onto the fairway.” They stood fifteen yards away from the participants.

  “Honey, you can stop if you want,” Morgan shouted.

  Opur looked up and squinted. He made out a figure in a red top. “Morgan, is that you?”

  “You can’t tell?” she answered in mild shock.

  “It sounds like you,” Opur said. He whispered to J Dub, “Help me go over there.” J Dub placed the bag down by the pot bunker. Once again he placed his right arm around Opur’s waist as Opur flung his left arm over J Dub’s shoulder. The two struggled to the rope.

  “Stop right now, Honey,” Morgan said as she took cloth out of her purse and dabbed his face. She fetched a rubber band out of her purse and tied his hair in back of his head. “You don’t need to keep going.”

  “No, no,” Opur insisted. “I’m going to finish what I started.” He looked into her eyes and squinted to focus. “This one is for you and the little one.” Opur kissed her on the forehead and patted her belly. He turned back to J Dub. “We’ve got to hit a shot.”

  “For God’s sakes now he’s kissing the spectators,” Dickie Doo said with a chuckle. “Doesn’t he know we’re playing a golf tournament out here?”

  “He knows he’s playing golf,” Tank said. “There’s something else going on and he needed to speak to his girlfriend.”

  “There’s plenty of time to do that after we’re done.”

  Tank looked as J Dub helped Opur into the pot bunker. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  J Dub handed Opur his sand wedge. “Just get the ball out of there. That’s all you can do.” The wall of the bunker was higher than Opur’s head. The ball had to come straight up to clear it. “Now keep your head down because the wind is going to blow the sand back at you.” The caddie had to remind the player the simple things at this point. “Remember not to ground your club.”

  Opur swayed as he tried to steady himself over the ball. His knees wobbled. Slowly he pulled the club back and sent the ball skyward. It cleared the wall and traveled sixty yards as the wind knocked the ball to the turf. Sand blanketed his left side. He spit some of it out of his mouth.

  The caddy grasped Opur’s forearm. In the attempt to climb out Opur didn’t lift his leg high enough and caught his foot on the side wall of the pot bunker. J Dub pulled him the rest of the way. With Opur on his knees J Dub got behind him, locked his arms under his armpits and pulled him the rest of the way to his feet. “Do you have another shot in you?”

  Opur nodded. “Yep. Let’s go.”

  Dickie Doo couldn’t believe it. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “He wants to post a score,” Tank said. “This is his chance.” He changed the subject. “What do we have left?”

  “Two twenty-one to the pin. It’s into the wind.”

  “Short is no good. I’d rather be a little long.”

  “That will leave a downhill putt.”

  “Yeah but the wind is going to knock the ball down. I want to make sure we get there.” Tank grabbed his club.

  A second after contact Dickie Doo yelled, “Get down!”

  “I crushed it,” Tank murmured.

  “And the wind stopped blowing.” They watched as the ball hit and jumped to the back of the green. Dickie Doo grabbed his pin sheet and figured the distance. “That’s going to leave you forty-five to fifty feet.”

  “Okay,” Tank said as he grabbed his putter. “Let’s go and wrap this thing up.”

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  “I want you to know that we’re all proud of you,” J Dub said as he and Opur continued to the ball. The rain had eased. In fact, the sun started to peek through the clouds. What had been a two-club wind moments before had turned into a mild breeze. “It looks like that front moved through.”

  Opur looked up to the sky and squinted again. “Is that a rainbow?”

  “It sure is,” J Dub said as he looked in the distance. “How did you make that out?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see much of anything else.” Opur looked down. “You better give me the sunglasses. It’s awfully bright now.”

  J Dub reached into the top pouch of the bag and started humming a tune.

  “What’s that song?” Opur asked as he put on the shades. “My mom used to play that all the time.”

  J Dub chuckled. “That was way before your time. That rainbow reminded me of it.”

  “Yeah, I know. What is it?”

  “That’s ‘Magical Wand’ by Pogo Stick and the Pots of Rainbow Gold.”

  “Yeah. That’s it,” Opur said. “I’ve never seen her as happy as when she played that song.” He stopped for a second. “That was the song that was playing on the stereo when I found her.”

  “I’m sorry,” J Dub said.

  Opur took a deep breath. He took his sunglasses off and wiped his eyes. “Do you think she’s looking down on me right now?”

  J Dub remembered the days when Rayelene came into the pro shop and doted about her son. “She always is Opur. She never left your side.”

  “What’s the distance?” Opur asked.

  “You’re one hundred and eighty-six,” J Dub said. “That’s to the stick. Try to keep it right of the flag. That will leave us an uphill putt.”

  “What are you thinking? Six or seven?”

  “Hit your six. There’s still a little breeze.” J Dub got behind Opur and made sure the alignment was proper. “Toe the blade out a little. Keep the knees flexed.” He moved to the side. “You’re good to go.”

  Opur took a deep breath and stood over the ball a few extra seconds. Then he opened his mouth. “This one’s for you mom!” A second later he made contact.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  “What was going on down there?” Trent asked from the booth as the ball was in the air.

  Monique seemed to have the sniffles. “They were talking about when Opur lost his mother and how that rainbow reminds him of her favorite song.”

  “What?” Trent asked. “This is the last hole of The Classic.”

  “It was an emotional moment for them,” she explained.

  “Whatever they said must have worked. He’s put the ball somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty feet right of the hole,” Trent said as the ball hit, jumped forward and spun backwards.

  Callum watched as the pair inched up the fairway. “It might t
ake them until tomorrow morning to get here, but they’re in a position to still make a par.” The two had their arms around one another. J Dub held him up while Opur used his putter as a cane.

  “Tank is out and will putt first,” Trent stated, “but let’s listen to the reaction from the crowd as the players approach the green.”

  The public address announcer said, “Let’s give The Classic welcome to Tank Oglethorpe from Houston, Texas!”

  Everyone in the gallery was on their feet giving a hearty round of applause. The hecklers that had been over-served yelled for the helluva it.

  As Tank continued onto the green to fix his divot and mark his ball, the crowd’s attention focused on Opur and J Dub struggling the remaining eighty yards to the green. When they neared the putting surface the public address announcer said, “Let’s give The Classic welcome to Owen Purler, Junior, better known as Opur, from Prairie Winds Golf Course just east of St. Louis in southern Illinois!”

  The roar from the crowd was deafening, perhaps twice as loud as what Tank had received. And the ovation lasted until the pair reached the green. Opur tipped his hat. “There’s a lot of love flowing your way,” J Dub said. “Soak it up while you can.”

  “If I squat behind the ball I may never get up,” Opur said. “Do your thing and tell me where to hit it.” He positioned himself behind his ball, leaned over at the waist and placed a hand on each knee.

  “What do you see here for Tank?” Trent asked.

  “The putt is downhill and fast. There’s a small ridge that he has to ride and once the ball falls off that, the putt will bend to the left and pick up speed. Do you agree, Monique?”

  “Tank has a lot of real estate to cover. The pace of the putt is extremely important. I would think that he would be very happy with a two putt,” she said.

  On the green Tank asked the all-important question to his caddie. “What do you see, Dickie Doo?”

  “It’s as slick as a financial adviser selling annuities to the elderly,” the caddie replied.

  “This is no time for smart remarks,” Tank emphasized.

  “Heck, I’m just trying to tell you how slick it is,” Dickie Doo said as he defended himself. “The putt goes right to left off of the ridge. A good lag putt should win the tournament.”

  Tank walked halfway to the hole, got a feel for the curl of the putt and practiced a stroke from the apex of the break. He walked back to Dickie Doo and placed his ball on the green. “I don’t know,” he started. “Number seventeen was a lot slower than we thought.” He pushed down with his right foot. “Feel how spongy that is. This green is still wet.”

  “It is slick, boss.”

  Tank cocked his head skeptically. “I don’t know.”

  “Go with your first instinct,” Dickie Doo encouraged as Tank walked up to the ball.

  After several practice strokes Tank was ready to putt. A second later Callum blurted, “That ball needs to slow down.”

  “He’s hit it way too hard,” Trent followed.

  “When it catches the slope it will pick up speed,” Monique agreed.

  “With these greens rolling like they have all day there is nothing to stop the ball,” Callum said.

  The broadcasting crew and the audience at home watched as the ball carried past the hole and kept running one, two, three feet longer than Tank guessed. When the ball finally eased to a stop Trent spoke. “Did he miscalculate the speed or what?”

  “He must have thought the green was much slower than what it actually is,” Callum replied.

  “He’s left himself somewhere between ten to twelve feet to save par,” Trent added.

  “And it has a tricky little curl to it as well,” Callum said. “It’s Opur’s turn now,” Trent said as the focus shifted.

  They watched as J Dub calculated every movement of the ball.

  He plumb-bobbed the putter, walked part of the way to the cup and leaned over to examine the grass. J Dub pointed to a spot that he wanted Opur to roll the ball over.

  “You’ve come this far and battled your guts out, show them the magical wand one more time.” J Dub started humming the song.

  “What wand?” Opur asked. “Opur’s blade, baby. Opur’s blade.”

  “That spot right there?” Opur asked as he pointed with his finger. The only sound that was heard was a woodpecker pecking in the distance.

  “You got it,” J Dub said as he lined him up. “Okay, you’re square to the target. Let it rip when I move away.” He took several steps. “All you have to do is keep your head down and listen for the ball to hit the bottom of the cup. You practiced this shot every day one summer.”

  Opur didn’t waste any time. He sent the putt on its journey and kept his head down and eyes staring at the grass.

  “It hit a spike mark!” Callum shouted as the ball got halfway to the hole.

  “That’s going to stay a ball on the high side,” Trent followed.

  A butterfly dipped and swayed and fluttered in the breeze as the ball’s speed slowed. Out of nowhere it dove onto the top of the ball. The sphere readjusted its path as it neared the cup, stopping on the edge. Opur’s head was bowed.

  “Was that divine intervention?” Callum asked as J Dub continued to the hole for a closer look.

  “The ball is half over the side,” Trent added.

  J Dub reached the hole and leaned over to see how much of the ball was hanging over the edge. When he approached the cup the butterfly soared back into the air.

  “The ball dropped in!” Callum yelled. “That’s perfectly legal!”

  “The push of the butterfly must have caused enough inertia to help it fall into the hole!” Trent shouted. “We have a new leader at The Classic!”

  Opur heard the ball bounce into the cup. He dropped the putter on the ground and bent his body at the waist to put his hands on his knees. The gallery went berserk. The gang from Prairie Winds jumped in the air and gave each other high-fives. Julie and Morgan hugged.

  It took a minute for the pandemonium to subside. “How big is this putt for Tank?” Callum asked.

  “How quickly the momentum shifts,” Trent followed. Tank and Dickie Doo went to work as soon as the commotion ceased while J Dub helped Opur to the fringe of the green.

  “I don’t know about you,” Trent said, “but if Tank makes this putt Opur might not make it to the playoff.”

  “He’s got a seventy-two hole score now,” Callum agreed. “If he can’t go anymore, the worst he can finish is second.”

  They watched as Tank squatted behind the ball. Dickie Doo stood behind him looking over his shoulder. “What do you see?”

  “It has to fall to the right, maybe a ball or two when it loses speed.” Dickie Doo grabbed Tank’s putter and plumb-bobbed the line of the putt.

  “You think so?”

  Dickie Doo was adamant. “It has to.” He pointed his hand to a mound on the left that would influence the putt and a low spot on the right that would serve as a collection area.

  Tank raised his right forearm and ran it under his nose. When he turned his head he noticed Opur standing on the fringe, bent over with his head down. He saw J Dub drape a towel over the back of his neck. Tank turned his focus back to the putt. “I don’t think it does anything, Dickie.” The caddy shook his head in disagreement. “I’m going to pour it in, firm.”

  Dickie Doo countered. “It’s falling to the right, boss.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s your call.”

  “We need it to force a playoff. I’m not giving up the hole.” Dickie Doo shrugged his shoulders and walked to the side of the green. It was Tank’s platform. He wasn’t about to upstage his boss and make a scene on the eighteenth green.

  “What’s it going to do?” Trent asked Callum.

  “It has to peel a little right. This is a doddle for Tank.”

  “Huh?”

  “A cinch.”

  “He’s over the putt. Let’s watch as he pulls back the club.”
r />   “Oh goodness!” Callum shouted. “He went right at it.”

  “He’s going to miss it on the low side!”

  They watched as the putt slid right of the cup. Groans of epic proportions spread through the gallery as cheers for Opur reached a gradual crescendo. J Dub bent over, put his arm around Opur and whispered in his ear. Tank put his hands on his hip and stared in disbelief at Dickie Doo.

  “I can’t believe he missed that putt,” Callum said.

  “We’ve got a new champion at The Classic!” Trent exclaimed. “Owen Purler, Junior came out of nowhere to fulfill the dream of a lifetime.”

  “He did it with twenty-five putts in eighteen holes,” Callum said. They watched as Tank tapped in his short putt, walked into a group of fans and shook Opur’s hand. Moments after accepting congratulations from the best player the world has ever seen, Opur fell to the ground.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  “Get some help! Right now!” J Dub screamed at the top of his lungs. He rolled Opur onto his back and unloosened the top two buttons on his shirt. As quickly as the rainbow had appeared moments earlier, jubilation turned to panic and confusion. Many in the crowd remained in a celebratory mood not knowing the severity of the situation.

  Immediately the woman in the white sundress with polka dots ran barefoot to Opur’s aid. “I’m a nurse! Get back!” she yelled as she pushed her way to the fallen competitor. In a swift reaction she grabbed his wrist and took his pulse. Seconds later she administered CPR.

  Morgan and Julie as well as Dr. DV tried their best to help. “I can’t believe this is happenin’,” Morgan cried. Julie consoled her as tears of happiness had turned to sobs of uncertainty. The two peered down helplessly at Opur as he lay on the ground.

  Dr. DV spread his massive arms to keep the crowd back. Scottie P did the same. The nurse worked feverishly, alternating between pushing hard on Opur’s chest and giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  Instantly the officials from The Classic realized something was wrong and called for medical personnel. Paramedics were on the scene seconds later going through emergency procedures. Their training in crisis treatment was in full effect