by Turk Pipkin
“Goddammit!” the man shouted.
I thought this was marvelous—a game in which my mother’s favorite curse played an instrumental part. I clapped my hands in glee, momentarily forgetting the two murderously aggravated crawdads who suddenly found purchase for their pincers, each grasping tightly to my opposite hand. Releasing them with a scream did not encourage them to let go of me, and there I stood—sinking in the mire—my arms flying willy-nilly, like an epileptic swatting yellow jackets, the two miniature lobsters holding on for dear life. As I was about to go under, either dizziness or my shrieks finally disoriented the crustaceans and they loosened their grips. One after the other they flew thirty feet into the air, each landing in the river with a splash of their own.
Sucking on one sore thumb and one finger, I stifled my sobs while the man tossed down a second ball and took a poke at it. Alas, this one was doomed as well, hitting both the picnic bench and a pecan tree before splashing into the river like the crawdads and the first ball.
“Goddammit!” he shouted again, hurling the bat after the ball.
The bat made by far the largest splash of all, and the man gave a little cry.
“Oh nooo!” he moaned. “My five-iron!”
I was very good at interpreting the bad moods and hangovers of my mother, and I quickly concluded that the man wished to have his bat back. Plunging headlong into the murky water, I demonstrated that the YMCA’s lessons had not been wasted. Swimming thirty feet to the middle of the river and diving to the bottom, I miraculously came up with the man’s five-iron on the very first try. Then waist deep on the golf course side of the water, I tossed him the club.
“Thanks,” he said. “Say, you didn’t happen to see either one of my balls down there, did you?”
I had not, but I knew where they had fallen. Within two minutes I was standing in front of him holding two mucky balls.
“Well, these aren’t mine, but I guess they’ll do,” he said, handing me a dollar. “Boy, you sure earned that one!”
It was absolutely the very first dollar bill I had owned in my life and I stared at it in wonder, as if George Washington had strolled up and handed it to me himself. As the man picked up his bag and walked off, I yelled to him.
“Hey, mister, whadaya call this game?”
We owned no television on which I might have seen a tournament, so for all I knew it was called goddammit.
“Golf,” he answered. “If it’s good to you, you call it golf.”
A few minutes later my friend Mick wandered up. In the same grade as myself, but a full year older, Mick was impressed by the dollar but allowed as how I was going to get my behind warmed for the mud on my clothes. This thought did not deter me for one minute. I still knew—approximately—where two golf balls worth hard cash were resting in the mire. It took me no longer on the second dive than it had on the first to return with two balls.
“How do you know those are the same ones, Creep?” Mick asked me. “Maybe the river’s full of them balls.”
I was awestruck by the beauty of his logic. We fished out balls for hours and sold them for a quarter a pellet to the passing golfers, making a total of five dollars each (plus my original buck, which I refused, under threat of frog knots and burnout, to split with Mickey).
Bright and early that Saturday morning, while Jewel graded her students’ papers and my mom slept the day away as usual, I took my six dollars down to Santa Fe Golf Course and purchased one well-worn club-a five-iron no less. The golf pro cut the shaft down to my size with a hacksaw, then added a few wraps of masking tape to reattach the grip to the shaft.
“You need to buy balls?” he called as I ran out.
I didn’t even answer. I was already swinging wildly at the thousands of fat pecans lying on the ground, waiting for another foul-mouthed golfer to bounce one into the river.
6
Sandy lipped out his long putt on the first green, and Beast had only an eight-footer for birdie and a win. After his incredible display on the putting green I didn’t see how Beast could possibly miss, even though he hadn’t consulted me on the break (almost none) or the speed (very slow). Caddies hate not being consulted because it means the golfer thinks he knows more than the caddie, and that’s often the case.
In this instance, however, it was definitely not the case, and Beast left the ball hanging on the front lip. “A freckle short,” as March described it.
“Yeow,” said Roscoe. “You shoulda eat more beans.”
Without looking up, Beast elevated a middle finger in his partner’s general direction.
“’Cause that one ran out of gas,” Roscoe explained.
What Beast didn’t know, what Roscoe didn’t know, what I didn’t know either was why the putt came up two beans short. Although the course was closed for weekly maintenance, the grass on the practice green had been mowed incredibly short and the base had seemed dry and firm. But this green was almost mushy, as if it had been soaked overnight, and the grass was grown out like three days of scruffy beard. Confused, I looked toward March. He was wearing another of his big grins and shaking hands with Sandy as if it were all a part of his plan.
“After one hole,” proclaimed Fromholz, “the match is even-steven.”
7
Once I had discovered the game and purchased my first precious club, I began to study the wide variety of golf swings at Santa Fe Golf Course. I loved the very idea of golf, the spiritual image of the ball in flight: each shot a tiny sputnik—the golfer both the astronaut and the rocket—hurtling through space and overcoming, however briefly, the grasping hands of gravity, breaking free as the earth passes below in a blur of trees and water.
The reality of the game, however, turned out to be quite different. The simple truth is that the crystal-clear image of a ball in flight is achieved only through boring, plodding work: long, monotonous hours of trial and error highlighted by exhilarating glimpses of success. The ball does not wish to leave the earth and has no interest in defying gravity. In truth, the ball is perfectly content to just lie there. Or, when struck a glancing blow by a young golfer of seven, the ball tends to scoot along the ground letting friction do its job. Friction, of course, produces heat, the result being a ground-hugging hisser then known as a “worm burner” but now referred to more often as a “bug fugger.”
Our French becomes more proficient, but the dilemma remains the same: the reality of golf has no more to do with the idea of the game than a vista does a painting. Just as an artist may move paintless brushes on a canvas, a golfer may swing the club without a ball or target. But a canvas without paint, despite artistic intentions, remains empty, with no measure of the artist’s skill.
So this cratered pellet, like a palette of paint, is really no more than a measuring device, an indicator that registers the degree of perfection of a golfer’s every swing (not neglecting, unfortunately, the golfer’s wayward thoughts in making that swing). To make matters more difficult, the ball also measures the wind, the water and even the specific gravity of the ocean’s shore, commonly known as the dreaded sand trap. And for a proficient golfer swinging smoothly in a groove, more than anything else it indicates proper club selection.
Hole number two at Pedernales was what the locals called a little old par three. Nothing tough about it except that from the tee the green looked somewhat larger than a postage stamp but considerably smaller than an envelope.
Roscoe promptly threw out his honors and his back by topping another shot with a swing that reminded me of the one I employed back in my first year of play. When he lurched at the ball, Roscoe looked like a guy trying to fly cast a frozen turkey. You got the vague sensation that he once had a better swing, but perhaps couldn’t remember where he kept it.
“Don’t let it bother you,” said Sandy, a nice enough guy that he even complimented his opponent. “You got a good short game.”
“Yeah!” said March with a snicker. “Off the tee!”
“My partner, the jack-off king!”
said Beast, enough of an ass that he even insulted his partner. “You could open a whorehouse and run it by hand!”
It was clear that Beast didn’t view anyone as being on his side, not even his partner or his caddie. This seemed a lonely way to go about things. From the local scuttlebutt, I knew some of how he’d come to be that way, and even through my fear of him I couldn’t help but feel just a little bit sorry for the big ape. No father was bad enough, but one who beat you must have been a hundred times worse. Though I craved attention, there are limits to all things, especially in what passes for love.
Roscoe had returned Beast’s single-digit salute, but it did not stop the insults.
“What’s your handicap, Roscoe: hemorrhoids?” taunted Beast.
“Why’on’t you eat my shorts?” said Roscoe. “But first, hit your shot—partner!”
Without asking me for a club, Beast reached silently into the bag and pulled out his six-iron. Then he casually stepped onto the second tee and once again hit the ball a few feet from the hole. It looked like the simplest thing in the world.
Kissing his club and hugging it to his chest, he didn’t wait for compliments.
“Oh you sweet little five-iron, you!”
Five-iron? Confused, I looked back in the bag. He hadn’t hit a five; it was a six. Then it dawned on me. Glancing up, I saw Sandy—a funny look on his face too—as he exchanged his six-iron for a five. Sandy knew better than to choose a club by watching another player, but Beast was more than just another player.
Sandy made his usual sweet move at the ball; it almost took my breath away. The ball sailed as straight as a string, looked down into the hole for a moment as it passed overhead, and flew the green by twenty yards.
“Shit!” said Sandy.
“Shit has been mentioned,” noted Fromholz.
Sandy fumed on. “I knew it was a six-iron! Beast, you must not’ve got all of yours.”
Beast painted a shocked look on his hard face.
“I’m sorry, buddy. Did I say five? I hit six. Oh well, an honest mistake.”
Jeez! I thought. These guys have got more tricks than a magic convention.
Simmering in his own juices, what Sandy needed now was for March to save the hole for their team with a solid shot right at the flag. What March gave him, unfortunately, was a Texas leaguer—a quail-high lob that bounced short and failed to roll on. Part of the problem was March’s swing. Actually, all of the problem was his swing. March swung like the ball was a hand grenade with the pin pulled out. He had a choice of throwing his body over it or hitting it fast before it blew up. This time he chose the latter.
“Grow legs and run!” shouted March.
The ball did neither, stopping in the frog hair just short of the green.
“Hell, I think that ball’s deef!” he said to me with a wink.
Sandy slammed the five-iron back into his bag and stomped off toward the green. Beast hurried to catch up and I hurried to catch up with him.
“Hey, Sand ol’ bud!” Beast called after him. “Wait up!”
Against my better judgment, Sandy slowed and Beast drew up alongside him. “Say … you’re not still mad ’cause I beat you in the state amateur, are you?”
Sandy was silent.
“’Cause it was just luck; like the high school finals at Muni. Hey, remember the Peewee play-offs when I chipped in from fifty yards?”
“Don’t push it, Larsen!”
“Okay Sand, whatever.” From behind I saw Beast turn his head to Sandy and flash a wicked grin. “So I got lucky and made a couple of forty footers.”
“I said: Don’t push it!”
“Calm down, Blondie. It ain’t my fault you never beat me.”
Sandy dropped his bag and wheeled on the big man, poking him in the chest with a sharp forefinger. Considering that Sandy was outweighed by thirty or forty pounds, this did not seem like a smart thing to do. Beast’s Popeye forearms looked as if he could wring your neck like a dishrag, while his bony, stubbled jaw could bite off one of your limbs. Worst of all, the evil, smoldering fire in his eyes made him look like he was contemplating horrible butcheries on your vital organs.
But Sandy, acting so completely against his own personality, had taken Beast by surprise.
“Never,” spat Sandy, “is a long time.”
Without pushing his luck any further, Sandy withdrew his finger from Beast’s sternum, turned, and was gone before the big man knew what had happened.
While we waited for Roscoe to hit his second shot, I picked up Sandy’s abandoned bag and carried it over to where he was conferring with March. Sandy’s bag, I noted, weighed about thirty pounds less than Beast’s.
“He’s right, March,” Sandy complained bitterly. “I never beat that big shit. Either he gets a lucky break or I lose my confidence and fold in the stretch. Why’d you pick me to play him anyway?”
“Hey mama’s boy!” said March. “You’re supposed to be kicking his butt, not yours. I picked you as a partner because this is a grudge match: winner take all. And I wanted a guy on my side who’s gotten the short end of the stick, someone that knows how to carry a grudge.”
Indeed, Sandy’s face was inflamed exactly like a guy who knew how to carry a grudge.
“Are you pissed?” March asked.
“Yeah, I’m pissed,” Sandy told him.
“Good. Stay that way!”
Being pissed, unfortunately, was no help on number two. Sandy made a decent chip to the green, but he still had a four-footer for par. When Beast bent over to repair the deep hole his own tee shot had made in the green, he made a wisecrack about the divot reminding him of his ex-wife.
“You and every other two-handicapper in town,” Sandy told him.
In a flash Beast was eye-to-eye with the source of the insult. I thought they might swat it out with their putter blades like samurai, but they just continued to stare. A fly buzzed around their heads, and still they stared. Long after Sandy should have turned tail and run, he still stared. And then I noticed their feet: one of Beast’s oversized shoes was trodding heavily on one of Sandy’s size nines. Sandy couldn’t back off because somewhere under that massive steel-clad hoof at least one sharp spike was impaling him to the ground. Something needed doing.
“Beast,” said Fromholz dryly, “I think that guy’s trying to get your goat. Now let’s play some golf.”
The big foot came up slowly, like heavy machinery, and as Sandy’s stare abated I realized that his face had just been frozen in pain. He limped away, two spike holes in the toe of his shoe, both showing spots of blood, bright red against the white leather.
Beast cackled a similar warning to the rest of the group.
“You guys think he’s funny, don’t you? Well, see how funny this is.”
Replacing his ball on his mark, Beast putted out of turn. This was just the kind of rash action that Sandy had hoped to push him into. But that’s where the plan went astray; Beast knocked the putt right in the hole.
“With seven holes to play,” said Fromholz, “the team of Fowler and Beast are one up.”
“Shit!” said Sandy.
“Shit has been mentioned!” added Fromholz.
8
Shit was Sandy’s one and only cuss word. He also had a weakness for Tammy Wynette music and double orders of chicken-fried steak. His girlfriend’s name was Darla. Like any true golfer’s gal, she didn’t play the game herself. One set of heroic feats per household, please. Otherwise dinner would never end.
I’d met him while caddying in the quarterfinals of the Texas State Amateur. To avoid playing Beast in an early round, Sandy had entered in West Texas. He’d asked around the San Angelo Country Club pro shop for a good caddie who worked cheap and they referred him to me. Since I was only twelve, he doubted my abilities but found the price just right.
Even at twelve I took the job seriously, unlike a lot of boobs who carried the bag backwards on their shoulder and cast their shadow on the hole when tending the flag. Partially
guided—I like to think—by my expertise on the local greens, Sandy won his match five up with four to go.
In the quarterfinals at the Midland Country Club, he’d drawn a local oil-money favorite named Preston Deforest-Hunt, Jr. Having played at the course daily since he was seven years old, Junior knew it well enough to be a formidable opponent, even for a much better golfer. Unfortunately though, Junior was the occasional victim of a serious duck hook, the result of having learned the old-style hickory-shaft swing from his aging and doting father. A duck hook to a serious golfer, in case you don’t know, is the golf equivalent of a Baptist preacher developing Tourette’s syndrome, that dread and little understood neurological malady that makes one involuntarily spout the foulest profanities and bark like a dog. I once heard a respected golfer-slash-doctor claim that the only cure for either was a double dose of Thorazine, a shot of Old Crow, and a glass of Budweiser. Simultaneously.
Deforest-Hunt Senior was one rich oil-pumping son of a buck, but he had yet to find the right golf professional to cure his own infernal hook. To make matters worse, he’d taught his own weak game to his young son. Then having handicapped the kid almost beyond recovery, Dad had pinned all his hopes on Junior winning a prestigious tournament like the state amateur. So on the day of the match with Sandy, Junior was clearly out for blood.
Carrying Sandy’s clubs, I was astounded at the consistently high quality of my employer’s golf. Throughout the round he ignored the unlikely means that Junior utilized to get the ball in the hole. Sandy didn’t panic, didn’t choke, and didn’t get demoralized by the miraculous recoveries from certain doom that his opponent hit on the odd holes or the long putts that he snaked in on the even ones.
“Well!” said Junior in his pseudo-British accent. “I have been everywhere on this course dozens of times.”
Sandy ignored all this, negotiated the course with long drives and crisp irons and trusted in the fact that, since he was the better golfer, he was bound to win. He was two down with two holes to go when Deforest-Hunt Senior showed up to watch the product of his loins and inheritor of his own faulty golf skills kick some lower-class butt. But Dad’s very presence reminded his offspring of all those early golf lessons, and Junior suddenly remembered how to duck hook the ball. Sandy won the last two holes and the playoff on number one.