Seaview

by Toby Olson

  He felt he wanted to just stand there for a while, to just take the thing in, to fit it into the day, but he knew he did not have time for this. He looked over to check the rationale behind Steve’s shot. The three of them had trees to go over, but the trees were lower near the bend than the ones that had obscured them from the tee. There was, in fact, a kind of passage of low trees that one could get a three – or a four-iron over from where they were. A fairly good shot over the trees would fly the right side of the mound, and he judged that such a shot would bring the player to within seventy-five yards of the green, out in the open, with an easy wedge into it. If-and this was about the worst that could happen-the shot came up short, there was sufficient room between the edge of the mound and the right rough that the player could come down there and be left with no more than a hundred or a hundred and twenty yards in, again with an open shot. He, on the other hand, had trouble.

  By playing to the left, for what he thought was the clear line in, he had made the hole play very long. He was almost three hundred yards out from the tee, but he had over three hundred left to the green-well over it, he guessed. From his angle, he did not have the play the others had to the right of the mound. He thought he could reach the side, but if he did, the ball could well jump down or roll into the trees. They were thick there, and he could get hung up badly. If he played to the left of the mound, a longer shot, he would surely wind up in the trees on that side of the fairway. He could see the white out-of-bounds stakes, pretty close in on that side, and he could not think to risk that shot either.

  He looked over and saw that Steve was getting impatient. He was taking abbreviated practice swings with a three-iron, stopping that every few swings, putting his hands on his hips. Allen decided to prolong it a bit. He took a three-wood out of his bag, took a couple of practice swings, then walked back and sighted his line. Then he shook his head and started to walk over to where the other three were standing. It was a long walk, and he took his time. Steve took a short and vicious little swing with his club as Allen walked up to them.

  “About this obstruction out there, what are the rulings?” he asked, looking from Lou to Steve.

  “What do you mean?” Steve said, looking down at his club head, chipping at the top of the grass.

  “I could mean, what’s gonna happen if I hit it.”

  “You’ll probably lose,” Steve said, still chipping away.

  “But what I mean is, is it in bounds, and what’s the ruling if I hit that cute pole?” Steve looked up sharply, obviously angered at his use of words.

  “Up to the redskin on the top—that’s King Philip; that’s an authentic copy of a Pima pole; that’s a real Indian burial site under there—If you hit the pole, you play it where it drops, as long as it falls in bounds. The mound is a natural obstruction; it’s played as rough. You play the ball where it lands. Rub of the green. You got that?”

  “Got it,” Allen said, smiling into Steve’s anger, and walked back across the fairway to his ball. He had made his decision before coming over to them, but he wanted to get everything articulated before he hit. He did not much like hearing that it was a burial site. He did not think the Pimas had been Mound Builders, nor did he think they had used poles. He was not sure, though.

  He did think he remembered that King Philip had something to do with events not out here but back East.

  He had taken the three-wood out so that Steve would see it and anticipate his shot. When he got back to the cart, he replaced the wood and took out a three-iron. He stepped up and addressed the ball, and he felt the rush coming as he locked in. The ball was a Golden Ram, the highly compressed one. He liked to play it because it felt like a stone when he hit it. It was especially good for chipping. He saw that the ball had come to rest in the grass so that only the Go of the letters on it were showing. He felt his chest begin to hum as he saw the crisp gold lettering on the dimpled white surface of the sphere that sat like a found egg in its grassy nest of green at his feet. He lay the silver of the club head down carefully to the right of the ball, the face with its straight horizontal etched lines and its slight pitch.

  As he shifted his feet and got set, he looked into the geometry of the grass, a few blades touching the ball, the rest growing in the direction he would hit. He would caress a little of the grass on his way to the ball, but he would not bruise it, and it would affect nothing. In front of the ball, about two inches from it, was where his small carpet of divot would be cut cleanly and lifted. He would see sky as the ball left him, then he would see the fine carpet rise up, then he would see the ball again about fifty yards from him, flying, then the carpet would re-enter his vision as it reached its peak of flight, then it would drop out of his field as it fell to the ground.

  He addressed the ball with the club shaft held by its grip at a level with his crotch. He held it as firmly and safely as he would have held himself there in other circumstances. Then he moved his hands slightly to the left, bringing them over the ball, angling the club shaft slightly so that the head was behind the ball, his hands over it, and when he came through it and hit it the whip at impact would give it backspin, the letters of its name spinning toward him as it left the club face, and it would stop close to where it landed.

  Then he was ready, relaxed, still, and set. He made of his head the fixed center of his body, picturing a plumb line hung from a point below the fossa containing his pituitary gland in the center of his skull, standing in space and ending at his crotch, with the line held still by the weight of his scrotum. The club head and the glint of the shaft left his field of vision; his left hip turned inward slightly, his right back, but his head remained still in the pivot. He reached the top of his backswing, and the shaft paused for a fraction in time before starting down. As it moved into its arc, he could feel in discrete increments the growing weight of the club head as the centrifugal force increased. His body compensated, the plumb line swinging fractions to the left as his hip moved, toward the potential line of flight. Then the shaft and the club head entered his vision again, moving toward the waiting ball. The ball swelled out and hardened as the head approached it. Then there was the click and the bite of the blade cutting the back of the divot. The ball lifted, the divot rose, his head began to turn on its axis; he saw the ball and the totem pole, large and imposing and silly in the sun, then the divot came up, showing its green side, then it floated away. When it was gone, the ball was at the top of its arc. It stopped there, and then it started its gradual decline. When it hit, it stirred nothing, it simply disappeared into the top of the mound, six feet to the right of the pole.

  He sighed. Then he inhaled. Then he lowered his club from where he had brought it to rest on his left shoulder after finishing his swing. He walked up a few feet and picked up the pelt of divot. He came back and fitted it into the space from which he had cut it. He stepped on it and tapped its edges down with the head of his club, folding the edges of grass together. Then he walked back to the cart and replaced his club in the bag. He stood beside the cart and looked over at the others.

  “Are you all right?” Frankie called over to him. All three were looking at him. From where they were they could not see where his shot had landed; they had no vision of the mound top and the pole.

  Frankie addressed his shot then and hit it. From where Allen was he could see it come down. As he. expected, it came to rest to the right of the mound, between its base and the rough, an open shot to the green. Frankie looked over at him. He made a circle with his thumb and index finger, raised and shook it in the air.

  Lou’s ball came to rest somewhere in front of the mound; it was obvious from the trajectory and force of his hit that it was well out and safe. Lou looked over at Allen quickly, but before he could give any sign, he looked as quickly away. Steve hit the best shot of the three. He was to the right of Lou, well out in the fairway beyond the mound and visible from where Allen stood. Steve gave him no glance at all, letting him know that he knew where his shot had gone and did
not need any confirmation.

  When they came around the turn in their carts, the mound loomed even larger than it had appeared from the openness of the fairway before the turn. It was monstrous, and the totem pole, he thought, must have been a good six feet in circumference. Looking up at it from the base of the mound, it stood against the clouds in the sky. They stopped their carts short of Frankie’s ball.

  “Am I away?” Frankie asked Allen.

  “Depends upon height,” he laughed, “but maybe so.” The other two refused any hint of curiosity, and when Frankie looked over at them, they did not look back. “I’ll hit then,” he said.

  He used a seven-iron, hit his usually low, short iron shot, but he hit it too firmly. It landed on his side of the flagstick over the small trap, but it had a lot of roll in it, and it crossed the green and moved well into the rough on the other side.

  “Shit,” he said, and rammed his club back into his bag.

  Allen reached to his bag and selected a nine-iron; then he put it back and took out an eight. He put that club back and unbelted his entire bag from the cart. He slung it over his shoulder and started up the slope of the mound. When he got to the top, he slung his bag from his shoulder and rested it in the grass.

  At its crest, the mound was still curving; and he could see that the massive totem pole had been set directly in its navel. He glanced down to where the others were waiting. He was about twenty yards to the right of the pole, and the three below him could see most of him. At the same time that he was about to suggest that one or more of them come up, he saw Steve bend over and talk sharply and briefly to Lou. He guessed the reason. Steve thought he might be partly out of sight when he found his ball, and he did not want him improving his lie. Lou jumped from the cart and trotted up the mound, slowing to a walk when he was about halfway up. This was the first time he and Lou had been alone, and he decided to use that. He knew that any prolonged talk between them up there would get to Steve.

  “Hey, Lou,” he said, “good view from up here, huh?”

  “Right,” Lou said, then quickly, “where’s your ball?”

  “Somewhere over there,” he said, waving vaguely with his arm but keeping his eyes on Lou, and then looking past him to where Steve was sitting in the cart watching. He reached down and got a club out of his bag, a five-iron, and toyed with the grass at his feet while he talked. He figured Steve might think his ball was where they stood. He would surely wonder what he was doing with the club. He took a practice swing, not touching the ground.

  “You like coming up here on an errand?” he said. He was surprised at Lou’s directness.

  “Fuck no, I don’t like it! Come on, let’s find your ball.”

  “We’ll find it. Let’s talk a little.”

  “Look man, this is my livelihood we’re dealing with. You wanna talk, we’ll talk later, okay?” He had started his statement strongly, but there was a slight tone of pleading as he ended it. Allen could see that he had underestimated Steve’s pressure.

  He also knew that Lou’s opening up in this way, though he may not have intended to, was a measure of disaffection. He felt himself wanting Lou out of this hole; he hoped that Lou’s putt was of sufficient difficulty when it came to remove decision from him. For a moment, he felt helpless in having no control over that aspect of what would follow.

  “Okay,” Allen said, “I get it.” He turned away, his five-iron still in his hand, and walked up toward the base of the pole. About ten yards from it, to its right as he approached the crown of the mound, he saw his ball, a part of it visible through the low growth it sat firmly in. He moved on up to it to check his lie, but before he got to it something else caught his attention. He laughed to himself, visibly shaking his head as he came to the mound’s crest. Down on the other side, at the foot and running out a good thirty yards toward the green, was a sand trap. The trap must have been at least fifty yards wide; it covered a good portion of the green side of the mound, stopping on either side only a short distance in from the rough. Its size was remarkable, though it was on scale with the size of the mound and pole. More remarkable was its depth; its front lip must have been a good five feet high. He realized that had he played his shot a little longer or tried to clear the mound, he would have wound up in the trap, either by roll or on the fly, and he would have had one hell of a difficult shot to the green from there.

  “The forces of evil will stop at nothing,” he said under his breath as Lou came up to him.

  “What did you say?” he said.

  “Not much to say about that,” he said. “That speaks for itself.”

  He looked up from the trap to the green. He was about a hundred yards away from it, but it would play quite a bit shorter than that because he was well above it. From where he was he had an open shot to the pin, which was cut in close to the middle of the green, with an uphill slope between him and it. He walked back to his bag and got out his wedge. When he came back, he stepped up and addressed the ball, moving his feet and tamping them down, working to get a good stance. Before he got set to hit, he looked over at where Lou was standing and past him down to where Steve still sat, looking up. He motioned with his head a little, and Lou stepped back some and to the right, getting out of his field of vision.

  He had to think of this shot as a touch shot; a full wedge would be too much. At the same time, his lie was airy, the ball would jump out a little ahead of the club, and he could not get any backspin on it. Also, he would have to hit a bit of the weed before he got to the ball. He figured that the slope of the green between him and the cup would slow the ball down some, but not enough; he would need more than that to get it to stop on the down side. The clipped fringe in front of the green was about four feet wide and looked well cared for and true. He figured he would need a little roll in that to slow the ball down. At the edge of the fringe, the longer grass of the fairway tucked in nicely. If he landed in the fairway, about three feet from the fringe, he ought to get a bounce into the fringe, a little slowing roll onto the green, and then the quicker roll up to the cup.

  He picked a spot. He placed the club head, slightly elevated in the air, behind the ball. He elected a short backswing and a punch shot with very little wrist in it. The club came up smoothly, pausing a moment when its head was at a line near the top of his own, and then the head came down sharply and jammed the ball up out of the rough. His follow-through was abbreviated also, the club head finishing and stopping at the height of his left shoulder. He held that position as he watched the ball fly. He could see a wing on the side of the totem pole out of the corner of his eye. The ball hit close to where he had played it. It hit fairway and bounced once in the near edge of fringe, finishing the fringe on the roll. It had roll in it when it reached the shorter carpet of the green. It began to slow down halfway between the cup and the fringe. It quit no more than eight feet below the hole, a little to the left of it.

  “Good out,” Lou said behind him when the ball stopped. He watched the ball sit there a moment, then he quit his position and looked at Lou. Lou was smiling at his own quiet understatement, and he smiled at Lou.

  They walked back down the slope of the mound to the carts. Frankie was standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head and smiling.

  “That was really something,” he said.

  “Thanks,” he said. He expected nothing from Steve, but Steve nodded slightly as Frankie spoke. He got out of the cart and went to his bag for a club. He found what he wanted and stood away as Lou got ready to hit.

  Lou’s shot was firm, but it drifted a little to the left, stopping about twenty-five to thirty feet from the hole, on the left, pin high, on the side hill. Steve went directly at the pin, but he was a little long and wound up fifteen feet above it.

  WHEN THEY GOT TO THE GREEN, FRANKIE TOOK THE cart and went around behind it. He made a good shot from the rough. He was below and out of sight of the green from where he had landed, but he got the ball up to the fringe on a good line. The ball took an o
dd bounce—he had shanked it a bit—and it quit to the right of him, outside of Lou’s ball. He putted very close and tapped in for a bogey six. Lou lagged up to within a foot, and Steve told him to take it away for par.

  Steve took a lot of time in studying his position. It was clear that he was trying to lock into the putt, but he could not keep himself from looking up, briefly checking the other ball and the man who had hit it. When he came around to the front of the green to check his line from that side, he said, “Mark yours,” and there was no request in his voice.

  He’s locking in incorrectly, Allen thought. He’s used to giving orders; he didn’t mean to offend this time. He went over and marked his ball with a copper Danish krone he carried with him. The small, etched mermaid of the harbor nestled down in the close-clipped grass. He liked the sense of respect for occasion the coin gave to his game, respect for the green, its difficulties, and its social forms. The game could be compartmentalized that way into various forms. There were tee forms and fairway forms for iron shots and longer woods. The tee and green forms were the most social, and the codes of behavior for the green play were the most distinct and separate. Coming to the green was like a group of people arriving at a cocktail party or, depending on the kinds of events that got them there, like souls arriving at shelter in a storm. Once over the apron and onto the putting surface, there was room for some talk about modes of arrival, breakdowns, and sights seen on the way. But there was a time, very soon after the gathering in that circumscribed space, when that talk had an appropriate ending and the brief and intense party began.

  There were responsibilities on the green, and there were space limitations and injunctions, and though these things could be seen from a distance only in physical movements and tasks, they were all social, matters of good taste, posture, and manners. Steve glanced up at him as Allen marked his ball and lifted it, then he went around to the other side of the green again, looking the putt over, plumbing it, checking to see in what direction the grass grew. Lou was standing on the back apron, his hand on his hip, one foot planted casually in front of the other. Frankie anticipated the task of replacing the flagstick in the hole when they were finished. He stood well away from Steve’s lines of study, but he would be quick to reach for the pin when the putting was over. These two had putted out, and having done that they thickened the social atmosphere.