The Back Nine: A Novel About Life After Fifty

by E. A. Briginshaw

  Max’s thoughts were interrupted by another knock on the door. “Hey Boss. There’s a guy out here inquiring about memberships. You wanna talk to him?”

  Max forced on a big smile. “Absolutely.” He headed out of his office and approached a man who was taking a practice stroke with one of the new putters that were on sale. “Hi, I’m Max Wakelam, head professional.”

  The man placed the putter back in the rack and shook Max’s hand. “Ian Martin.”

  The man looked younger than their typical member and had the tan of someone who spent a lot of time on a golf course. Max invited him into his office.

  “Are you purchasing a condo in our community?” Max asked.

  “No, I’m afraid the places here are a little out of my price range. You’re still allowing non-resident members, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, we’ve still got a few of those spots left,” Max said, “but they have some restrictions. We’ll be discontinuing them once we get a full membership. They’re really trial memberships; it’s our way of allowing someone to play here for a year to see if they like the golf course and the community. Most of the people who’ve had them have decided to move into the community and become full members.”

  “My situation is a little different,” Ian said. “My wife and I are members at Blackhawk Ridge. We separated a few months ago and it’s sort of…um…awkward for us to play at the same club.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Max said. “I’m divorced myself, so I know what you’re going through.”

  “Maggie and I are just separated so far – not sure where it’s going to end up – but we agreed that it’s probably best if I play somewhere else next year. I can’t afford to fork over another initiation fee at a new club, so here I am.”

  “Well, I hope things work out between you and your wife, but in the meantime, a guy’s gotta have a place to play golf, right?”

  “It’s the only thing keeping me sane these days.” He looked at a picture of the course layout that was hanging beside Max’s desk. “I’ve never actually played here before, so I was wondering if I could get a round in before deciding.”

  “Absolutely,” Max said. “Let’s go talk to our starter to see where he can fit you in.”

  * * *

  Mr. Martin stood by the pro shop as Max walked over to talk to the starter. There seemed to be a lot of conversation going on as they flipped the pages back and forth on the tee sheet. Whenever the starter pointed to a potential opening, Max shook his head. Was this club too exclusive for them to accept him? He tried to remain calm and not show how desperate he was to be a member of a golf club, or a member of anything else for that matter. Max walked back toward him.

  “I didn’t mean to put you in a tough spot,” Mr. Martin said. “If your tee sheet is full, just fit me in whenever you can. I don’t mind waiting.”

  Max smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find you a suitable group to play with. What do you normally shoot?”

  “I’m a six handicap, but my game has been a bit off the last few weeks, so don’t worry about that. I’ll play with anybody who’ll take me.”

  Max thought for a second. “I think I know the perfect group for you. They lost one of the members of their group a few weeks ago. Wait here.”

  Max approached three guys who were warming up on the putting green.

  Mr. Martin felt nervous as they all looked over at him. He wished he’d worn a better golf shirt. He tried to smile, but it seemed fake. They all started walking toward him.

  “Mr. Martin, I’d like to introduce you to three of our members who’d be pleased to have you join them,” Max said. “This is Ray Ferguson, Bruce Thompson and Jeff Stryker.”

  “Hi, I’m Ian Martin, but my friends call me Cheech.”

  “Cheech?” Ray asked.

  “Yeah, I picked that up in college. I used to do impressions of Cheech & Chong.” He could see the strange looks on their faces. “Surely, you’ve heard of them, right?”

  “Yeah, I must have heard their routines a thousand times,” Bruce said.

  Max watched them banter back and forth for a few minutes. He felt confident that these guys would make Cheech feel welcome.

  * * *

  When they made their way to the first tee, all three members hit perfect tee shots, right down the middle of the fairway. Cheech was up next and it was obvious that he was nervous. “You guys are a tough act to follow,” he said as he teed up his ball.

  First tee jitters are normal, particularly when you know everyone is watching, and this was Cheech’s debut. He took a few extra practice swings, but still didn’t feel comfortable as he prepared to hit. His shot barely got three feet off the ground as it snap-hooked toward the sand trap. Fortunately, it hit the rake and ricocheted back into the fairway. This was not the start he wanted.

  Chapter 3: Staying on Plane

  Cheech strode down the fairway trying to make it appear that he wasn’t bothered at all by his shaky start.

  “So what do you do for a living?” Ray asked.

  Shit, why do people always start off asking about your job? “Actually, I’m between jobs right now,” Cheech said. “I was the Canadian VP of Sales and Marketing for a car company until a few months ago – when they decided they wanted to go with someone younger.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Ray said.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. Gives me more time to work on my golf game.”

  “They give you a good package?”

  “Not as good as it should have been. I was there almost twenty-five years, twenty-four years and ten months to be exact. I think the bastards let me go just before I qualified for the enhanced pension. My lawyer thinks I’ve got a really strong case, but it could be years until I get a penny out of them.”

  Cheech put his bag down when he reached his ball. He was at least eighty yards short of the other drives. “Any idea what my distance is from here?”

  “Not sure,” Bruce said with a grin. “I haven’t been this far back since I was in the two-ball with my wife.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Ray said.

  Stryker walked over and found the nearest sprinkler head which had the distance to the middle of the green marked on it. “It’s two-fifteen from here, so you’re probably looking at just over two hundred to the left front edge of the green.”

  The pin was tucked to the right, behind a sand-trap. “So probably two-twenty to the hole,” Cheech said.

  “Since it’s your first time here, I’ll let you know that’s a sucker pin,” Stryker said. “The smart play is to the left side of the green, take the trap out of play and try to two-putt for par.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of being smart,” Cheech said as he pulled his five-wood from the bag.

  He took aim at the pin and flushed it. It looked perfect, dead-solid perfect, until it suddenly dropped and buried in the lip of the bunker.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” he said. “Thought it was there.”

  The others didn’t say anything, but walked up to their balls. Bruce and Ray each hit the green with their second shots and two-putted for pars. Stryker hit his shot to the left side of the green and had about a fifteen-footer for birdie, but his putt lipped out and hung on the edge of the hole. He glared at it for a few seconds until it finally succumbed to his will and fell in.

  Since Cheech’s ball was buried in the trap, it took him two shots to get out. Then he two-putted for a double-bogey six.

  “Tough start,” Ray said as they walked off the green, “but the next one’s a birdie hole so you can probably get one back.”

  “So what do you guys do?” Cheech asked while they waited on the next tee.

  “I’ve been retired for a couple of years now,” Ray said. “Used to be in law enforcement.” Although Ray was coming up to his sixty-fifth birthday, he took pride in the fact that he still did sit-ups and push-ups every morning after getting out of bed.

  Ray nodded toward Bruce. “Bruce was an accountant.”
r />   “I still am an accountant,” Bruce corrected. “Why do people always talk about me in the past tense?”

  Bruce was in his early sixties, but the belly hanging over his belt showed that he didn’t share Ray’s commitment to staying fit.

  “Come on,” Ray said. “You’ve been winding down your accounting practice for years now. When’s the last time you actually turned on your calculator?”

  Cheech turned to Stryker. “How about you?” he asked. “What do you do?”

  Stryker was obviously the youngest of the group, but Cheech wasn’t sure by how much. He guessed he was probably approaching fifty.

  “I’m a lawyer,” Stryker said. “Been running a small firm with my partner for over twenty years now.”

  Stryker had the honours and put his tee in the ground. He was lining up his shot preparing to hit when Cheech whispered to the others. “Sounds like the start of a joke. An accountant, a lawyer and a cop walk into a bar…”

  Stryker backed away from his shot and glared at him.

  “Sorry,” Cheech said.

  Stryker regrouped and then tried to hit a draw, but the ball hung out to the right and caught the trap. He slammed his driver back into his bag. Bruce and Ray both hit the fairway with their shots.

  Cheech hit one of the best drives of his life. The ball landed on the downslope and bounded twenty-five yards past the others. “Got both cheeks into that one,” he bragged.

  “Whoever sets your pins must have a mean streak,” Cheech said when he got to his ball. Once again, it was tucked to the right, behind the sand-trap. A water hazard also bordered the right side.

  “If you think you can get there, you should just hit to the left side of the green,” Stryker said. “If not, you should probably lay back to about a hundred yards – like we did.”

  Cheech threw up a bit of grass to gauge the wind. I think it’s about time I show these guys what I’m really capable of. He pulled a wood from his bag. “Actually, I’m feeling really good about cutting a three-wood in there and cozying it up close to the hole for eagle.”

  Stryker looked doubtful, but held his tongue.

  As soon as Cheech hit his shot, it was apparent that it was heading for trouble. He hit it a little off the toe. It started right of his target and then continued to slice even farther to the right. Splash.

  “Damn,” Cheech said.

  The others just picked up their bags and walked up to their balls. They each hit their wedge shots onto the green, but no one managed to make birdie. Cheech took a penalty shot and dropped a new ball alongside the water hazard, hit a good pitch shot over the trap, but missed the par putt. He was now three over after just two holes.

  As they waited to tee off on the third hole, Bruce noticed Cheech was nervously spinning the wedding ring on his finger. “Does your wife play? If she does, the club holds a lot of two-ball events for couples throughout the year.”

  “She does,” Cheech said, “but we’re currently separated”. He decided not to share the fact that she’d kicked him out when she found out he’d been chasing some young skirt at a convention last year. “She’s quite a good golfer and we won a few couples tournaments back at our old club.”

  “What club did you play out of?” Ray asked.

  “Blackhawk Ridge.”

  Cheech could almost feel the temperature drop as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

  “Ah, the enemy,” Bruce said. “How do we know you’re not here to spy on us?”

  Cheech gave them a blank stare.

  Ray gave Bruce a sideways glance to encourage him to lighten up. “Bruce is just a little sensitive because Blackhawk Ridge has kicked our ass the last few years in the Challenge Cup.” Ray took a closer look at Cheech. “I don’t remember seeing you on their team.”

  “I wasn’t,” Cheech said. “Back then, I was too busy working to commit to a team, but my wife played on it. She still plays there. That’s why I’m looking for a new club.”

  The third hole was a drivable par-four with a water hazard in front of the tee that extended down the entire right side of the fairway. Stryker hit first and hit a five-iron to the middle of the fairway. Cheech wondered if Stryker ever hit a shot that wasn’t the “smart” shot. Bruce hit next and his ball landed in the fairway, about eighty yards short of the green.

  “Maybe you could play on our team next year,” Ray said after he hit his shot, “assuming you to decide to join our club.”

  “Hold on,” Stryker said. “He’d have to qualify to make the team first.” Cheech could tell that Stryker didn’t think he was good enough.

  “Come on,” Ray said. “He’s a six handicap. He’d make it easy.”

  “What do I have to do to qualify?” Cheech asked.

  “It’s sort of like qualifying for the Ryder Cup,” Ray said. “Members of the team are picked on scores they post in qualifying rounds.”

  “Don’t forget about the ladies,” Bruce interjected.

  “Yeah, right,” Ray said. “The ladies do the same thing, so the team ends up with six men and six women.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Cheech said. “I’ll probably give it a shot next year.”

  “Lots of people try,” Stryker said, “but some can’t handle the pressure.”

  Cheech took out his driver. He hit it well and it had enough distance to make it to the green, but it hung out to the right and landed in the hazard. He pulled out another ball and prepared to re-tee.

  “It’s red-staked,” Stryker said. “You should take the penalty shot and just drop another ball up there where it entered the hazard.”

  Cheech ignored the advice. He knew he could make this shot and wanted to prove it to Stryker. This time his drive drew in and landed about twenty yards short of the green, took one big bounce and then rolled onto the green, stopping about a foot from the hole.

  “Just a routine par,” Cheech said.

  * * *

  When the four of them added up their scores at the end of the round, Stryker was only two over par and both Ray and Bruce managed to break eighty. Cheech barely broke ninety which included eight penalty shots, four for hitting it out of bounds and another four for hitting it into the numerous water hazards spread throughout the course.

  “Sorry I didn’t play better,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ray said. “It was your first time here. It takes a few rounds to figure out where to hit it.”

  “And where not to,” Bruce added.

  “I’ve been struggling with my game for a while now,” Cheech said. “I wish I knew what I was doing wrong.”

  “You’re totally off-plane,” Stryker said. “Half the time you’re laying the club off on your backswing and then coming over the top and pulling it to the left or slicing it to the right.”

  Jeez, this guy thinks he’s an expert in everything. But Cheech knew he was probably right. His whole life was off kilter, so it made sense his golf swing would be as well.

  Ray put his hand on Cheech’s shoulder. “I’m sure your game will come around. We normally head into the clubhouse for a drink after the round. Care to join us?”

  “Thanks,” Cheech said, “but I can’t. I told the pro I’d stop in to see him.”

  After the others headed into the clubhouse, Cheech pulled his seven-iron from his bag and started to check his club position at the top of his backswing. He moved closer to the pro-shop so he could see his reflection in the glass window and was surprised to see how out of alignment he was.

  Max came out of the pro-shop. “So how did you like our course?”

  “The course was great. My game – not so much. I think I might need a lesson to get me back on track. Think you can help me out?”

  “I don’t teach much myself anymore,” Max said, “but we’ve got a couple of assistant pros who could probably get your game back in shape. Come inside and we’ll take a look at their schedules.”

  As he paged through the bookings, Max saw that Grant, the head teaching pro, w
as booked up for the next few weeks. The club had recently hired Patti Hoffman, a former LPGA player, who now specialized in teaching. “Patti could fit you in the middle of next week,” Max said. “I know some guys don’t like taking lessons from a woman, but she’s good, really good. She even coaches some of the tour players.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” Cheech said. “If she can help me get my game back on track, then I’m all for it.”

  “I’ll pencil you in for next Wednesday at ten. Patti will call you to confirm.”

  “Sounds great,” Cheech said. “I presume you want me to write you a cheque for the membership.”

  “Sure, but since we’ve only got a few more weeks left in this season, it’ll be applied to next year’s fees. If you give me a cheque today, we’ll let you play here for the balance of this year at no extra charge.”

  Cheech reached out and shook Max’s hand. “Deal.”

  Chapter 4: Mid-Life Crisis

  Cheech threw his clubs into the tiny trunk of his car. When he tried to slam it shut, his golf bag prevented it from closing. He had purchased the little red sports car on impulse just a few months ago, when the sales lady told him he looked good driving it. Not one of his smartest purchases. He jammed his golf bag in a little further and managed to get the trunk closed on his second attempt. Then he raced over to the Riverview golf course hoping to get there with enough time to get warmed up before the instructor arrived. He was on the range pounding out drives when he heard her approach.

  “Good morning. I’m Patti Hoffman. I hear you’re having some problems with your golf swing.”

  Cheech introduced himself and reached out to shake her hand. Before the lesson, Cheech had googled her name and found out that she had played on the LPGA tour for a few years. She was now in her forties, but her athletic build made her seem younger.

  “Okay, let’s see you hit a few and we’ll see what’s going on,” Patti said.