Cack laughed at them through his bullhorn and shouted, “I’ve seen one-armed baboons swing a golf club better than you people!”
This was Cack’s favorite line, and for some reason it infuriated male golfers. One guy out on mat number thirty got so ticked that he tossed a club, helicopter-style, out onto the range. It landed far behind the moving cart while the people around him roared at his frustration. Women, for the most part, laughed off Cack’s frequent insults, but men and boys just kept firing away, determined to wallop their antagonist.
For males, I believe this was a kind of “play army” event, whereby instead of paintball guns their weaponry consisted of clubs and golf balls. Something primal triggers when Southern males encounter a moving target.
Cack would not let up. “The guy on hitting mat number five swings like a little girl!”
The guy turned three shades of red and began firing away as fast as he could hit the balls, most of them shanks and dribbles.
All this, of course, was great for business; I wish I could claim the idea as my own. But the idea had arrived years earlier with Cack and his dilapidated umbrella table. He’d spent his second day on the job with a welding mask on his head and a welding torch in his hands, forming the top hat and mounting the curved, cylindrical pieces to the sides of the cart. He explained to me that, for most people, a driving range was a place to vent, to let go of frustrations formed from the difficulties of life. His bullhorn antics served to play off that frustration while adding humor as a balm, not to mention adding lots of revenue for the business. If only finding Mrs. Golfer were so easy.
“Look at that teenage girl on mat number twelve!” shouted Cack as he looped around the 100-yard marker. “She ought to stay home and knit sweaters like her great grandmaw!”
In mock anger, the teenager and her three friends picked up handfuls of balls and threw them at the cart.
Some guy near the end of the range finally hit a low shot that bounced into Cack’s cage. Thwop.
Cack was quick with the bullhorn. “Give that man a free bucket of balls, Chris!” he shouted. “Then tell ’im he got lucky. Tell ’im he couldn’t hit the ocean from the deck of the Queen Mary.”
The insanity continued, and people ran from the mats to my pro shop window to buy extra buckets of balls. No employee worked the window, mind you; for Happy Hour we employed the honor system—a bright yellow bucket on which I’d written the rules with a Sharpie pen. HONOR SYSTEM: 2 BUCKETS FOR $7
Next thing I knew, Cack called a twenty-second time out. Two kids ran out onto the range, climbed into the passenger side of the cart, and shut the metal door. Off went the threesome in the rolling top hat, the kids squealing, Cack turning in wild circles. “INCOMING!” he shouted from the bullhorn, and bang, another ball careened off the metal cage.
By 8:00 p.m. darkness had descended, and my once boisterous grounds sat quiet and scarred, the grass wounded from the frantic swings of happy customers. This contrast, the sheer silence when the grounds were empty, always amazed me.
Cack and I closed the range, and in a solemn half hour we picked up the balls and dumped them into plastic drums to be used again the next day. That’s what I loved about the business of golf balls—they’re reusable, low maintenance, and never file claims of unfair labor practices.
At the pro shop counter I gathered with my groundskeeper to count the night’s haul. From the cash in the yellow bucket we determined we’d sold one hundred and forty-two buckets of practice balls in an hour and a half. In this business, five hundred bucks was a good day, a very good day. I tipped the Cackster sixty bucks and bid him good night.
“Next Wednesday evening, I wanna drive the cart,” I said as he made his way to the exit.
He pushed the glass door open and spoke over his shoulder. “You’re not funny enough.”
Alone in my shop now, I locked the register and pulled two notes from under a paperweight. People were always leaving me notes, asking me to call them to arrange lessons for junior, wanting me to repair a club. I pulled out the first note and held it under the overhead light.
Chris,
Tonight during Wack da Kack I ran out of golf balls and money.
So I’m leaving this IOU for a bucket of balls. You know I’m good for it!
Mark McMellon (poor freshman at Wando High School)
The other note was written in loopy, female handwriting.
Chris,
I may have overreacted today during my lesson. I recently broke up with a guy who was heavily involved with gambling, so I guess I freaked out a bit. Anyway, I hope you win your bet with your man-hating golf student. And since I’m paying for a 3-lesson package, I’ll contact you in the next day or so.
Happy golfing,
Molly
Her check for $110 lay under her note. I stuffed the check and both notes into my pocket, but reconsidered and drew out the note from the high school kid. After reading it a second time, I tossed it into the trash. I was once a poor teenager.
The last thing I did every night before locking the shop was to shut down my work computer. Hand on mouse, I let curiosity about tomorrow’s opponent get the best of me, so into the Yahoo! search engine I typed, “Lin Givens, women’s rights.”
The second match startled me.
Lin Givens . . . women’s rights activist . . . lecturer . . . MBA from Brown, 1988 . . . three-year letterwoman, women’s golf . . . political campaign volunteer . . . political aspirations . . .
Though the lights over my range had long been turned off—all six banks of them—this new data forced me to relight the Bermuda.
Minutes later under the bright rays of the light poles, I emptied five buckets of range balls into a sort of sloppy pyramid. Focused and resolute, I determined to stay out here till midnight if that’s what it took to hone my game. I would aim and strike every one of the practice balls until Ms. Lin Givens had no chance.
I set my golf bag next to the pyramid and began practice with an 8-iron.
One after another I raked the balls onto a level patch of grass, aimed, and fired. White pellets launched high into night air, bright and rising, then faded in the darkness and descended to earth.
Thwack. I don’t care if Lin played collegiate golf.
Thwack. I’ll embarrass her just like she embarrassed me.
Thwack. But what if she really is good?
Thwack. Why’d I open my big mouth and spot her ten strokes for an eighteen-hole match?
Sweat poured from me on this hot September night.
Thwack. I’m glad Molly is coming back for more lessons.
Thwack. Don’t get distracted by thoughts of Molly.
Thwack. Molly is really cute. And personable.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
3
LESSON FOR TODAY
A proper stance will help one swing the club in balance. And balance, of course, is the key to rhythm. So never seek to copy an opponent’s poor stance (or obnoxious behavior), as this will surely ruin one’s rhythm.
The entrance to Yeamans Hall Country Club always reminded me of a dirt road into a nineteenth century plantation. Along each side of the entrance, Spanish moss hung from monstrous oak limbs, its shade random and intimidating. These trees and the dappled light that pierced them were all that greeted us as I mentally prepared for my opponent—an opponent whose skill level I had neither seen nor estimated.
“Nervous?” Cack asked from the passenger seat of my truck.
I shook my head no, turned behind the whitewashed clubhouse, and parked beneath yet another overgrown oak. Dozens of vehicles lined the lot, unusual for a Thursday afternoon.
I checked in at the golf shop and greeted the assistant pro, Joey, who was sorting merchandise behind the counter. He looked up and said, “Howdy, Chris. I hear you made a bet.”
“Just a small one, Joey. Just a small one.” I signed my name on the members pad and grabbed a handful of tees from the freebie box.<
br />
Joey leaned across the counter and looked down at what I’d written on the pad. “Um, Chris, you’ll have to pay for your guest.”
“Cack?” I answered, surprised at the request. “He’s only caddying for me. He doesn’t even play golf.”
“I meant the woman you’re playing against. She checked in twenty minutes ago and said you’d take care of the greens fees. She’s out on the practice range, warming up.”
Paying her way was the first of several indignities. “Just put her fee on my tab,” I said and turned for the door.
He did, but not without further comment. “Oh, and you should know something else.”
“Yeah?”
“She brought friends.”
I left the shop and muttered “great” as I caught up to Cack, who slung my golf bag over his shoulder and strode toward the practice range. White sneakers adorned his feet, and a Yeamans cap sat low on his head. He seemed content in his role as caddie.
I opted for the same khaki pants and golf shirt—purple—that I’d worn to Lin’s class. Fresh-washed and matched to my cap, the shirt broadcast a subtle message: Purple was the color of royalty, and I fully intended to show Lin who was king.
In my eagerness to get to the range and warm up, however, I had failed to notice how sore I was from hitting five buckets of balls the previous night. I made slow swinging motions to stretch my back and arms. Ouch.
Cack and I eased between a pair of holly bushes and saw out on the range some thirty women gathered around a lone player—Lin, dressed in black, and hitting balls with a fairway wood. Her swing was impressive; her gallery, unexpected. She was only practicing, and still they clapped for her every shot.
“This should be an interesting day,” Cack mumbled, setting my bag upright some twenty yards left of Lin and her groupies.
I hit only fifteen balls during my warm up. Five with a wedge, five with a 6-iron, and five with a driver. On the surface this may have looked like a routine; in reality it was my attempt to hide anxiety.
Cack and I spent twenty minutes on the putting green, gauging its speed, holing lots of six-footers. The course had just been watered, and from the moist turf steam rose in waves, the smell of fertilizer strong in its wake.
Confident and ready for battle, we strode to the first tee, where Lin and her minions stood waiting. They parted slightly to allow Cack and me into the tee box, then filled in around us. Lin stood ten feet away, rubbing a golf ball in her hands. Her body language—she was half-turned to the left, away from us—told me that an offer to shake hands would be futile. Still, I at least wanted to appear relaxed and conversational.
“You didn’t tell me you played golf at Brown University,” I said, reaching into the bottom pocket of my golf bag for a new ball.
“Well, Chris, you didn’t ask.”
I glanced at Cack. He shrugged and rolled his eyes.
Seconds later I caught Joey, the assistant pro, peering out of the golf shop window, his hands shielding the glare from his eyes. A man-versus-woman match at Yeamans Hall was a rarity. I imagined even the cooks and cart boys had been alerted to the game.
Then, right there on the first tee, in a setting that demands courtesy and respect toward one’s opponent, the chants started: “Yeah woman! Yeah woman! Yeah woman!”
This continued for a loud two minutes. Ignored again, I moved between the tee markers—the blue markers—and prepared to hit my first shot. I would play first, as the blue tees sat fifty yards behind the red tees, from which Lin would start.
While I took practice swings, two of the chanters slapped high-fives with Lin, the chantee. Overconfidence abounded.
Cack pointed to his watch. 2:02 p.m. “Let’s get started,” he whispered into my ear. “Just stay calm, don’t let the groupies bother you, and put a smooth swing on your golf ball.”
While teeing my ball, I tried to remember all three of his pointers. I was so eager to get started, however, that the thought registered in my head as, Don’t let the calm groupie swing smoothly.
Then, as if my equipment had sided with the opposition, my ball decided to fall off its wooden peg. I smiled with embarrassment and reteed the ball.
I took my stance and prepared to hit my first shot. As always, I inhaled and blew the air out through my nose. But just as I was about to swing, Lin cleared her throat and said, “Remember that I get ten strokes.”
Without taking my eye off my golf ball I muttered, “I remember.”
Then, “I haven’t played golf in a month.”
“That’s because you’ve been too busy demonizing men,” I said just a split second before I lashed the ball down the middle of the fairway.
No one applauded. Except Cack, of course. He clapped loudly, much too loudly. He even whistled before blurting, “That’s the way to hit it like a man.”
I handed him my club and whispered, “Try not to overdo it. We don’t want them calling for reinforcements. Thirty raging feminists is plenty.”
Lin’s gallery—some of them carried poster-board signs, one of which was a homemade scoreboard—followed her ahead to the red tee markers. The scoreboard listed the first nine holes on one side, the second nine on the other. I shook my head at its lettering:
#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #6 #7 #8 #9
The Great Eve:
Passive Adam:
Lin played the game with quickness and efficiency—she teed her ball, aimed, and swung. Her swing was not powerful, but from this first shot she proved very accurate.
She and her gallery strode ahead on the fairway. Cack and I trailed behind, speculating on any hijinks to come.
“You worried?” he asked me.
I noted the squishy nature of the turf at Yeamans, a well-watered layout that sat next to the Goose Creek wetlands. The fairways here always seemed warm and hospitable, in contrast to our opponent, who was neither. “Of course I’m worried. Anytime no one in a gallery claps for a good shot, I get worried.” I tried to picture Molly clapping for me, but the vision grew hazy.
The chanters started up again, this time for at least a full minute. Cack and I walked on for another fifteen paces, doing our best to concentrate on the task at hand. He stooped to pluck a few blades of grass, tossing them overhead to test the wind. We agreed that breezes were negligible, but then he turned his attention back to the all-female gallery. “Think any of ’em belong to a gang?” he asked.
For several paces I let the question linger, preferring instead to watch a stray cloud hide the sun. “Just because most of ’em are wearing black? Don’t be silly. They’ve probably all been disappointed by the men in their lives, and so today, golf is their comeuppance.”
“Never heard you use a word like ‘comeuppance.’”
“Just carry the bag, Cack.”
He tromped another twenty yards before whispering out the side of his mouth, “You always use big words like ‘comeuppance’ when you get nervous.”
We avoided walking too close to Lin and her gallery, preferring to stay on the opposite side of the fairway. She hit her second shot much like her first—with little hesitation and a resolute demeanor. With her fairway wood she knocked the ball straight at the pin. The ball landed in the fringe of the green and bounded onto the surface, some thirty feet from the hole.
I said, “Good shot.” But she just marched on toward the green, putter in hand.
Cack handed me my 6-iron and shook his head. “Pitiful,” he muttered. “Can’t even acknowledge ‘good shot.’”
Pride was at stake on both sides, and somehow, even at this early stage of the match, I was certain that I could take losing better than Lin. Everything about her, from her walk to her cold no-handshake greeting on the first tee, broadcasted how seriously she viewed our bet.
Not that I expected to lose, just that the concept was not foreign to me. During the two years I played college golf at the University of Georgia, I had practiced often with members of both the men’s and the women’s team. One young woman from Texas, a soft-sp
oken girl named Sue, beat me as often as I beat her. Competition at that level far outweighed gender bias; if someone was good and wanted to play a match, you played. We played for pizzas, and we paid up with a smile.
The camaraderie still lingered. Years after I’d forgotten who won what tournament and who shot what score, it is the road trips with golf buddies, the surprisingly good meals at hole-in-the-wall restaurants, that glue themselves in memory.
This was what I was thinking about as I stood over my ball. Well, that and wondering if Molly liked pizza.
And this is probably why I pulled the shot into a sand bunker. White grains splashed at the ball’s entry. I winced, knowing that if I was already spotting Lin ten strokes, I didn’t need to make such dumb mistakes.
Cack took the club from me and wiped the grass off the clubface. “You seemed distracted over that shot,” he said. “Like you were in another world.”
“I was. I was back in college . . . ordering pizzas.”
He sighed and slung the bag strap over his shoulder. “You best forget pizzas and remember where you are. You gotta defend the male gender, remember? Ain’t that what you told me?”
I replaced my divot, stomped it with my foot, and agreed. “Sure . . . the entire male gender.”
Minutes later I blasted my ball from the sand but took two putts to get the ball in the hole. A score of 5. A bogey. No sound from the gallery.
Lin putted her ball to three feet away. Then she tapped it into the hole. A score of 4. A par. Her gallery burst into wild applause. Not polite applause or cordial applause, but wild, biased cheering.
Cack set the flagstick back into the hole and followed me to my golf bag. “Pretty rude and inappropriate to cheer that loudly, eh?”
“By now, Cackster, nothing surprises me.”
By losing the first hole by one shot, I had in effect now spotted Lin eleven strokes—and had only seventeen more holes in which to make up the deficit.
Par for the Course Page 3