Sticks - A Golfer's Tale by W. Sautter (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

became convinced, that it would probably be smart to play more poorly next time and let Harper win.
Then, suddenly he stopped himself.
“Wait a minute! This is really crazy!” he thought.
“Here are I am planning not to play my best and let a low eighties golfer win on purpose! Who am I kidding? I got real lucky one time and now I think I’m a pro! I’ll be fortunate to be in the high eighties much less beat Harper. I should just hope that I don’t embarrass myself, much less worry about winning,” he told himself.
Odd as it seemed, he returned to his desk, somewhat relaxed in the thought that he might play inadequately, let alone win.
The week shot by and Saturday morning came clear and bright. The horn blew in the driveway and Bob piled in the Harper’s car for the ride to the club. He, Harper, Harrington and Shots again arrived at the first tee precisely at the same time as the week before, not a minute off.
“Bob, after last week’s showing, you’re first man up,” announced Harrington.
Bob smiled, nodded acknowledgingly and stepped forward to the tee. He nervously reached over and drew his driver from the bag.
Almost instantaneously, he could feel his anxiety begin to dissipate. A surge of power and certainty pulsed through him from the grip of the club, as he clenched it. He moved to the tee, as if entranced. He was an automaton, controlled by its power.
He addressed the ball, drew back the club, and slammed it with every ounce of strength he could muster. The ball took off skyward, rocketing down the fairway and striking within yards of the green. It bounced and then bounced again onto the green, rolling towards the cup. It stopped just three feet from the lip.
“Jesus Christ! That’s three hundred and fifteen yards!” exclaimed Shots.
Bob eagled the first hole. It wasn’t as if he had wanted too, it was out of his control. Once his hands tightened around the grip of the club, it was no longer possible for him do anything but fire a perfect shot.
No matter how much he tried to diminish his effort, perfection still resulted. At this rate he wouldn’t just beat Harper, he’d destroy him.
He stepped up to the second tee, with the cheers and congratulations of Shots and Harrington in the background. Once more, an overpowering force enshrouded him and once more, he struck a flawless drive, this time even further than the first. Again, as it had done the week before, the ball struck the fairway and turned to the left around the dogleg traveling three hundred and twenty-five yards towards the pin.
Harrington, Shots, and even Harper stood in amazement as the ball did its magic. In spite of the consequences, he knew the game was out of his control. The longer they played, the more his anxiety melted into complacency. Try as he might, Bob was unable to relent and he played better and better at every hole throughout the eighteen.
“Final scores! Shots, eighty-three.
I got an eighty-six. Not the worst!
Elliott, you shot a seventy-nine. Pretty good!
Bob, sixty-two! Jesus!” exclaimed Harrington.
“You did it again, really did it,” said Shots. Where did you learn to play that way?”
“It - it just comes naturally, I guess,” Bob sputtered. He really didn’t know what to say. He was as astounded as they were, but he didn’t dare show it. He was thrilled to the core with his newfound skill, but condemned to a silence as to its rightful nature, lest he be called crazy. Now, he finally knew how the old man must have felt, with the truth forever trapped within him.
He and Harper rode back to Bob’s house. Little was said. The mood was uneasy. Foreboding hung ominously in the air as he left the car. It was amplified by Harper’s polite, but terse goodbye.
When Monday came it was dark and dreary. A light, cold drizzle fell on the windshield as Bob drove the long road to work. The weather mirrored his premonition of the day’s events. He arrived at work and purposely avoided his usual morning coffee stop. He went directly to his office to begin work. He just couldn’t bear Eric’s admonishments and jests. Not now, especially now that he was so sure that he was probably right. Worse still, it would be particularly painful, to be chastised for something over which he had no real control.
He entered his office and there was on his desk, neatly placed at the center, a large, white envelope, addressed to “Mr. Robert Andrews – Confidential.”
Hesitatingly, he reached for it without even walking to the far side of the desk. Reluctantly, he picked it up and without opening it, examined it carefully, as if trying to find a clue to its contents, without suffering the torment of actually reading it. Then, he tore it open ever so slowly, all the time surmising its message. He withdrew the note and read.
“We regret to inform you that due to the current staffing situation we will no longer require your services. Although your termination begins at the receipt of this letter, your salary and benefits will continue for two additional weeks. Thank you for your work here at E.I. Harper & Co. Good luck in your future employment efforts,” signed, “E.I. Harper, President and C.E.O.”
Bob stood motionless with the paper clutched in his hand.
“What now?” he thought.

Two weeks had passed since he was fired. Over that time he heard the same phrases over and over a thousand times.
“You’re overqualified.”
“You’re under qualified.”
“Call us next week.”
“We’ll call you next week.”
A litany of “nos” and “maybes.” The phone never rang. He cleaned the house, washed the dishes, did the laundry, straightened out the garage, mowed the lawn and trimmed the bushes. Did everything, but get a job!
He sat in the kitchen in a trance-like stupor. Maryanne’s salary carried the bills, but then what did that make him?
“A fool!” he thought to himself.
Why did he have to be such a show off? He had been warned and he did it anyway. He knew Harper wasn’t one to take kindly to even a slightest chagrin and he did it anyway! He had rebuked himself again and again for his foolishness, but all the time he knew, deep inside, that it wasn’t really his fault. As long as he used those clubs, there was no way that he could have lost to Harper or anyone else, for that matter!
Enough! He’d tortured himself enough, he thought. He’d been through all of this, over and over. If he thought about it for another instant, he was sure he would go mad. He wiped his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes forcing himself back into full consciousness.
“There’s no sense in job hunting, not today,” he mused.
He’d been to every agency, replied to every classified and called every contact he knew. What was left? He did all that he could do.
He walked down to the basement, unlocked the cabinet and picked up his clubs and went to the course.
Green Valley wasn’t exactly the Rock Brook Country Club. There weren’t any valets. As a matter of fact, he could hardly find a parking spot. He finally settled for one at the far end of the lot. He grabbed the bag from the trunk and walked the long walk to the clubhouse. It was Thursday afternoon and the place was mobbed.
He walked up to the starter. The starter looked at him and immediately responded to his unspoken question.
“Two hours, unless you’re a single and want to lose some big money. Then I can hook you up right now with those three guys,” he said as he pointed towards the first tee.
“What do you mean by big money?” asked Bob.
“Twenty-five dollars a hole,” he replied.
Bob paused for a moment and then pulled out his wallet. There, tucked under his driver’s license, were the five, new, one hundred dollar bills that he’d won two weeks ago. Without hesitation, he slipped the wallet back into his pocket and promptly joined the three at that tee.
“I’m Bob Andrews,” he announced. “The starter said you guys could use a fourth.”
The big one, seated on the golf cart with a cigar clenched tightly in his teeth, answered.
“Did he tell that we’ll take anybody’s money, even yours!” he growled.
“We’re playing twenty-five to a hole, twenty for birdies and fifteen for pars. Can you cover that?” interrupted the shorter man next to him on the cart as he puffed on a cigarette.
“Yeah, the starter told me. I’m good for it,” replied Bob.
“Not that we don’t trust you, but we’ve got to see it,” said the fat one smugly. “We don’t like gettin’ stiffed and you’d like stiffin’ us even less, if you know what I mean,” he added in a threatening tone.
Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet containing the five, crisp, hundred dollar bills. He took them from his wallet and waved them in front of the three.
“Looks like game time,” remarked the third man who was methodically swinging his driver back and forth in a short rhythmic motion.
“I’m Sal. That’s Billy and the big boy over there is Sam.”
Bob put his bag down and withdrew his driver.
“Did you ever play this game before?” grunted Sal in his deep, gravelly, voice. “It don’t look like it with those clubs you got there. What did you do, find those things on the curb on your way over here?” he snickered.
“Leave the guy alone and let’s see him play,” snapped Billy.
By this time, Bob was beginning to have some second thoughts. What if he lost the whole five hundred? What if he’d really just been lucky those other times after all?
Doubt and insecurity struggled against confidence and certainty to take control, as he waited his turn at the tee. A tumult of contradictory emotions swept through his mind and fidgeted nervously.
Sal stepped up first and struck a well-positioned drive, far down the fairway. Sam rolled off the cart and waddled to the tee box.
“You’re last Bob. You gotta earn your honors when you play with us,” he grunted, as he bent over to place the ball on the tee. Then, after a titanic struggle against the forces of gravity, he righted himself and grasped the driver. He stood at address, red-faced from the strain, with his protruding abdomen nearly blocking his view of the ball. His back swing was short and chopping but he managed to put his entire weight into the downswing and the ball blasted from the tee, straight down the middle, passed Sal’s.
He paused, with his eyes following the ball. Then, after a moment or two of satisfaction, he swept the perspiration from his forehead and left the tee, breathing short, rapid breathes of exertion.
Billy slid from the cart carrying his driver, just as Sam returned to it. He walked to the tee, carefully placed his cigarette on the grass and teed up his ball. He executed several smooth, flowing practice swings, then quickly moved to the ball and struck a long, straight drive down the fairway.
Bob