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

the old man was right? Could it really be possible?” he asked himself.
He paused for a moment with a vacant stare.
“Of course not!” he answered out loud in a convincing tone and then continued his work.
By the time he finished he was filled with anticipation for Saturday’s game. The very act of handling the clubs seemed to have somehow lifted him to exalted heights. The cleaning then completed, he tucked each of them gently back into the bag with a curious new sense of supreme confidence.
The alarm went off at six forty-five and Bob walked from the bathroom to silence it. He’d already been up for over half an hour, impatiently waiting for Harper’s arrival. All night long, his head had been filled with delightful dreams of soaring drives, lofted chips to the green and precise “on the money” shots. He was filled with the thoughts of that excellent performance that he knew he was soon to enact. Try as he might, he could think of almost nothing else. He was obsessed by his own thoughts of, yet unsubstantiated, prowess.
Occasionally, however, a fleeting thought of his last outing did creep into his consciousness. Almost as quickly as it arose however, he banished it from his thoughts with an overpowering rush of self-certain enthusiasm. He was so consumed with confidence that he knew nothing short of perfection would be possible.
He hurriedly showered, shaved, and dressed himself in his best golfing attire. Then, he went downstairs and began to prepare his usual breakfast of toast and coffee.
Soon, Maryanne appeared in the kitchen doorway, still wearing her nightgown. It was apparent that she was not yet fully awake. She frequently rubbed the sleep from her eyes and repeatedly yawned as she spoke. In spite of her sleepiness, she continued her admonishments of the night before. They spilled forth as a litany of cautions and precautions.
“You’re going to remember that this is only a game!” she said rhetorically.
“You can’t let yourself get out of control again. Remember you’re playing with Mr. Harper,” she continued incessantly.
“I know,” replied Bob tired of her cajoling.
“At least this time I don’t have a twelve hundred dollar set of clubs with me,” he added jokingly, in hopes of stemming her volley of chastisements.
“Remember, I didn’t even want to play. I’m only going because I’m under orders from Harper,” he continued, attempting to feign indifference and disguise his true keen anticipation.
“Don’t worry! Everything will work out just fine. I’m sure,” he said confidently as he walked over and kissed her on the cheek.
Suddenly, the sound of a car horn came from the front of the house. He gulped down what remained of his coffee and raced to the garage.
He hurried over to the bag and upon seeing it, hesitated for just a moment.
“What would Harper think?” he thought.
In spite of his careful cleaning, the clubs and bag still looks like a garage sale special.
“Oh, what the hell! It’s too late now,” he said to himself with sigh.
He reached out and grasped it by the handle. As he did, he felt a tingly surge pulse up his arm and into his body. It was a warm, glowing radiation that filled him and involuntarily tightened his hand on the grip of the bag. He lifted the clubs and sensed a flow of energy enveloping him. He felt almost fused with them, as if he and the clubs were becoming one.
Then, in the next instant, as quickly as it began, the emotion subsided leaving him bewildered but even more confident.
The car horn tooted again, shaking him further into full consciousness. He opened the garage door and walked to Harper’s car with bag in hand.
It was a huge, black BMW sitting proudly in the driveway with Harper sitting pompously behind the wheel. The deck lid sprang open and Harper motioned him forward.
“We’ll meet the other two guys at the club,” he shouted.
Bob put his bag in the trunk, slammed the lid, came around to the front and slid into the passenger seat.
“Sure appreciate your filling in today Bob. It looks like today’s a beauty too,” he said, trying to make small talk as they pulled out of the driveway with a chirp of the rear tires and headed towards the country club.
Bob had been to Rock Brook Country Club many times and knew it well. He caddied there as a boy, working countless loops, over three summers. Needless to say, he certainly knew its difficulty.
They pulled through the huge, iron gates, up the long, circular drive, to the front of the clubhouse.
“Good morning, Mr. Harper,” greeted the valet walking up to the car. Harper and Bob got out and walked into the clubhouse to meet the other two members of the foursome.
Harrington was a short, balding man, a bit on the stocky side, whom Harper introduced as his attorney. The other one was quite the opposite in appearance, tall and slim; sporting a deep, dark sun tan and thick, black hair, heavily streaked with gray. Shots, as he was called, was a neighbor and longtime friend of Harper.
The four sat and ordered coffees, except for Shots, as they waited for their carts and equipment to be ready. He ordered a bloody Mary, which helped to satisfy Bob’s curiosity as to the origin of his nickname. They were called shortly and walked to the first tee where all was ready.
“Everything OK gentleman?” asked the starter.
Harper replied with a smile and thumbs up sign as the four stepped forward and drew their clubs from the bags.
“Playing the same as usual?” queried Harrington.
“Sure, why not?” answered Harper.
“Wait! We’ve got to explain this to Bob,” interrupted Shots. “It’s twenty dollars a hole for low score, extra twenty for birdies, extra ten for pars, fifty for low total on the front nine, fifty for total low on the back nine and a hundred for low overall total,” he recited rapidly in one long breath.
Bob’s mind responded like a cash register, flashing numbers everywhere. The way he figured it, with some real bad luck, this round of golf could cost him five hundred dollars or more! He swallowed hard. His palms began to sweat.
What could he do? He certainly couldn’t refuse. The choice was no choice at all, that was obvious.
“Well -,” he began with nervous hesitation.
“No problem!” interjected Harper, slapping Bob on the shoulder. “It’s easy money. These guys are like a scholarship fund sending my daughter to Cornell Law School,” he added with a convincing laugh as he quickly stepped up to the tee.
He took a wide stance over the ball and stood almost motionless, waggling his club in a small arc. Then, after a long moment, he drew the club back slowly and then brought it down sharply, striking the ball with a loud crack. It leapt from the tee, careened down the right side of the fairway and landed in the rough, about one hundred and fifty yards from the tee.
“Not the best Elliott!” commented Harrington.
“It’ll have to do,” answered Harper with some disgust in his voice.
“You’re up Bob,” announced Shots.
Bob stepped forward uneasily carrying his driver.
“That’s an odd looking club you’ve got there,” remarked Harrington.
“It’s custom-made,” stammered Bob somewhat apologetically.
“Custom-made in nineteen fifty-five!” remarked Shots sarcastically.
“My uncle was a club maker. He made the set for me. They mean a lot to me,” Bob quickly added.
Then, hoping to lend even more sincerity to his initial response, he continued, “I’ve had them for years. They’re great clubs. I wouldn’t trade them for the best you can buy.”
He set his ball in position on the tee and took his stance over it. He looked up at the tee marker. It read, called – “Par Four - Three Hundred and Thirty-five Yards.”
He wrapped his hands firmly around the grip. An overwhelming composure began to sweep over him. A sensation of power and control filled his thoughts and he pulled the club back and fired at the waiting ball. The club head landed squarely and solidly, propelling the ball forward like a rocket from its launching pad. It flew straight down the fairway rising higher and higher as it traveled.
“That looks like it’s almost on the green!” shouted Harrington excitedly.
“Christ! That’s some drive!” exclaimed Shots, walking up to the tee, while still gazing in amazement towards the distant green.
Both Shots and Harrington took their respective turns at the tee each with adequate but unspectacular results. Then, along with Harper, they also took their second shots with none landing on the green.
As the foursome moved closer to the green, they found Bob’s ball, sitting directly in line with the pin about thirty-five yards from the fringe. Bob pulled out a pitching wedge and stepped up to the ball. Again, he had a feeling of complete control. He took two brief practice swings and then gently chipped the ball in a low shallow arc onto the putting surface. The ball landed lightly and rolled towards the cup, ever more slowly as it traveled. Closer and closer to the hole it moved and then with its last rotation, it plunged into the cup with a hollow “thunk!”
“An eagle! Jesus Christ! He got an Eagle!” shouted Harrington almost uncontrollably.
Bob looked at the cup with a surprise equal to that of the others. He was sure that this mysterious, newly acquired air of confidence would probably help him to play better but never did he expect a miracle such as this! He, like the rest, was awestruck.
“Great hole!” exclaimed Harper unable to restrain himself.
Then, when all the excitement finally subsided the others finished up.
“Scores?” requested Harrington who sat with pencil and scorecard ready.
“I know yours Bob,” he laughed.
“Harrington?” he called.
“Five,” came the reply.
“Elliott?”
“Four,” Harper answered.
“And I got five,” Shots announced as he recorded his final score.
“Looks like Bob won that one going away,” he added admiringly.
“That’s for sure! You had two fantastic, back-to-back shots,” praised Harrington.
Harper didn’t appear nearly as amused or elated as the others and said little. They drove on to the second hole with Harrington still chattering incessantly about Bob’s eagle.
“Par Five – Five Hundred and Twenty-five Yards,” read the sign posted at the tee.
“I guess we know who’s up,” said Harrington wearing a broad smile.
Bob walked up to the tee box. Again, feelings of poise and complete confidence rushed over him. Again, he struck the ball solidly and true. Again, it fired from the tee, at what seemed nearly the speed of sound, sailing straight and long. It landed far down the line, just passed the dogleg turn, near the two hundred yard marker. It struck the fairway and scampered left, around the bend, rolling an additional fifty yards beyond the impact point.
“That one is at least two fifty or more!” yelled Shots.
“Some hit!” he added.
The three others then took their turns at the tee, none reaching, much less passing the distant dogleg. When Bob arrived at his lie, he found it exactly at the two hundred yard marker in the middle of the fairway. He looked it over and reached for his five wood. He withdrew the club and held it by the grip.
It felt awkward, and uneasy, nothing like the