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

driver had felt. Something was wrong. He replaced the club in the bag and selected the four iron.
As soon as his hand touched the shaft, he could sense a thrust of energy surging from it. He knew this was the correct club.
He drew back and hammered the ball into a graceful arc, landing at the edge of the green. It hit and rolled softly towards the cup, stopping ten yards from it, on the wide, extensive surface.
The others, after struggling with their second, third and even fourth attempts, finally reached the green. Harper seemed anything but pleased by his own performance, in spite of his lying three at the fringe.
On his turn, Bob lightly touched the ball with the putter, propelling it end over end, causing it to creep ever so slowly towards the waiting cup. It rolled closer and closer, finally stopping just one rotation short of the lip. He tapped it for birdie amidst the boisterous accolades of Harrington and Shots.
Harper too, offered his congratulations, seemingly motivated by courtesy rather than admiration. It was obvious in the tone of his voice.
“Scores,” again chanted Harrington, at the conclusion of the hole.
“Bob – four,” he recited and then waited for the others to call out.
“Six,” shouted Shots.
“I got a five,” announced Harrington with some pride in his voice. Oh what about you, Elliot?” he asked Harper after a short silence.
“Six,” replied Harper in a quiet tone.
They continued to play through the morning and into the early afternoon with Bob’s play drawing gasps and exclamations of astonishment on almost every hole. Finally, the game ended and they walked into the clubhouse for the “watering hole.”
“That was some great round!” exclaimed Harrington as he pulled out the scorecard and pencil from shirt pocket. “Let’s see,” he mumbled as he diligently examined the card.
Shots proceeded to order a round of drinks as Harrington calculated.
“Sixty-nine!” he pronounced enthusiastically. “That’s three under par!”
“Best damn golf I’ve ever seen, except for TV,” said Shots, as he walked back from the bar shaking his head.
“Eighty-one, Elliot. Good as usual, but not the best like usual. Far from it!” chided Harrington looking up from the scorecard at Harper, with a faint smirk on his lips.
“You’re usually top banana but this time you’re just one of the bunch like us. Looks like Bob cleaned up,” he said sarcastically.
“Shots, your usual eighty-four. And I got eighty-five. Not bad!” he said in a self-congratulating tone of voice.
Harper sat in a moody silence as Bob collected his winnings. The conversation continued to center around Bob’s stellar play while they finished their drinks and prepared to leave.
“That was pretty good playing,” commented Harper in an obligatory tone as they rode home from the club. “You never told me that you were that good,” he continued solemnly.
“I’m usually not,” responded Bob with sincere modesty. “Today was an exceptionally good day,” he explained. “I’ve never even played in the seventies, let alone the sixties. I guess it just all came together today.”
“I’d say so,” snapped back Harper, apparently unconvinced.
Bob couldn’t wait to see Maryanne and tell her of his amazing performance. He won over four hundred and fifty dollars, but even more importantly, he’d played a charmed game, the best of his life for sure. Harder for him to believe, was how effortless it all had been, how natural the experience had felt. It was if he couldn’t make a mistake not even if he tried.
When they arrived at his house, Bob carefully lifted his clubs from the car trunk, with a sense of regard they so rightly deserved. He held them admiringly and carried them as one might carry a religious article. He took them to the basement and placed them in the cabinet at the foot of the stairs. Then, he proceeded to search the drawers of his workbench for a padlock. Upon finding one, he secured the cabinet door and put the key in his wallet.
When he got to the kitchen, Maryanne was nowhere to be found. Only a note remained.
“Be back at four. Sandwiches in fridge.”
He was still too excited to eat. He walked into the living room, snapped on the TV and sat uneasily before it. He rolled mindlessly through the channels one time, two times, then three times as the excitement of the morning raced through his head. Every nerve in his body was still on fire and his mind throbbed with the delight at the thoughts of the day’s events.
“Was this just one of the luckiest days of his life? Was it a day on which, that one in a million chance came true? A statistical quirk? A point in time when every lucky shot that he would ever have throughout his entire lifetime, converged into one glorious morning?
Or was it something else? That feeling of overwhelming confidence and self-certainty that enveloped him every time he picked up one of those clubs, was that luck too? How could it be?” he thought.
He had to talk to the old man again. He had to be sure this wasn’t just a crazy dream. He struggled to recall the address. Maybe if he drove towards the old man’s house he’d remember. He got into the car and drove slowly towards Monroe Street.
There it was number thirty-seven, with a spindled railing and wooden stairs. He recognized it immediately. Out in front, the garbage was piled high, everything from old paint cans to an antiquated kitchen chairs with broken legs. On the lawn stood a large black and yellow sign, “Schindler Real Estate – House for Sale.”
He stopped the car, got out and walked up the stairs to the porch. He was greeted by dead silence. He put his hand above his eyes and peered through the living room window into emptiness. The place was deserted. He pressed the doorbell, vainly hoping, that it might be answered. He could hear the muted echo of the chimes through the heavy front door, then more silence. He waited and pushed again. Nothing!
Suddenly through the silence, a voice startled him from behind.
“Can I help you?” the voice questioned.
“Are you with the real estate people?” it continued.
Bob turned to face a middle-aged woman, with a garden rake in one hand, standing at the foot of the stairs.
“I was just cleaning up around my shrubs and I happened to see you here,” she explained.
“I’m looking for Mr. Arthur,” Bob replied.
“You’re not going to find him here,” she answered casting her eyes down briefly.
“He died about a month or so ago. He passed away right there,” she said and pointed at the empty rocker next to the door.
“He was sitting in that rocker. He used to sit there for hours, all the time in the summer. That’s where I found him.”
“You found him?” Bob replied with surprise.
“Yes. He was having a house sale that day. He was selling everything. He was going to an upstate nursing home. He was over ninety, you know. He never made it to the home. It was for the best though. He never wanted to go to a nursing home. Who does? He never even finished the house sale.”
She paused for a moment and regained her composure.
“He was a nice old guy. Kinda strange sometimes, but nice. I knew him for years, ever since I moved here. That’s over twenty years ago.
He liked to tell stories a lot, and you know what, I liked to listen to them. Most of them were pretty good. I think they were good because he really believed them.
Oh, well!”
She swallowed hard and looked at Bob.
“Why did you want him? Are you a relative or something?” she asked.
“No. I bought something at his house sale and I just wanted to talk to him about it,” replied Bob.
“Well, if you want your money back, you’ve got a problem. They can’t find any of his relatives. Don’t think he really had any left.
It’s too bad. It looks like the state’s going to get the money from his house when its sold, that is, after all his bills are paid up,” she said.
“No, I’m not looking for any money back. I just had some questions,” Bob responded.
“Maybe I can answer them for you,” the woman volunteered.
“No, thank you but I’m sure you can’t,” he replied.


Chapter 4
Bob got to work a bit early that Monday morning and found Eric and three others sitting at a table by the coffee machine in the lunchroom. He eagerly waved Bob over as soon as he entered.
“Before you even get coffee, tell us, how did the golf with Harper go? Are you our new manager yet?” he asked with a broad, playful grin.
“It went pretty good. As a matter of fact, real good,” Bob answered.
“I played the best round of my life,” he added proudly.
“Well, that’s great but – let me ask you a more important question then. How did Harper play?” Eric asked with a more serious look on his face.
“OK. Not bad,” Bob responded unconvincingly.
“All I want to know is did you beat him?” Eric said pointedly.
“Yeah,” acknowledged Bob.
“Beat him big?” continued Eric.
“Well, pretty big,” replied Bob without elaboration.
“I sure hope your good round wasn’t a bad round, if you know what I mean. You do remember what I told you about Harper, don’t you? ” Eric said with a grimace.
At that moment, Jean, Harper’s Secretary walked into the room.
“Mr. Andrews! Mr. Harper would like to see you when you have a minute,” she said.
Bob immediately looked at Eric and Eric looked back in wonderment.
“OK,” replied Bob and without delay, he walked to Harper’s office. He entered the room with Harper seated behind the desk.
“Bob, I just want to thank you for filling in on Saturday.” He paused. Then, he asked, “Are you all right for this Saturday?”
This time his words had a hollow ring about them not at all like those of his first invitation. He did however, smile broadly as he spoke, but the strain required to maintain it showed through. Bob instantly recognized tension in his voice and it made him feel uneasy.
He, too, however managed to force a persuasive smile and thank Harper heartily for the second invitation. Then, he proceeded to deluge Harper with complements and expressions of gratitude, in hopes of taking the edge off the situation. Evidently it worked, for by the time he left, Harper had mellowed a bit. He even admitted that it was Harrington and Shots who had insisted that Bob play again on Saturday.
“It looks as if Eric was right after all,” thought Bob as he left the office. Eric had been with E.W. Harper & Co. for over fifteen years. He certainly wasn’t the most competent of employees, as Bob well knew. He had worked with him frequently and found him to be less than adequate on numerous occasions. Eric, however had survived and prospered in his job, by always knowing what to say to whom and when. He was a savvy political animal and Bob knew it. The more he thought about it, the more he