A REALLY
GOOD DAY
a novel
by
JAMES HOSEK
A Really Good Day
James Hosek
Copyright © 2011 James Hosek
Smashwords Edition
Dedicated to my wife, Laurie.
Merry Christmas
Prologue
It was a crazy idea. It was insane. It was stupid. Why even consider it? No one here was going to blame him. A nice easy five-wood to the halfway point, then on the green in two. A two-putt would insure him the win. That was what a smart golfer would do. That was what a sane person would try for.
“How far?” asked Scott Hanover.
His friend and caddy, Paul Bauer, looked a bit confused. “How far to where? The sand trap?”
Scott chewed on his lower lip. He looked at the crowd of people. He never imagined this day would end like this. He looked over at Sally Gina, snuggled warm against her mother. He found Andrew Patterson, his expression was half frustration and half confusion. Things certainly hadn’t gone his way today.
“How far over the water?”
“To the green?” asked Paul. “That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“That’s insane!”
“I know.”
“It’s stupid!”
“Exactly,” Scott agreed. “How far?”
“Three hundred and fifteen yards in the air, and Scott old buddy, I’ve seen you do some amazing things today, but you ain’t got that swing in the bag.”
“Sometimes you just have to go for it.”
“Listen. Lay-up with the five-wood and get on in two. A good putt and you tie the record. On the other hand, you put your drive in the water you’re back here hitting three and kissing it all good-bye.”
Scott looked over at the ball sitting on the tee, the yellow rubber ducky logo smiling at him.
“Don’t even think about it, Scott,” Paul warned.
He held out his club to Paul. Paul chuckled and took it. “You’re an idiot,” he said with a big grin.
“No argument here,” agreed Scott.
Paul slipped the club into the bag and pulled out Scott’s driver. Over the club head was a gopher doll holding a plastic golf ball. Scott took the club with the cover on it. A murmur began rippling through the crowd. He knew that everyone was thinking the same thing. This guy is going for it.
He raised the club above his head and a cheer broke out. The polite silence had been transformed as everyone realized what was going to happen. History was going to be made, one way or another.
To his right, Scott heard a group break into the most appropriate song he could imagine.
I’m alright,
Nobody worry ‘bout me.
Why you got to gimme a fight?
Can’t you just let it be?
The words and music from the Kenny Loggins song that graced the closing credits of “Caddy Shack” spread through the mass of people like a fire. Scott bounced his driver with the gopher cover to the beat feeling a surge of adrenalin flowing. This was his day. His moment.
He returned to the tee and pulled the cover from his club. He draped it across Paul’s outstretched arms like he was giving his coat to a butler. He turned forty-five degrees to his left to face the flag on the distant green. He stretched out his right arm with the driver, lining up his shot. As if on cue, the singing and clapping from the crowd faded out and was replaced by a respectful silence.
He set his club behind the ball and lined up his feet in the direction of the hole. No practice swing this time. He’d use whatever was there.
He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the ball sailing across the pond and rolling onto the green. He could do it. He knew he could. He felt it. Something had given him the confidence or perhaps the stupidity to take the shot and he wasn’t going to ignore it.
He looked at the ball, at the yellow duck with the orange feet and beak and black beady eyes. The song, “Rubber Ducky” from Sesame Street ran through his head for a moment.
Rubber ducky, you’re the one...
He smiled even more.
“What water?” he said to himself as an impromptu prayer. The eighteenth hole at George Dunne National Golf Course was a four hundred and fifty yard dogleg left around a large pond. In order for this to work he had to imagine that the water wasn’t even there.
As he drew back the club starting the motion that would end with his ball leaving the tee for the last time that day, everything seemed to go in slow motion. His back swing, the uncoiling of his body, the ping as his driver hit the ball. He found himself facing the far off green with his club hanging over his left shoulder. His ball lifted higher and higher, further and further. No one spoke. No one breathed.
This was how it was going to end. One way or another, this day came down to this one shot.
Even from where he stood, Paul could tell that the ball, Scott’s best drive of the day, didn’t have enough to make it. He muttered almost to himself, “It’s wet.”
People lined up along the left side of the water hazard had come to the same conclusion. A few shouts of “No, no,” rang out across the water.
Scott could see the ball was going to be short. He closed his eyes willing it to just go a little further.
The day hadn’t started out like this. Seven hours ago he was just a low-ranked amateur wondering how he’d even gotten into this whole mess. Now the whole world was watching and holding their breath with him, wondering if this was how it was going to end.
Chapter 1 – The DAY BEGINS
1
Scott had never been a morning person. The only thing that could get him out of bed this early was an equally early tee time. Looking out the bedroom window at the approaching sunrise he wondered why he had never just taken time to enjoy this moment of the day before.
He turned and looked at the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock. He had been standing at the window for ten minutes. It hadn’t felt that long. The truth was he should be excited but all he was feeling was the biggest case of nerves he ever had and some well-deserved guilt.
One week earlier he had been informed that his alternate status in the regional tournament of the Northern Illinois Amateur Golf Association was being upgraded to active. Joe Caulkin, the golfer who originally had the spot, had broken his wrist chopping wood. It wasn't that Scott had played all that well but he had an amazing putt on the eighteenth hole that put him in third place until the disqualification of the second place finisher for having an extra club in his bag moved him up.
Now he found himself not only having to prepare to compete with the top local amateur golfers in Chicago, but also trying to convince his wife that it was the absolute last time he’d play before their child was born. He had promised the same thing before the previous tournament, convinced he would go no further.
Sarah eventually did relent and allowed him this last fling before the delightfully terminal condition of fatherhood overtook his life.
“Scott?” muttered the soft voice of his wife from the bed. “What time is it?”
“Six forty-five,” he answered. “You can go back to sleep.”
“No I can’t,” she said. “Being pregnant means having to go to the bathroom all the time. Didn’t I explain this to you already?”
“Right, come to think of it you did,” he replied.
She slipped out from under the sheets and went down the hall. The sky had brightened and the bedroom was bathed in the glow of early morning.
After a few moments Sarah’s arms slipped around his waist from behind and she nestled her chin on his right shoulder. Scott tilted his head back so their cheeks touched. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” he asked.
“Hey,” she chided, “you were the one begging to go. Getting cold feet?”
“I don’t belong out there,” he answered.
“You’ll have fun,” she answered. “You and Paul will go out and do your golf thing for five hours, grab a beer and still get home in time to get started on that list of things we need to get done before the baby comes.” Scott cringed at the last part.
But she was right. They would have fun. Scott and his friend Paul Bauer couldn’t help but have fun when they were on the golf course together.
Scott snuggled closer to his wife. “These guys I’ll be playing with today all shoot par. I’ve only broken eighty twice!”
“Eighty sounds good,” said Sarah. Scott smiled at her comment.
“Par is usually seventy-two for eighteen holes. And this is a tough course. Paul and I played there last year and I think I shot a ninety-five. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself.”
Sarah pulled away and grabbed his hand. “Come back to bed. It’s cold in there without you.”
“I don’t think I can sleep.”
“Then just lay next to me.”
Scott turned to face her. He kissed her lightly on the lips and let her lead him back to bed.
She muttered in a half sleepy voice, “In a half hour I’ll make you a good breakfast and you can go to play with your friend, Paul. You’ll do fine.”
Scott snuggled up behind his wife, reached over her pregnant belly and took her hand. She was asleep in less than a minute. He listened to her slow even breathing. His apprehension returned without Sarah’s reassurance. Hopefully he could keep his score to no higher than ninety. That was just one over par every hole. That would be a score he could live with.
2
“Sally,” screamed Jason Bernard over the noise of the shower. There was no immediate response so he shouted louder turning his wife’s name
into two distinct syllables. “SAL – LY, where is my green tie.”
“What?” she finally shouted in return over the rushing water.
“My green tie.”
“I can’t hear a word you’re saying?” she shouted back.
“Never mind,” he returned.
“What?”
“NEVER MIND!” he shouted again, louder.
Jason looked through the closet again, searching through each one of the hundred or so ties in his collection. Not that it mattered that much today. Lucy Penndel had been assigned to cover the Chicago Marathon. Both baseball teams were out of the play-offs so it was the top sports event in Chicago today and Jason wasn’t going to be there. With a lot of the best marathoners running it was going to be as much of psychological race as a physical one. They expected a fast start and one of the runners to set a world record today.
Jason had covered the marathon for the last five years for the USA Sports Channel in Chicago. This year he was condemned to reporting on an amateur golf tournament in the south suburbs. He wouldn’t even have any live reports, just a video camera and one cameraman. He’d then have to spend the afternoon editing the whole six-hour ordeal into a one minute twenty second segment to be aired on the nine o’clock report.
Lucy Penndel had been hired to try and widen the sports network's female demographic. There were some rumors she had slept her way to the Marathon assignment; she was very attractive and young, but Jason had been assured that since marathons were as much as a woman’s sport as a man’s, the execs thought it might boost their ratings and not to worry, big things were in line for him.
If this was their idea of big things Jason was seriously considering putting on one of his wife's dresses. What’s more, he hated golf. Not only was it boring but only the wealthy could afford to play the really nice courses. He personally didn’t even consider it a sport. The idea that people would use carts to drive from shot to shot just seemed to prove his point.
He found the green tie he was looking for hanging on the last hook. It was still stained from the tomato sauce that he meant to have cleaned out the last time he wanted to wear it. He grabbed a red tie with gray diamonds. The shower had stopped and Sally had come back into the bedroom.
“Did you find it?” she asked.
“Find what?” asked Jason, distracted by trying to knot the tie around his neck.
“The green tie.” She ruffled her hair with a towel as she said it, bending over to let the long blonde strands hang straight down. The towel wrapped around her chest barely covered her behind in this position and he took the opportunity to whack her sharply on the butt. “Can’t hear me my eye,” he muttered not too softly.
His whack caused her to squeal as she stood up, her hair flipping back to reveal her sinister grin. Despite her nasty prank, he allowed himself to become infected by her beautiful smile.
She looked at him and shook her head watching him trying to tie his tie. “What would you do without me?” she asked. She took the tie from his hands and undid his loose knot. She pulled the tie under his collar and expertly knotted it, snugging it tight around his neck. She kissed him quickly. “You’re going to be late,” she admonished.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Just that silly golf tournament.”
“Oh, is Tiger Woods playing?”
“No,” he chuckled. “Just amateurs. But the winner gets a chance to play in a Pro-Am PGA event. The station thought it would be nice to get some coverage of a local guy who would be going to play with the professionals.”
“Are you going to be gone all day?”
“Pretty much. I might make it home by seven o’clock. It really depends on what cameraman I get and how good is he is. Alf is going to be at the Marathon. I have no idea who I’ll be assigned today.” Alf Redding was Jason’s usual cameraman on his assignments. Lucy Penndel had insisted on him for the marathon and Jason felt it wouldn’t be fair to force Alf to suffer at the golf tournament too.
“Well don’t think I’m going to be having any fun at the rummage sale. I’ll be haggling with people over fifty cent coasters and trying to keep Cecily Waterston from putting too high a price on some of the chatch we’ve collected.” She slipped into her walk-in closet to pick out a dress, her towel tossed out behind her.
Jason looked at his watch and frowned as he saw he was going to be late. “I got to go,” he called after her.
“She peeked her head around the doorway. “Are you sure?” she teased.
“Yeah, I’ll be late. But tonight...”
“You know we really need to talk about something related to that,” she began.
Here it comes again, thought Jason. “Sally, there’s too much pressure at work now. With me losing the Marathon assignment I have to work even harder to keep my position. I know you want kids, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay,” Sally sighed. Jason felt the disappointment in her voice. He had put her off for years and could tell she wasn’t in the mood to fight about it now.
“We’ll talk tonight,” he promised.
“Alright,” she answered, the door of the walk-in closet closed behind her. Jason looked at his watch. He knew she was in there crying, frustrated by his delays at starting their family. He wanted to go in and hold her. He knew she hadn’t pushed the issue as hard as she wanted. She was patient but he wasn’t sure how much longer that would last. His job required he work most weekends and vacations were short and far between. But he wanted to make sure his job was stable before he made the commitment to raise a family. Wasn’t that important too?
He checked his watch again. He had to leave. There was no time now to spend on the long conversation he knew was ahead. He would make it up to her tonight, flowers, chocolates, and reservations at Morton’s. Maybe in a year he’d feel confident enough start a family. Things would be better then.
3
Andrew Patterson sat comfortably in his leather wing back chair. An unlit pipe hung from the corner of his mouth. In his left hand he held one of his Pierre Cardin golf shoes. With his right hand he carefully dabbed a dull spot with some Kiwi shoe polish and carefully buffed the shine back. He had already tightened the spikes and evened out the laces. Perfection graced his every endeavor.
He could conceive of nothing that would deny him a victory today at the Northern Illinois Amateur Regional Golf Tournament at the George W. Dunne Championship Golf Course.
Andrew Patterson had achieved success in everything he pursued. He worked hard to get where he was. He had obtained his MBA from the University of Chicago and had used his business expertise to start a software company, then a property management firm, and most recently an Internet consulting firm. Two years ago he decided he needed something different. He wanted more recognition for his accomplishments. He wanted a certain degree of fame. Not to where he couldn’t walk outside without some photographer harassing him, but more where people might recognize him on the street and solicit an autograph.
He settled on golf as the perfect vehicle for this goal. It required skill and athleticism, but not the physical stamina required of other sports. It was something he could work on and perfect with his usual approach. He researched the game thoroughly. He sought out the top golf instructors and the best equipment and practiced until his body and mind had united to produce a consistent swing. He analyzed the technical factors of the game; when to use a particular club, how to read a course, and most importantly, how to manage it. He perfected every aspect of the game.
Today would be the culmination of his efforts. If he won, he would have a chance to play in a PGA Pro-Am tournament. If he did well enough there, the prospect of turning professional would not be all that distant. As a professional golfer, he would be in a position to obtain the fame he desired.
He set down his shoe, leaned deep into the chair and sighed. He looked at his desk on which sat his putter. It was like no other golf club ever made. The head was a solid piece of jade. The shaft was gold plated. Next to it was a dozen of his personalized Callaway Tour golf balls and a bag of eighteen wooden tees.
He had been over the course in person several times and in his mind hundreds of times. He knew which holes to go for it on and which to play it safe for par. He wasn’t a gambler on the course, but he had every shot planned in his head. If all went as planned he would shoot five under par for a total of sixty-seven. Of course, there was always the possibility he might sink some long putts he hadn’t planned on, place a few approach shots closed enough to the pin for a tap in birdie, but a sixty-seven would win the tournament.
His only major competition, Joe Caulkin, had carelessly injured himself and was out of the running. He could taste the victory. It would be so easy. No one else was in his league.
He stood and placed his golf shoes carefully into a gym bag. On the desk beside the golf balls was the enlarged course layout he had obtained from a scorecard. Every shot was clearly marked. Tee shots in blue, fairway shots in green, and putts in red. Every club was noted. He had a printout of the National Weather Department Forecast. Low winds, 5-10 mph from the southwest, temperatures in the high sixties to low seventies. A beautiful fall day.
To celebrate he planned on taking his fiancé, Cecily, to dinner at the Palmer House. She never attended his tournaments. He was quite sure she would be terribly bored with it and she had promised to help out with the rummage sale at her church.
He picked up his putter and carefully wiped a few fingerprints from the shaft with cheesecloth before sliding it into the velvet case Cecily had fashioned for him. He fastened the studs over the head and slid it gently into the center of his golf bag. Next the balls and tees went into their own compartment.
Andrew smiled to himself. Very few things he could think of required such attention to details and reliance on everything going perfectly as golf. That was why he loved it. Today would be a perfect day.
4
Jake Fischer fumbled for the crumpled pack of Camels on his nightstand. In the process he knocked off the nearly empty gin bottle spilling some of the remaining liquor on bedroom’s gold, shag carpeting. He looked at the bottle and the wet stain next to it. Well, it wouldn’t be the last stain in his life, he thought.
He shook the pack, encouraging one of the remaining cigarettes to pop out the opening torn into a corner of the top. Once enough of it was protruding he put the cigarette up to his lips and sleepily pulled it out. He could almost feel the cool drag of smoke that would soon bring reality back into his senses.
A little more fumbling on the nightstand retrieved a book of matches. As he opened them he noticed they were strangely soggy. He had a vision of them falling into the toilet the night before as well as the remembrance of his scheme to dry them out overnight.
With little hope he pulled one limp, gray-headed cardboard match out and dragged it along the lighting strip. The head crumbled off with out even a sulfurous smelling spark.
He let the cigarette drop from his mouth onto the floor along with the gin bottle.
“Alright,” he conceded to no one in particular, “I’ll quit.”
He pulled himself up with a groan as much as with his muscles. A tear in his dirty t-shirt revealed a portion of his potbelly. He noted that he had slept in his pants and was still wearing his socks. He barely remembered Gina helping to pull off his shoes. How had he let himself get so drunk last night? They were supposed to be celebrating her birthday and he had promised himself to go easy on the booze. Obviously he had broken one more promise to himself and to Gina.
She had known him when his life made more sense. Jake had been there for her when she was recovering from an attack by a mugger that nearly claimed her life and he knew she felt an obligation to help him as he struggled with his own life altering tragedy. He wondered how much longer she would hang around, waiting for him to get things back together. Whereas Gina’s injuries affected her mentally and physically, Jake’s were purely psychological. At times he hoped she would leave him. With the last remnant of his former life gone, nothing would stop him from sliding completely into his own self-destruction. Maybe Gina knew that.
A year ago things were quite different. Jake was on top of the world. His career was taking off and he was even considering proposing to Gina.
Jake was a sports agent. He wasn’t quite a Jerry Maguire. He didn’t set up Tiger Woods with Nike or Michael Jordan with Gatorade. He worked with a smaller scale of athlete. He was able to find unknown sports figures and find an endorsement that fit them to a tee.
He connected Al Gregory, a beach volleyball star, with an LA laser eye surgery clinic. The result, an 300% increase in surgery appointments in one week from two five hundred dollar a month billboards on Venice beach, tripling the money Al had been taking home on the volleyball circuit.
Then there was Mona Dirk, the bowler. Not an attractive woman, but she allowed a local Duluth, Minnesota microbrewery, Lewis Grand Brewery, to enter the bowling alley bar market with their brands. The deal effectively quadrupled overall sales within three months, forcing the brewery to double their production facilities and making Mona the Lewis Grand Brewery savior.
For the last year he hadn’t signed a single new client. He hadn’t really tried. He'd even let his top existing clients jump to other agents as his apathy worried them enough to sever their ties. The agency he worked for, Frasier and Frakes, would have fired him long ago if his friend and boss, Jonathan Jones, hadn’t convinced them to give him time to recover from the Finley account. When Jake’s savings had run out and his commissions had dried up, Jonathan had advanced him some cash, enough to keep up his rent and also his drinking. But Jake knew that wouldn’t last much longer. Jonathan was a good friend, but he couldn’t keep risking his career in the hopes Jake would get back to where he was.
It had been a long year, but not long enough to cleanse the guilt Jake held on to. He had found a skateboarding phenom named Brad Finley, a high school senior, who was Jake's ticket to bigger and better things. When a photo
shoot for a Nike ad ended up with the teenager paralyzed from the waist down, Jake blamed himself. Brad's parents blamed him too and their lawsuit against Nike was like a nail in Jake's coffin.
The ringing phone shattered his head like a piece of glass. He snapped out of his self-destructive reminiscence and checked to see if the answering machine was on then remembered he had broken that a week earlier when a spilled can of beer had shorted it out.
He fell back on the bed and pulled a pillow tight over his head. The muffled sound persisted. He counted twenty rings before starting to think that maybe someone was really interested in getting through to him.
He sat up and took one more shot at shaking the cobwebs out of his brain. He took a deep breath and let it out as he picked up the phone. “Fischer,” he answered.
“Thought you were dead, Jake,” said the voice on the other end.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” he answered recognizing Jonathan Jones’ voice on the other end.
“Well I hope you’re not because I have something for you.”
Jake sat up a little straighter. “Something?”
“Jake I need to know you can get back in the game. It’s been a year, buddy, you have to do something.”
“I don’t know,” answered Jake. He was sure Jonathan didn’t want to hear that but he wanted to be truthful with his friend.
“It’s right up your alley. Frakes has a big client interested looking to find a different face to sell their product. They feel that having an overpaid professional isn’t appealing as well to the masses as they’d like. They want an unknown. A rising star who will get rich and famous because he uses their product.”
“Who are we talking about?” asked Jake in confusion.
“The client or the athlete?”
“Either.”
“The client is Callaway.”
“The golf guys Callaway?” asked Jake.
“The golf guys Callaway,” answered Jonathan. “They are looking for Cinderella.”
“I don’t suppose you have a glass slipper?”
“Andrew Patterson.”
“Who?”
“Exactly. He’s the top rated amateur golfer in Northern Illinois, perhaps the whole state. He took up the sport two years ago and has won every tournament he’s played in. Suppose to be a real character as well.”
“So Callaway wants him?”
“He’s playing in the Northern Illinois Amateur Regional Amateur Golf Tournament. The winner gets to play in the next Pro-Am. You sign him up for and we ride him to a $500,000 contract when and if he turns pro.”
“If?”
“He will. He’s been shooting towards this goal for two years, perfecting his game, advancing in the rankings.”
“No one’s thought to sign him yet?”
“No one but us knows Callaway is looking to go this direction.”
“Sounds too easy,” commented Jake.
“I need to know I can count on you. I spent an hour convincing Frakes you were the guy to do it. That it would snap you out your slump. Believe or not, he still remembers the Jake Fischer from a year ago and is willing to give you a shot at it.”
“When is the tournament?”
“That's the thing. It starts in an hour. I tried calling last night and your machine isn't picking up. Anyway, it’s at the George W. Dunne National Golf Course.”
“An hour?”
“Yeah. It’s down in Oak Forest so you need to get moving. There will be credentials for you at the starters table.” Jonathan paused for a moment. “Jake, I got to ask,” Jonathan started.
“I know. And I am all right now but a few hours ago it would have been questionable.”
“Please do this Jake. It may be your last chance.”
Jake felt a spark of determination ignite in him. If he could do this, he’d no longer be disappointing Jonathan and Gina. Two people who loved him dearly and whom he loved as well. Screwing up might be the last straw for Gina. And that would be the last straw for him. He kindled the spark and let a small flame begin to warm his resolve.
“I’ll be there Jonathan.” He started to hang up the phone but quickly put it back to his ear, “Jonathan?”
“Yeah, buddy.”
“Thanks.”
“Nice to have you back.”
“Nice to be back.”
chapter 2 – Driving range
5
“Where the blazes is my camera man?” shouted Jason Bernard. His voice echoed through the parking garage of the USA Sports Channels Chicago offices. He had parked his green convertible near the row of white Ford E-150 vans that were used for remote taping and sometimes live broadcasts. He had phoned Ed Furley at dispatch from his cell phone on his way in and was expecting to have the van already warmed up. All he saw was a girl with a long red ponytail sitting on the bumper of a blue Honda Accord wearing a black leather jacket.
He pulled out his cell phone and cursed the “no signal” message flashing on the display.
“You Jason Bernard?” asked the girl.
“Who are you?” he answered holding back none of his frustration.
“Ellen Burke. Call me Ellie. I’m your cameraman.”
“You?” blurted Jason with disbelief.
“Yeah. You want to drive?” she asked launching from the bumper of the Honda towards one of the camera vans.
“Drive? I don’t even know where the place is.”
“You never played Georgie ‘Done Me Wrong?’”
“What?”
“The Golf Course. The NIAGA tournament. Right? It’s at George Dunne.”
“I don’t golf,” answered Jason as he headed for the passenger side door.
Ellie stopped in her tracks. “You don’t golf? What kind of sportscaster are you.”
“The unlucky kind, apparently,” Jason muttered halfway under his breath.
“I can’t believe you don’t golf. Everybody golfs nowadays.”
“Do you golf?”
“You bet. I’m not that good but I still have a fun time. I love to watch tournaments. This is the first time I ever covered one. Should be a blast. This guy Andrew Patterson is supposed to be a great golfer, destined for the PGA tour. And he’s a heck of a character.”
“Just what I need, a golfer with an attitude.”
“Shouldn’t you be interested in all sports?” asked Ellie as she pushed the unlock control on her remote key chain for the van.
Jason opened his door, brushed some crumbs from his seat, slid in and answered, “I am interested in all legitimate sports.”
“You have to be a real athlete to be good in this game,” argued Ellie.
“I haven’t seen so many pot bellies in one place since the I stopped by the White Sox dugout last year.”
“I dare you to put a fist in Tiger Wood’s belly,” she countered.
“I just don’t see the excitement in it,” added Jason.
“Well, when I play I find a challenge with very shot. And when I make that one great shot of the round that I never thought I had in me, I know I’ll be back next week to try it again.” She started the van and began to back up.
“Maybe we can skip the end. Get some tape on a few holes, a few comments from Patterson and do some editing back at the studio. Hey, we could be done in time for lunch rather than dragging this out all day.” Jason figured that would be enough effort to expend on this assignment. And getting home early would win him back some points with Sally.
“We might miss something exciting,” argued Ellie.
“Somehow, I seriously doubt that,” answered Jason.
“Here I thought I lucked out by pulling this assignment.”
“Listen, Ellie. I should be covering the Marathon. No one is going to care about some regional amateur golf championship in Chicago. This spot will be the first to be cut if something more interesting comes along. We’ll get some tape of this Patterson guy do a quick interview with him and voila we’re done. Okay?”
“Geez, what a grouch.”
“Just work the camera, Ellie. I’ll decide what we shoot.”
“Okay, Mr. Bernard. I just think...”
“Ah, ah, ah,” warned Jason, not wanting to hear any suggestions that might ruin his plan for the day. “See if you can get any information on the radio about the Marathon, would you?”
6
“You have to even out your brain,” said the voice behind him.
Scott sighed and relaxed his grip on the club. He had been warming up at the driving range and just couldn’t seem to find his perfect swing. He was hitting good shots but he knew he could do better. He turned to see who was offering up the advice.
An elderly man, still in pretty good physical shape was leaning against the wall of the pro shop. He wore a maroon cardigan sweater over a knit golf shirt. A few strands of thinning gray hair sprayed out from the edges of a baseball cap emblazoned with the Northern Illinois Amateur Golf Association logo. “You’re thinking too much with one side of your brain. You’re analyzing yourself too much and concentrating on the details rather than how the whole swing should feel.”
“How do I stop doing that?”
“Come here,” he motioned. Scott stepped over and shrugged. “Untie your left shoe.”
“What?”
“Untie it.”
Scott was confused but he thought he’d humor the guy for a little while. He leaned his driver against the club stand and untied the soft spike golf shoe on his left foot.
“Good, now tie it again.”
“What is this, some sort of philosophical lesson in life?”
“No, I want to demonstrate something,” answered the man. “When you tie it cinch down the laces nice and tight. Make it noticeably uncomfortable, almost painful if you can.”
Scott tilted his head with a confused expression but resigned himself to following the instructions. He pulled on the laces until he could feel the sides of the shoe squeezing his foot and the laces biting across the top. He finished with a nice bow and stood up.
The man walked over to Scott’s bucket and pulled out one of the stripped range balls. He placed it on the rubber practice tee then handed Scott his club. “What’s the farthest you ever hit a drive?”
“A few inches over a three hundred yards,” answered Scott, honestly. No Tiger Woods but not bad for an amateur.
“Do you remember what it felt like? I don’t mean the swing, but the sound of the ball hitting the club face perfectly, then the ball taking off from the tee and slowly rising into the air, almost as if it had helium in it and would never come down.”
Scott chuckled. That was exactly what it had looked like. “Yeah, I do.”
“Don’t think about the swing, just the ball floating off the face of the earth.” He stepped back, out of the range of Scott’s back swing. “Go ahead.”
What the heck, thought Scott. Nothing else was working. He set up his stance standing about a yard from the ball. He gripped the end of the club with his left hand then wrapped his right hand around the shaft right below it, his right pinky overlapping the left index finger. His thumbs pointed down the top of the shaft to the head of the driver. He lined up his feet and laid the club head on the mat. He rocked on his heels setting his balance and letting his hands drop to a comfortable position in front of him. The picture of his ball lifting with an upward trajectory as it sailed out past the fence at the end of the range filled his mind. He wiggled his left shoe a little, trying to adjust to the unusual tightness. He started his back swing then paused a fraction of a second before bringing the club around to meet the ball. He heard the precious “plink” as contact was made and he let the club swing over his left shoulder as his eyes watched his ball sail with perfection.
It rose and rose and rose.
Scott stood mouth gaping open as it landed by the 275 yard flag and continued to roll up to the fence at 300 yards. Range balls typically took 20 yards off a good drive. If he had been hitting one of his Pinnacles it might have made it 320 yards or more.
“Now what was the last thing you remember before you swung?” asked the man.
“My stupid tight shoe.”
“Not the mechanics of your swing? Not where your club should be or keeping you arm straight or remembering to bend your wrists?”
“No. My stupid shoe. Where the heck did that shot come from?”
“You stopped overpowering the right side of your brain with details and gave yourself over to the left half and let your natural ability take over. I can get almost anyone to swing like that, Although I must admit it usually takes then ten or twenty tries. You nailed it the first time around.”
“So I just need to keep my left shoe tight?”
“No, that’s just a way to interrupt your normal brain sequence. Once you feel it, it can come again very easily. Try again.”
Scott placed another ball on the tee. Without a second thought he started his back swing and watched a second ball follow almost the same trajectory as the last. He turned around grinning. “Who are you?”
“Oh, sorry,” apologized the elderly man, “Ted Lange. The tournament hired me to help out anyone who might need a quick lesson at the driving range.” He extended his right hand and Scott shook it.
“Scott Hanover.”
“I know. I saw you play two weeks ago at Indian Boundary. That shot on the last hole was amazing. You knew you nailed that fifty-foot putt as soon as you hit the ball.”
“It was a lucky shot.”
“Perhaps,” answered Ted, “But luck isn’t a bad thing.”
“I suppose not. So, Ted, you’re helping everyone hit like that?”
“No. Most people are too set in their ways, especially at this level, to want to make any changes.”
“Well, I’m not at this level.”
“You’re close.”
“You were at that tournament. I only made second because of a disqualification. I'm only here today because some guy broke his wrist. I’m a real fish out of water around here. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself around these other guys today.”
“You know what really separates them from you, Scott?”
“Three thousand dollars in golf equipment?”
“Well there is that,” laughed Ted. “But it’s how you approach the game. You’re not here to keep from embarrassing yourself, but to have a fun time. If you don’t do well you go home, look forward to the next time you go out and maybe do a little better. You play against yourself.”
Ted leaned a little closer to finish his thought, “To most of these guys this is a make or break tournament. A chance to play with the pros. If they flub a shot they’ll think about it for years. They’ll beat themselves up the rest of the game and spiral into a real mess.”
“I can do that without the pressure of a tournament,” joked Scott.
“I suppose you can,” laughed Ted. “But those guys let the game play them, rather than playing the game. It’s become a job to them. They’ve stopped loving it. You still love to be out there no matter how well you play.”
“Still, I don’t really have a shot. Most of these guys shoot well under par.”
“Not all of the time,” corrected Ted. “I bet if you took their top 18 worst holes over the last year they’d be shooting 120 something.”
Scott laughed. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Tell me, Scott, have you ever had a birdie?”
“Yeah lot’s of times.”
“More than eighteen?”
“I hope so.”
“Ever make an eagle?”
“Once. Nailed a chip shot on a par five once.”
“Okay, we take your best holes and put them together, you can shoot a fifty-three.”
Scott laughed heartily at the possibility. “You have me there, Ted.”
“You said you had a lucky putt two weeks ago. Imagine if you put together fifty some lucky shots in a row.”
“That’s be like rolling a snake eyes fifty times in a row. The odds against it are astronomical.”
“But the chances aren’t zero.” Ted started another tack, “You know about the bell curve?”
“Sure.”
“Well, if you plot out all of you scores they would group around your average, most clustered in the middle but a few high scores and low scores spread out at the edges, fewer the farther you get from your average.”
“Right.”
“Well, statisticians can calculate the percentage of scores that will happen at any particular point. Heck there’s even a small chance someone could score a thirty-six on any particular course. What I’m trying to say is that if you play long enough you’re bound to put together a real good game at some point, just like you have real lousy games occasionally.”
“I don’t think I’ve played long enough,” added Scott.
“Just like rolling fifty snake eyes in a row with the dice. The odds that you do it the first time out are the same as at the millionth time.”
“So today could be my day to shoot a thirty-six.”
Now Ted laughed. “Maybe. But just imagine having eighteen of your best holes. An eagle. Maybe a few pars. Heck even with a bogey or two you would be more than competitive with these guys.”
“That’d be nice.”
“All I’m saying is that it’s possible. Just keep your brain even and have fun.”
“That I can do, Ted. I must say it’s been very nice to meet you. You’ve taken the edge off today for me. I think I will have a good time.”
Ted shook Scott’s hand firmly again. Looking down at Scott’s left foot he said, “Better loosen that lace up before you lose circulation.”
Scott chuckled again.
“Oh, and Scott, have a really good day.”
“I will,” said Scott. He replayed his last two drives in his head and thought to himself again, I will.
7
“Sorry I’m late,” shouted Paul Bauer as he came jogging up the driving range. He clapped a friendly hand onto Scott’s shoulder. Even after the jog Paul wasn’t out of breath. His brown hair was cropped to its usual buzz cut, his beard and mustache trimmed to a neat van Dyke. “Hey, I just saw some guy nail a drive all the way to the fence,”
“That was me,” said Scott.
Paul froze in his tracks. “You’re kidding.”
Rather than answering Scott placed a ball on the tee and whacked it with confidence. It sailed almost as far as his first drive with Ted’s instruction. He turned back to find Paul staring with his jaw hanging open. “I’ve been able to knock out at least half of them that far, none shorter than 250 yards and that’s with these cruddy range balls. I still don’t have full control of the direction but hey, on the drive I don’t have to be that accurate.”
“What did you do, sell your soul?”
“That guy over there gave me a quick lesson.” Scott pointed to Ted Lange who was now giving pointers to another golfer on the range.
“That’s Ted Lange,” said Paul.
“You know him?”
“He was on the senior tour a while back. I saw him at the local tournament two weeks ago when you sank that putt. I heard he hurt his back a while ago and had to quit the tour.”
“Nice guy,” commented Scott.
“So what exactly did he tell you?”
“To tie my shoe,” laughed Scott.
He explained the whole encounter to Paul and how he had spent the last ten minutes practicing his drive with the new mental technique. It was starting to get grooved into his swing. If only he had figured it out a month ago he’d feel a lot better.
“Well, you’re going to be up soon. You’re in the first threesome to go off.”
“You mean I placed that low in the standings.”
“Sixtieth out of sixty is as low as you can get, Scott.”
Tournaments that did not use a shotgun start usually had the poorest players first so the real battles for the title would be played out later in the day.
“Who am I golfing with?” asked Scott.
“Jerry Spaulding and Pete Baldwin. I don’t know either of them but they both have single digit handicaps.” Paul was close to being in that league. If he hadn’t blown a hole in his own local tournament, Scott might be caddying for him. Thankfully Paul seemed to not harbor any ill will concerning the twist of fate. He was pulling for Scott and was impressed by the drives he was seeing now.
Paul Bauer had been a fairly good athlete during high school and college. Baseball. Bowling. Golf. Even a little bicycle racing. He had a natural ability pick up a sport and become good at it, sometimes really good. The two had been friends since grade school and made an effort to get together on weekends for a round whenever they could. Since Paul’s two kids had started school he had been out golfing more but prior to that he was not out all that often.
Scott knew a similar fate faced him once his first child was born in a couple of weeks. He really hoped to take home some good memories and hopefully not finish dead last as his handicap predicted.
Scott unfastened the Velcro on the glove from his left hand and handed his driver to Paul. Paul smiled and took it. His job as caddy had just officially started. Unofficially, he had taken some time last week to walk the course, checking out the fairways and greens. Measuring some distances and making a few notes to help them along.
Paul stopped as they exited the practice area and set Scott’s golf bag down. “I have something for you,” he said as he pulled a black golf glove and a pack of green tees from his pocket and handed them to Scott. “I had hoped ‘Zorro’ would be able to make an appearance in the tournament today, but maybe you’ll do me the honor of using these.”
“Zorro” was Scott’s nickname for Paul when he was on a particular hot streak on the course due to the black golf glove he always wore. The green tees were another part of his signature golf equipment.
Paul preferred the color green as a psychological ploy to help his game. The ploy, however, was aimed at his golf ball, not him. He believed that if a ball was sitting on a green tee it would think it was just sitting on the grass and wouldn’t be worried that a club head was about to smash into it at over a hundred miles an hour, squashing it flat like a pancake and then allowing it to explode from its face with a burst of energy.
“I also had a few of these made up,” added Paul. He pulled a sleeve of golf balls from his other pocket and handed them to Scott. Scott looked a little confused. “Open the box, stupid,” instructed his friend.
Scott laughed when he saw what Paul had done. Each of the balls was imprinted with a custom logo. A large yellow rubber duck with an orange beak, orange webbed feet and silly grin was stamped over the Pinnacle logo. “Duck” was Paul’s nickname for Scott because he usually found himself hitting balls into the water. “Quack, quack.” Uttered Scott with a laugh. “I got three more sleeves in the car. That should hold you for eighteen - I hope.”
Scott put his right arm over Paul’s shoulder as they headed for the starter’s table. If nothing else it would be a fun day.
8
Jake pulled into the parking lot of the George W. Dunne National Golf Course next to a USA Sports camera van. Must be a bigger deal than he thought if they were going to be covering the tournament. Couldn’t hurt to have some tape of Patterson running on the ten o’clock news to run up the golfer’s stock a little.
His Geo Metro sputtered into the space and died before he had a chance to shut if off. A new car would be first on his list of priorities after he received his commission. He’d be able to pay off all of his debts. Start things over. Make up a lot to Gina.
He stared at the steering wheel for a good long time, considering doubling back to the liquor store on 159th street for a six-pack of Budweiser. He knew he could function well on a couple of beers and it would sure help take the edge off today. He was beginning to feel some doubts. His earlier confidence was sputtering.
He slumped back in his seat, his fingers tightly grasped around the steering wheel. He glanced at the rear view mirror and adjusted it to reveal his reflection. Three Advil had reduced most of the pounding in his brain to a dull throb but his face still showed the effects of a year of abuse.
He hadn't been able to find a totally clean set of clothes and settled for the least stained, least wrinkled shirt on his bedroom floor. He chose a wide tie to cover some of the spots and a tweed sports coat to cover the rest. His brown slacks also needed a good laundering but he settled for letting them steam while he took his shower.
Gray hairs has started to salt his head and his hairline had given up nearly an inch to his forehead in the last year. He needed a haircut. Maybe even a teeth whitening. Time for those things later.
He took a deep breath and found himself staring at a corner of a white card or something sticking out from above the passenger side visor. He reached over for it and pulled it out. It was a photograph, a picture of him and Brad Finley in London, taken right before the accident. Brad was giving the thumbs up with his left hand and had his right hanging over Jake’s shoulder.
Why had he put that photo there? He didn’t remember doing it. He found himself wondering what had happened to Brad. He hadn’t heard anything from Brad or his family after the accident and had made no effort to find out himself. Brad Finley had put his life in Jake’s hands and Jake had failed him, not only as an agent, but also as a friend. As sobriety dusted away the cobwebs of his brain, his shortcomings came back to the forefront and he began to realize what an utter jerk he had become over the last year. Even he didn’t like himself all that much anymore.
The thought of drinking a beer suddenly became revolting to him. Whatever his reasons for putting the picture there in the first place, its effect had been to put his life in perspective. He was getting a second chance today. Hopefully it would start a string of second chances.
He opened the door, stepped out of the car, and took a breath of air. Twelve hours without a cigarette. The longest he had gone in fifteen years. Already he could smell things that had until now been buried deep in his memory. The fresh cut grass of the golf course was the first thing he noticed. The pull of the hot coffee brewing at the starter’s table was next. A cup of coffee would certainly help shake the morning dew off his brain.
He glanced towards the practice range to his right. Although he couldn’t see who hit it, a shot sailed to twenty yards from the far fence and bounced up to a stop next to it. Jake wasn’t a golfer but he knew the game and he knew that was a decent drive. He hoped to see whoever hit it playing on the course. Maybe it was even Andrew Patterson.
9
“Name,” asked the man staring at a clipboard at the starter’s table as Andrew Patterson stepped up to sign in. The man wore a red-jacket with the Northern Illinois Amateur Golf Association patch stitched on the left breast pocket. A plastic laminated name tag was pinned to the lapel.
“Patterson,” said Andrew.
The man scanned his roster list and at the end found Andrew’s name and made a heavy X next to it. “You’re in the last group. You tee off in about two...” He stopped in mid-sentence as he looked up to hand Andrew his player’s envelope. He gathered himself after digesting Andrew’s appearance and continued. “...hours.” He held up the clipboard for Andrew. “Sign here,” he instructed.
Andrew was unphased by the stares he was receiving. His outfit was acceptable golfing attire, if perhaps a century out of style, but he liked it and that was all that mattered. He signed in, smiled and walked away. A few chuckles and whispered comments followed him.
In the envelope he found a paper number for his caddy, Eric Peters, to pin to his back as they traversed the course today. Eric had caddied for Andrew before and had adequately met Andrew’s needs. Mainly someone to carry his bag and stay quiet. He glanced around to see if Eric had arrived yet.
A smile creased his lips as he noticed familiar figure nearby. Standing fifty feet away with his left arm in a cast held up by a blue sling was Joe Caulkin. The broken arm was the reason why Andrew was so confident this tournament was his to win.
Joe shook his head when he saw Patterson approaching. Undoubtedly the man was coming over to express his insincere condolences for Joe’s misfortune. Joe was thirty-five years old. He was physically fit, six foot and a hundred and ninety pounds. His blonde hair curled loosely around his head and his bright blue eyes almost matched the fall sky.
He had taken a sabbatical from his job as a Physical Education instructor at Northeastern University to work on his golf game. He hoped to someday go pro, perhaps not until he was eligible for the senior circuit, but he wanted a taste of the big time. His accident couldn’t have come at a worse time. He knew the second the log fell on his wrist that the bone had broken. He had broken the same wrist in high school and he remembered the feeling and the pain.
“Tough break,” joked Andrew.
“Lucky break for you,” answered Joe.
“Well, your time will come, Joe,” said Andrew, a smirk in his voice.
“You know you don’t necessarily have this won yet, Andrew. Anything can happen. Ask David Duvall sitting in a sand trap on seventeen for five shots.”
“I always play it safe. That’s why I win, Joe. In fact, if you want to take the field against me in a little wager, I wouldn’t be opposed to a little friendly action.”
“The whole field?” asked Joe.
“Why not. I’ll have it in the bag by fifteen no matter what.”
“Shall we say a thousand dollars?” asked Joe.
“Why not five?” retorted Andrew.
“I thought you wanted to keep it friendly?”
“If you’re too afraid...” said Andrew.
“You know you’re a jerk Patterson.”
“I can live with that,” he answered.
“You may have the technical aspect of the game mastered but there is more to this game than hitting a ball with precision. You haven’t learned that part yet. These other guys may not be as skillful as you but they have the heart to be a winner and sometimes that’s all it takes.” He reached out his right hand to seal the deal. “Five thousand it is.”
Andrew took Joe’s good hand and shook, trying not to grimace at Joe’s vice-like grip.
“Just bring your checkbook to the clubhouse after the eighteenth,” said Andrew. He glanced towards the clubhouse and spotted his quarry that had been his aim before Caulkin distracted him. A medium height, blonde-haired boy was staring out over the first hole, his hands in his pockets as he took in the view. “Eric,” shouted Andrew Patterson as he stomped over to his waiting caddy.