Perceptions at a Country Club

 

Perceptions at a Country Club
by Dave Wright

The three of us lingered in the parking lot of the country club—all with our hands stuffed in our pockets, all bored, all eager for school to start, and all feeling poor—having spent the last of our allowances on Bazooka Joe bubblegum, baseball cards, and popsicles.

There was Ricky, the neighborhood ginger, whose freckles splattered down his arms and legs like a poor stucco job, and whose dad worked in the pro shop. He was a juvenile expert at golf. There was my younger brother, Jim who was smaller than either of us, but tougher than both of us together. And then there was me, a scrawny specimen of delayed adolescence who wore a plaid short-sleeve shirt buttoned to the neck and whose black spectacles carried a perpetual wad of adhesive tape on a broken bow.

Ricky told us that there was a golf tournament scheduled for that Saturday, and that we might be able to make a few bucks by offering to caddy for the golfers. Jim and I knew nothing about golf, but Ricky assured us that all we had to do was carry the clubs, pull the requested club from the bag, wipe it off after the shot, return it to the bag, and follow the golfer from one hole to the next. Easy enough, I thought.

Jim and Ricky boldly approached a beat-up sedan with rust on the wheel wells. Two jovial guys stepped onto the lot and pulled their clubs from the trunk. The driver was dressed like his car—wearing a wrinkled shirt with a worn collar and a small tear under the armpit. His buddy wore a faded pair of blue jeans, an equally faded Twins cap, and canvass tennis shoes. Both eagerly accepted my younger friends’ offer to carry their clubs, probably thinking it would improve their status on the course if they each had a caddy. The foursome was on their way to the first tee joking about how many balls they might need for the day while I lingered to look for someone more likely to offer a generous tip.

My mark arrived in a baby blue Mustang convertible with polished chrome. He pulled into a reserved parking spot and stepped onto the steaming asphalt with white patent leather golf shoes. His neatly pressed olive-green slacks led up to a white belt that matched his shoes. His blue polo shirt matched the color of his car and carried a Nike logo above the pocket. A visor with the same logo restrained a curly mass of auburn hair. I gathered my courage and approached him as he tightened a shoelace. “Do you need a caddy, sir?” I asked timidly.

The trim athlete stood up, looked me over casually, then cast an anxious glance across the parking lot in search of other possibilities. Seeing no alternative, he lifted a full bag of clubs from the back seat of the convertible and said, “Here you go, Sport.” His bag—too large to fit in the trunk—contained a driver, three woods, eight irons, a wedge, a sand wedge, and two putters. After dropping the bag on the heated tarmac, he walked briskly to the clubhouse, assuming I would follow.

I hoisted the bag on my back, not quite sure whether the clubs should face forward or backward, but somehow managed to stumble after my patron to the first tee box. I watched as Ricky and Jim headed down the fairway pulling their bags behind them on a cart. I desperately hoped for a pull cart to arrive with Mr. Flash, but he stepped to the tee carrying nothing but a stubby number two pencil, a score card and a single bottle of water. He handed me the score card and pencil and said, “I’ll have you keep track of my score. Hand me my driver, Sport.”

Flash teed up the ball, took a couple of practice whiffs, and shanked his first drive into a neighboring fairway. Without a word, he reached into his pocket for a new tee and ball. His second shot found its way to the correct fairway. I traipsed behind him as he approached the ball. “Five-iron, Sport,” he said without looking at me. He reached back to take the club and gazed toward the flag. He overshot the green, chipped on, and managed a two-putt to finish the hole. “That’s a bogie,” he said as he handed me the putter.

“That’s one over par, right?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“And it’s a par four hole?”

“Yep.”

I started to count on my fingers when Flash interrupted my calculation. “That first shot didn’t count.”

“Oh.” And so began my afternoon. I could have carried a bag with half the clubs, since he limited his arsenal to the driver, two irons, the sand wedge, and both putters. (He alternated one putter for the other at each green, unable to decide which one was at fault.)

Every so often Flash called out, “Mulligan!” which I found out meant that I was to discount that stroke like I did on his first drive. The stubby pencil I had been using to tally each stroke had no eraser, so by the end of the round, the score I delivered was an approximation at best. He squinted at the score card with satisfaction. After three-putting the eighteenth and calling it a two he said dismissively, “I’ll turn in my score and meet you at the car.”

As I trudged toward the parking lot, I felt like I had climbed Kilimanjaro carrying the luggage of a princess. Jim and Ricky were waiting for me, each sporting a huge grin and a crumpled pile of bills. “Look at this!” whispered Jim. “Five bucks each. Not bad, huh?”

Flash came out of the clubhouse after turning in his estimation. I returned to his car, pushed my glasses higher on my nose, and waited expectantly to collect my reward. “Put the clubs in the back seat,” he said as he opened the driver’s side door. “Careful now. Don’t scratch the side.”

I stood next to the car as he changed his shoes. Flash looked up and gave me a questioning look. Finally, he said, “Oh,” and began to search his pockets. He sorted through a couple of tees, a key ring and a stick of Juicy Fruit that should have been chewed at the third hole. He finally came up with a handful of loose change. “Here you go, Sport.” He dropped the change into my sweaty palm and pulled the door closed.

“Thanks,” I said as I watched the Mustang turn onto the highway, “for the education.”

[If you would like to leave a comment on my blog, click “Publish” before leaving the site. Thanks.]