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The Golfist
a Clairemont tale
by K McTaggart
How did it happen, that I promised everyone I would commit this story to the blogosphere? Give up the comforting physicality of paper and ink for a digitized flow of sentences that would irretrievably waft through cyberspace? This blogging idea is new to me. It’s an odd sort of writing, like the modern equivalent of putting a message in a bottle and throwing it far into the sea. Expend some effort, gather some hope, ignite with a little aerodynamic thrust and then, wait…for some time. Maybe lots of time.
So now I endeavor to write this tale down and zip it off into the netherworld. My memory is not what it once was. It would be nice if my mind weren’t so fuzzy, so frighteningly off kilter…maybe it’s the fumes from the arsenic laced firewood we burn everyday, which we scooped up from the abandoned construction site next door. I know they say to not burn it, but damn, it’s cold in this house. Even in sun soaked San Diego, it brings a chill to the bone when there’s no heat in the house, or maybe its just age, 57 is pretty darn close to 60. Or maybe it’s the genes, after all 57 is the same age as Pearl, my Texas gramps, who was placed into a state run facility in Brownsville, under lock and key, powerless to combat the dementia that so bedeviled him. In any event, I write from memory, such as it is, and as we all know, memory is a funny thing.
So I digress, but that’s kind of the point of blogging, isn’t it? No rules. no structure. no editors. Just the rambling non-sequesters of a dissipated mind.
The premise behind this pedantic venture is to tell you the tale of a strange but oddly compelling encounter I once had, not so very long ago, here, in the cozy snuggly confines of Clairemont, San Diego’s bedroom community of the vaguely dispossessed. Moons past, when I was still kind and optimistic, faithfully full of the American dream and besotted with a Cosby-like vision of my Middle American life, I golfed. I suppose in the interest of veracity, I should be a little more forthcoming here. So, when I say, with cold font inspired aplomb, that “I golfed.” it should read more accurately that “I tried to golf”, or even more diminished, “I attempted to hit a ball that stood absolutely still”.
Originally driven to acquaint myself with the links by the incessant, unrelenting cajoling of my two sons, both card carrying PGA pros, I believed the lie that a small white ball slightly more than one inch in diameter with a gross weight soaking wet of 3 ounces would somehow be fun to whack with a misshapen piece of iron. So innocent was I, that I actually allowed myself to believe that walking in the “fresh” air through the green grass, striking a motionless, dimpled white ball would open a door of understanding and bonhomie with my khaki dressed sons.
This, though, is only part of the story. Merely, setting the scene for our later adventure, if you will. The boys, as my genetically related pros are referred to, shamelessly beguiled me to commence our sojourn by first walking through Tecolote Canyon, a lovely preserve of dried brown grass, inexplicable plants and homeless vagabonds. Our destination: Tecolote Golf Course, a little known oasis of America’s favorite pastime.
A straight forward but narrow configuration of 18 holes, it’s owned by the city and operated for public consumption by a major corporation in the golfing world, American Golf. Tecolote Golf Course is a rarity in the world of golf courses. It’s open to the public, therefore theoretically open to all comers regardless of income bracket, employment status, social skills or level of talent. It’s well maintained and professionally managed, so the average golfer will enjoy a semblance of the same game experience as those mugs who get themselves into Rancho Santa Fe.
We began our adventure early in the morning in a parking lot just shy of the Fox Run development in Clairemont. My sons, had called ahead and reserved a tee time of 11:00a.m. after my resounding veto of an early round at 6:00a.m. With a trip estimate of less than one mile, the boys felt the walk through Tecolote canyon would be a nice easy warm up for our round on the links. So we met. We walked, single file lugging “bags” filled with iron shafts and small white orbs. Or in the case of Douk, small pink orbs, which he says he uses to express solidarity.
At the endpoint of our “hike”, the course greens flashed to my eyes as we carefully avoided the flailing needle-like fronds of a lone lovely pompatus tree. The view, past the moonlike desolation of the driving range, was oddly pristine. I began to think that perhaps this venture might be worth more to me than sore feet and scratchy arms.
Precisely laid out and situated dead flat in the bottom of the canyon, the golf course at Tecolote meanders southward from the swooshing traffic of Mt. Acadia Street in Clairemont towards the princely playing fields of USD. Stretched out like a widened water canal, the course at Tecolote first presents itself to the wandering hiker as a mirage. Lush and vivid green grass carpets the undulating earthen crust. Cutting a mighty swath through the vegetation, a river courses forcefully through the fairways. As we approach, alert fly fishermen line the shadowed shore casting for golden trout the size of Marshall Faulk’s thigh…oh, wait, BLOG ALERT, that last sketch, didn’t happen, sorry. There is a small “creek” though, with run-off irrigation water which arrays itself rather picturesquely through-out the 18 holes. But, alas, no trout. Sorry, Marshall.
Perhaps this is a good spot for yet another digression. One probably wonders now about such an off the wall reference to Marshall Faulk, one of the great running backs of modern football history. It would seem rather a random comment given that this is a smallish essay on living in Clairemont, a middle American demographic if ever there was one. Truth be told, this is not the neighborhood where former NFL running backs linger, or even pass through. So Marshall Faulk trout fishing in Tecolote creek… I don’t think so. But the true odd fact is that Douk, my younger son, happens to be an acquaintance of the great back and does frequently accompany him and his entourage to various county golf courses. Now, I have never seen Mr. Faulk golf, but my surmise would be that when a human can accomplish the physical feats which he did so gloriously in the game of football, the game of golf is most likely well within his wheelhouse. So, I often imagine Douk, with his implacable determination, driving the ball into the sunrise under the shadow of the great running back.
Ok. Forging on. If you haven’t given up yet, then this will be the part where I might string two sensible sentences together in a sequence sufficient to actually tell the tale. You remember the tale don’t you…cold, dementia, golf, etc. Not an improbable story in the middle of Clairemont. When last we saw our feckless hero (me), he was trudging begrudgingly out of the wilds of Tecolote canyon onto the surprising oasis of Tecolote Golf Course.
The boys had equipped me with a half set of hand me down clubs and a WWII vintage golf bag to carry them in. What they didn’t tell me was that, like an infantry grunt, I would have to carry the darn thing over my shoulder for the duration of our forced march. The boys, thoughtful as ever, had had the foresight to find some clubs that were not only women’s but shortened for an immature 12 year old girl to use. Oddly enough, just the right size for me.
We hung around the pathway leading to the first tee box waiting for the starter to herald us as the next participants. Trying to maintain composure, I was, in truth, fraught with excitement. The day was a busy one with four other parties of four milling aimlessly with us as we awaited our call. Then we heard it, from the speaker in the trees, crackling into the blue sky on a sonic blanket of static “MADAGART, potty of fer”. Fer? Four? I quietly inquired of Douk, “who’s the fourth? There’s only three of us.” Without looking at me, he replied tersely, “The captain is joining us. Dern invited him last night.” Looking to Dern, my older son, he caught my eye, smiled sagely and beckoned me to follow them as they moved slowly and purposefully up the asphalt ramp onto the course. We were up. It was happening. Breathless with anxiety, I lugged my mildewed canvas crevasse up the long hill to the first post.
Standing before a small gallery of twenty or so hangers-on, a slouching Dern, rose up to his full height of six feet and calmly spoke to me, “O.K. Dadeega, I’ll go first, then Douk will hit. Just watch us. Do what we do. Remember what we worked on yesterday. Its no big thing, just use the driver and copy us. Keep your eyes open and breathe” With that, he shadowed his green eyes with his pink visor and pushing the blond curls past his flat ears, he adjusted the headgear and stared out to the opposite hillside.
I stepped to the back of the box. For years, the boys had gratuitously counseled me on the need to maintain strict shallow breathing silence when the golfer lined up to take the shot. Ever heedful of their admonishments, I drew a breath and held it wordlessly as Dern aligned his physical and mental self with the small gleaming orb.
The sun caught the backside of the club head as it ratcheted upward to the zenith of its arc. Twinkling, glittering the blade of the club held motionless for less than a second. bouncing the sharp bright light into my eyes, then the club moved seemingly of its own accord. Without sound it cut the still air. The force of the club head on the inert ball unleashed soundwaves of a sort I had never before heard. A low fundamentally satisfying crack, with just a whisper of shattered air rushing to fill the void. The ball simply disappeared. I did not see it move. I did not see its flight. With a sleight of hand, which though I stared at him with eyes wide open I simply could not fathom, he had sent the orb into a different dimension. The gallery, understanding what they had just witnessed applauded enthusiastically and Dern allowed them to bask temporarily in his refracted glow. The murmurs immediately fluttered by me that the ball had sailed perhaps 390 yards. I guessed that this was a good thing by the admiring glances from the impromptu gallery that Dern was ignoring.
Douk, golfing accomplice to the celebrities, strode quietly into the fading spotlight vacated by Dern. With a thin lipped smile and a steely glint he faced his gleaming ball from the opposite side. A lefty by choice, he had purposefully developed his left handedness as a three year old who wanted to play baseball, but wanted to only play baseball as a left handed pitcher. So it was with everything in his young life. He saw it, he wanted it, so he became it. Resolve was invented in the mind of this boy. To play golf with Dern, to walk with him day after day, hour upon hour through the paths and fairways of the green world Dern inhabited so effortlessly, Douk simply decided to do it and taught himself the art. I knew better than to underestimate this chap.
I suppose the beauty of golf, if there is any to behold, lies in its surprising accommodation to those of us who lack impressive physical attributes. Though perhaps originally and historically conceived of as an elite sport, a rich man’s exclusive walk through artificially controlled nature, it is in actuality one of the few, if not the only, physical sport that almost every human can participate in. Young, old, tall short, endowed with the awe inspiring physical prowess of Marshall Faulk, or blessed with the pudgy midlife frame of a 5’6” everyman, or woman, golf lends itself to us all equally, allowing each one of us to be the fool without discrimination.
Douk, with his powerful zen-like presence, lined up with his glowing pink ball. The gallery quieted, but I sensed the doubt. Polite, no one uttered a word of reproach to one so physically challenged, but nonetheless I absorbed some waves of disbelief from the watchers. With RayBans perched atop his head, he quieted himself and stared at the ball for a lengthy while. Unlike his silent brother, Douk, inhaled a loud breath as he raised his club and much like a tennis player let out a small guttural grunt as he struck the ball. Again, the magic occurred for me. The ball sat motionless, gleaming, sending its pink message to all and suddenly it was simply gone. The club head cut the air with audible speed and the sheer force of the striking created violent waves of soundless air. A gasp escaped from the gathered crowd as they tracked the pink satellite out beyond the sluggish creek and skittering squirrels. I didn’t see its flight, but when it landed some three feet from Dern’s recovering ball, the motley crowd applauded enthusiastically. With his wan smile fixed on his broad face, Douk, acknowledged the support with a small tip of his head and a slight wave.
Having joined our group late, I allowed the Captain to hit before me. I had no desire to follow the performances of the boys, especially not with a gallery of mostly men waiting for me to establish exactly where their talent came from. The Captain is an interesting phenomenon. A friend of Douk’s, he had been aligned with him since pre-school at St. Mark’s. Through high school the two had maintained their improbable friendship. After graduation, the Captain had moved to northern California to attend the Maritime Academy. At 24 he graduated with a third mate’s ranking, was offered a position aboard a freighter plying the western pacific at an absurd rate of pay, and turned it down. Instead, he returned to his family home in Clairemont, returned to his daily golf with the boys and started a business cleaning and maintaining yachts in San Diego harbor. The yacht maintenance business took off in a big way and the Captain soon was earning twice his offered third mate’s salary. He had plenty of time to golf. So here he was.
The captain’s approach to the game reminded me of Adam Sandler in the movie Happy Gilmore. He literally physically attacked the ball. If decorum had not been so important to the boys, he would have taken three steps back and run at the ball as he swung. Precision was not on his mind when he hit. He hit the ball hard and often. But he kept up with the boys and his constant gregarious patter provided the backdrop for their sharply focused game. When the Captain had done as much damage as he could to the ball and it sat forlornly 100 yards short of the boys’ efforts, it was time for the fourth. It was time for me.
My instinct was to run. Away. Down the pathway, back through the canyon brush and up into my house to seek sanctuary and reprieve from the humiliation which I knew was soon to be bestowed upon me. Yet, I didn’t. Cold as a dead man walking, I took hold of the grip of my driver, with its improbably enormous head, drew it from its canvas scabbard and with all the calm I could muster, walked up to the tee box. My focus blurred and I lost specific vision of any of the faces waiting and watching. I heard a low droning mutter, but nothing discernible reached my ear.
I remembered to put the wooden tee into the pocked grass and gently, so gently, placed the ball onto the tee. It balanced there precariously, begging me to man up and send it mercifully to join its brethren out on the fairway. I stepped back from the readied ball and swung the driver slowly through the air, practicing. My breath came shallow and ragged, my heart clutched and thin tendrils of sweat dribbled down from my brow. A virulent pulse of surrender exploded in my mind. Game? What game? This was not a game. It was not the mindless soul redeeming frivolity which I had so looked forward to. No. This was something evil. Pure, unmitigated psychological torture. A respectable person with a shred of self esteem should simply fling down the club and walk away. But, the boys were watching. Silent, together, they stood patiently waiting for their ridiculous old man to step up and join them in the game. Amused, I am sure, but expectant that as the paterfamilias, as DAD, I would somehow prevail in this impossibility and make them proud.
I stepped back to the ball and carefully planted my feet as I had been instructed. I looked out at the fairway and back to the waiting ball. Every instruction either of the boys had ever delivered to me swept through my mind. I tried to control my breathing, but the constriction of my chest refused to relent. I knew I had to hit. In order to breathe I had to hit the damn ball. I ratcheted the club up over my right shoulder, twisting my hips like a corkscrew. Keeping my head bent down, my eyes glued to the motionless ball, I shouted hosanna, prayed for glory and unleashed my torqued body. The club arced out in front of me as my hips reversed their twist and I closed my eyes.
No whack. No thunk. No sound, other than some small tittering coming from the gallery. The club shaft collided with my back as it completed its roundhouse arc from one side of my body to the other. No hit. A clean, inglorious, self-defeating miss. The ball sat still upon its tiny wooden throne and sighed its disappointment. I gathered myself and finally caught my breath. Ok, I figured, it’s a strike. Just a strike. Happens all the time, everyone does this. I’ll just try again.
Re-aligning myself with my ball, I again ratcheted my club skyward. Perilously poised beyond my right shoulder, the magnificent silver head felt angry, powerful. I sensed an electrical surge of passion coursing down my raised fist and into my constricted chest. With a determination borne more from fear than skill, I sung my new mantra, “Hit the damn ball’, and with that, I swung. With all the belief and conviction I possessed in my wayward soul, I swung down and through. The club, weighted by a glob of forged steel at its tip, picked up momentum. I watched the frightened ball awaiting its destiny. I saw it leap from the tee as the massive iron club head mashed it into a flattened effigy. A brilliant magical transfer of kinetic energy and it flew. The damn ball flew. I watched its arc traverse the canyon course. I was proud beyond measure. It moved, the ball moved. It took flight because of me. I was beginning to relax, to think I might have a future at this game, when I heard the first tone of disbelief rise from the crowd. Sighs and whispers of “oh no.” oh my god” “its not” “it is” floated disbelievingly to my ears.
The small voices came through to me as I peered after the dropping ball. I could see it clearly as it had traveled only 150 yards or so. But as it gave way to gravity, I saw what the cries were for. Off to the side of the fairway, made distinct only by the slow stately motion of its ageless craggy head what appeared to be a gray green rock had suddenly materialized. It was a rock that moved. As my eyes adjusted I saw it was a tortoise, slow, lumbering and for the moment, carefree. It stopped its measured progress, blissfully unaware of the doom about to be dropped on it by the unfriendly sky. On the fairway, edging out of the surrounding brush, it sat motionless on the grass. I am sure it was thinking that it had reached turtle nirvana. A terrapin heaven, the endless green smorgasbord stretched before him. I think he saw the promised land, at least in the two seconds he had before the plummeting ball landed squarely on his outstretched head. Instantaneously, with the faint squishy thud of contact, the gray reptilian beast dropped his head to the ground and lay inert upon the green belt.
The gallery was silent and aghast. I was perplexed. Stunned perhaps at the unfathomable random accuracy of what had minutes before been a motionless ball made active by the laughable passion of the true believer. Coming to my senses, I grabbed my bag and with the captain and the boys striding before me hurried out onto the lower fairway. The tortoise lay in blessed repose. Absolutely still. The ball sat not two feet from the poor turtles’ dented head. Unsure what to do, the three of us simply accepted the tableau before us in respectful silence. Our fourth, the ever efficient captain, however, was a man of action. As we three reflected, he gently lifted the dead animal, wrapped it reverentially in his golf towel and in a whisper asked us to walk with him as he carried the passed creature off the course to the pro shop. The gallery played through in our absence.
We cut our game short that day. I returned to my cloistered life among the dried pages and ink of my books. The boys of course stored this escapade in their catalogue of grand tales from the ‘lote. Some two weeks later, I received an official looking envelope in the mail. From the Office of the Park Ranger for San Diego County. Inside, the ranger in chief advised me that it was a serious, an egregious, affront to the natural order to kill protected wildlife in Tecolote Canyon, even unwittingly. The turtle was one of a protected specie and as a result of my errant golf shot, I was being issued a citation for $250.00. The ranger boss informed me that I could pay the fine or work it off as a volunteer in the canyon. I wondered if perhaps he would take a jar of excellent turtle soup in exchange.
The Golfist
a Clairemont tale
by K McTaggart
How did it happen, that I promised everyone I would commit this story to the blogosphere? Give up the comforting physicality of paper and ink for a digitized flow of sentences that would irretrievably waft through cyberspace? This blogging idea is new to me. It’s an odd sort of writing, like the modern equivalent of putting a message in a bottle and throwing it far into the sea. Expend some effort, gather some hope, ignite with a little aerodynamic thrust and then, wait…for some time. Maybe lots of time.
So now I endeavor to write this tale down and zip it off into the netherworld. My memory is not what it once was. It would be nice if my mind weren’t so fuzzy, so frighteningly off kilter…maybe it’s the fumes from the arsenic laced firewood we burn everyday, which we scooped up from the abandoned construction site next door. I know they say to not burn it, but damn, it’s cold in this house. Even in sun soaked San Diego, it brings a chill to the bone when there’s no heat in the house, or maybe its just age, 57 is pretty darn close to 60. Or maybe it’s the genes, after all 57 is the same age as Pearl, my Texas gramps, who was placed into a state run facility in Brownsville, under lock and key, powerless to combat the dementia that so bedeviled him. In any event, I write from memory, such as it is, and as we all know, memory is a funny thing.
So I digress, but that’s kind of the point of blogging, isn’t it? No rules. no structure. no editors. Just the rambling non-sequesters of a dissipated mind.
The premise behind this pedantic venture is to tell you the tale of a strange but oddly compelling encounter I once had, not so very long ago, here, in the cozy snuggly confines of Clairemont, San Diego’s bedroom community of the vaguely dispossessed. Moons past, when I was still kind and optimistic, faithfully full of the American dream and besotted with a Cosby-like vision of my Middle American life, I golfed. I suppose in the interest of veracity, I should be a little more forthcoming here. So, when I say, with cold font inspired aplomb, that “I golfed.” it should read more accurately that “I tried to golf”, or even more diminished, “I attempted to hit a ball that stood absolutely still”.
Originally driven to acquaint myself with the links by the incessant, unrelenting cajoling of my two sons, both card carrying PGA pros, I believed the lie that a small white ball slightly more than one inch in diameter with a gross weight soaking wet of 3 ounces would somehow be fun to whack with a misshapen piece of iron. So innocent was I, that I actually allowed myself to believe that walking in the “fresh” air through the green grass, striking a motionless, dimpled white ball would open a door of understanding and bonhomie with my khaki dressed sons.
This, though, is only part of the story. Merely, setting the scene for our later adventure, if you will. The boys, as my genetically related pros are referred to, shamelessly beguiled me to commence our sojourn by first walking through Tecolote Canyon, a lovely preserve of dried brown grass, inexplicable plants and homeless vagabonds. Our destination: Tecolote Golf Course, a little known oasis of America’s favorite pastime.
A straight forward but narrow configuration of 18 holes, it’s owned by the city and operated for public consumption by a major corporation in the golfing world, American Golf. Tecolote Golf Course is a rarity in the world of golf courses. It’s open to the public, therefore theoretically open to all comers regardless of income bracket, employment status, social skills or level of talent. It’s well maintained and professionally managed, so the average golfer will enjoy a semblance of the same game experience as those mugs who get themselves into Rancho Santa Fe.
We began our adventure early in the morning in a parking lot just shy of the Fox Run development in Clairemont. My sons, had called ahead and reserved a tee time of 11:00a.m. after my resounding veto of an early round at 6:00a.m. With a trip estimate of less than one mile, the boys felt the walk through Tecolote canyon would be a nice easy warm up for our round on the links. So we met. We walked, single file lugging “bags” filled with iron shafts and small white orbs. Or in the case of Douk, small pink orbs, which he says he uses to express solidarity.
At the endpoint of our “hike”, the course greens flashed to my eyes as we carefully avoided the flailing needle-like fronds of a lone lovely pompatus tree. The view, past the moonlike desolation of the driving range, was oddly pristine. I began to think that perhaps this venture might be worth more to me than sore feet and scratchy arms.
Precisely laid out and situated dead flat in the bottom of the canyon, the golf course at Tecolote meanders southward from the swooshing traffic of Mt. Acadia Street in Clairemont towards the princely playing fields of USD. Stretched out like a widened water canal, the course at Tecolote first presents itself to the wandering hiker as a mirage. Lush and vivid green grass carpets the undulating earthen crust. Cutting a mighty swath through the vegetation, a river courses forcefully through the fairways. As we approach, alert fly fishermen line the shadowed shore casting for golden trout the size of Marshall Faulk’s thigh…oh, wait, BLOG ALERT, that last sketch, didn’t happen, sorry. There is a small “creek” though, with run-off irrigation water which arrays itself rather picturesquely through-out the 18 holes. But, alas, no trout. Sorry, Marshall.
Perhaps this is a good spot for yet another digression. One probably wonders now about such an off the wall reference to Marshall Faulk, one of the great running backs of modern football history. It would seem rather a random comment given that this is a smallish essay on living in Clairemont, a middle American demographic if ever there was one. Truth be told, this is not the neighborhood where former NFL running backs linger, or even pass through. So Marshall Faulk trout fishing in Tecolote creek… I don’t think so. But the true odd fact is that Douk, my younger son, happens to be an acquaintance of the great back and does frequently accompany him and his entourage to various county golf courses. Now, I have never seen Mr. Faulk golf, but my surmise would be that when a human can accomplish the physical feats which he did so gloriously in the game of football, the game of golf is most likely well within his wheelhouse. So, I often imagine Douk, with his implacable determination, driving the ball into the sunrise under the shadow of the great running back.
Ok. Forging on. If you haven’t given up yet, then this will be the part where I might string two sensible sentences together in a sequence sufficient to actually tell the tale. You remember the tale don’t you…cold, dementia, golf, etc. Not an improbable story in the middle of Clairemont. When last we saw our feckless hero (me), he was trudging begrudgingly out of the wilds of Tecolote canyon onto the surprising oasis of Tecolote Golf Course.
The boys had equipped me with a half set of hand me down clubs and a WWII vintage golf bag to carry them in. What they didn’t tell me was that, like an infantry grunt, I would have to carry the darn thing over my shoulder for the duration of our forced march. The boys, thoughtful as ever, had had the foresight to find some clubs that were not only women’s but shortened for an immature 12 year old girl to use. Oddly enough, just the right size for me.
We hung around the pathway leading to the first tee box waiting for the starter to herald us as the next participants. Trying to maintain composure, I was, in truth, fraught with excitement. The day was a busy one with four other parties of four milling aimlessly with us as we awaited our call. Then we heard it, from the speaker in the trees, crackling into the blue sky on a sonic blanket of static “MADAGART, potty of fer”. Fer? Four? I quietly inquired of Douk, “who’s the fourth? There’s only three of us.” Without looking at me, he replied tersely, “The captain is joining us. Dern invited him last night.” Looking to Dern, my older son, he caught my eye, smiled sagely and beckoned me to follow them as they moved slowly and purposefully up the asphalt ramp onto the course. We were up. It was happening. Breathless with anxiety, I lugged my mildewed canvas crevasse up the long hill to the first post.
Standing before a small gallery of twenty or so hangers-on, a slouching Dern, rose up to his full height of six feet and calmly spoke to me, “O.K. Dadeega, I’ll go first, then Douk will hit. Just watch us. Do what we do. Remember what we worked on yesterday. Its no big thing, just use the driver and copy us. Keep your eyes open and breathe” With that, he shadowed his green eyes with his pink visor and pushing the blond curls past his flat ears, he adjusted the headgear and stared out to the opposite hillside.
I stepped to the back of the box. For years, the boys had gratuitously counseled me on the need to maintain strict shallow breathing silence when the golfer lined up to take the shot. Ever heedful of their admonishments, I drew a breath and held it wordlessly as Dern aligned his physical and mental self with the small gleaming orb.
The sun caught the backside of the club head as it ratcheted upward to the zenith of its arc. Twinkling, glittering the blade of the club held motionless for less than a second. bouncing the sharp bright light into my eyes, then the club moved seemingly of its own accord. Without sound it cut the still air. The force of the club head on the inert ball unleashed soundwaves of a sort I had never before heard. A low fundamentally satisfying crack, with just a whisper of shattered air rushing to fill the void. The ball simply disappeared. I did not see it move. I did not see its flight. With a sleight of hand, which though I stared at him with eyes wide open I simply could not fathom, he had sent the orb into a different dimension. The gallery, understanding what they had just witnessed applauded enthusiastically and Dern allowed them to bask temporarily in his refracted glow. The murmurs immediately fluttered by me that the ball had sailed perhaps 390 yards. I guessed that this was a good thing by the admiring glances from the impromptu gallery that Dern was ignoring.
Douk, golfing accomplice to the celebrities, strode quietly into the fading spotlight vacated by Dern. With a thin lipped smile and a steely glint he faced his gleaming ball from the opposite side. A lefty by choice, he had purposefully developed his left handedness as a three year old who wanted to play baseball, but wanted to only play baseball as a left handed pitcher. So it was with everything in his young life. He saw it, he wanted it, so he became it. Resolve was invented in the mind of this boy. To play golf with Dern, to walk with him day after day, hour upon hour through the paths and fairways of the green world Dern inhabited so effortlessly, Douk simply decided to do it and taught himself the art. I knew better than to underestimate this chap.
I suppose the beauty of golf, if there is any to behold, lies in its surprising accommodation to those of us who lack impressive physical attributes. Though perhaps originally and historically conceived of as an elite sport, a rich man’s exclusive walk through artificially controlled nature, it is in actuality one of the few, if not the only, physical sport that almost every human can participate in. Young, old, tall short, endowed with the awe inspiring physical prowess of Marshall Faulk, or blessed with the pudgy midlife frame of a 5’6” everyman, or woman, golf lends itself to us all equally, allowing each one of us to be the fool without discrimination.
Douk, with his powerful zen-like presence, lined up with his glowing pink ball. The gallery quieted, but I sensed the doubt. Polite, no one uttered a word of reproach to one so physically challenged, but nonetheless I absorbed some waves of disbelief from the watchers. With RayBans perched atop his head, he quieted himself and stared at the ball for a lengthy while. Unlike his silent brother, Douk, inhaled a loud breath as he raised his club and much like a tennis player let out a small guttural grunt as he struck the ball. Again, the magic occurred for me. The ball sat motionless, gleaming, sending its pink message to all and suddenly it was simply gone. The club head cut the air with audible speed and the sheer force of the striking created violent waves of soundless air. A gasp escaped from the gathered crowd as they tracked the pink satellite out beyond the sluggish creek and skittering squirrels. I didn’t see its flight, but when it landed some three feet from Dern’s recovering ball, the motley crowd applauded enthusiastically. With his wan smile fixed on his broad face, Douk, acknowledged the support with a small tip of his head and a slight wave.
Having joined our group late, I allowed the Captain to hit before me. I had no desire to follow the performances of the boys, especially not with a gallery of mostly men waiting for me to establish exactly where their talent came from. The Captain is an interesting phenomenon. A friend of Douk’s, he had been aligned with him since pre-school at St. Mark’s. Through high school the two had maintained their improbable friendship. After graduation, the Captain had moved to northern California to attend the Maritime Academy. At 24 he graduated with a third mate’s ranking, was offered a position aboard a freighter plying the western pacific at an absurd rate of pay, and turned it down. Instead, he returned to his family home in Clairemont, returned to his daily golf with the boys and started a business cleaning and maintaining yachts in San Diego harbor. The yacht maintenance business took off in a big way and the Captain soon was earning twice his offered third mate’s salary. He had plenty of time to golf. So here he was.
The captain’s approach to the game reminded me of Adam Sandler in the movie Happy Gilmore. He literally physically attacked the ball. If decorum had not been so important to the boys, he would have taken three steps back and run at the ball as he swung. Precision was not on his mind when he hit. He hit the ball hard and often. But he kept up with the boys and his constant gregarious patter provided the backdrop for their sharply focused game. When the Captain had done as much damage as he could to the ball and it sat forlornly 100 yards short of the boys’ efforts, it was time for the fourth. It was time for me.
My instinct was to run. Away. Down the pathway, back through the canyon brush and up into my house to seek sanctuary and reprieve from the humiliation which I knew was soon to be bestowed upon me. Yet, I didn’t. Cold as a dead man walking, I took hold of the grip of my driver, with its improbably enormous head, drew it from its canvas scabbard and with all the calm I could muster, walked up to the tee box. My focus blurred and I lost specific vision of any of the faces waiting and watching. I heard a low droning mutter, but nothing discernible reached my ear.
I remembered to put the wooden tee into the pocked grass and gently, so gently, placed the ball onto the tee. It balanced there precariously, begging me to man up and send it mercifully to join its brethren out on the fairway. I stepped back from the readied ball and swung the driver slowly through the air, practicing. My breath came shallow and ragged, my heart clutched and thin tendrils of sweat dribbled down from my brow. A virulent pulse of surrender exploded in my mind. Game? What game? This was not a game. It was not the mindless soul redeeming frivolity which I had so looked forward to. No. This was something evil. Pure, unmitigated psychological torture. A respectable person with a shred of self esteem should simply fling down the club and walk away. But, the boys were watching. Silent, together, they stood patiently waiting for their ridiculous old man to step up and join them in the game. Amused, I am sure, but expectant that as the paterfamilias, as DAD, I would somehow prevail in this impossibility and make them proud.
I stepped back to the ball and carefully planted my feet as I had been instructed. I looked out at the fairway and back to the waiting ball. Every instruction either of the boys had ever delivered to me swept through my mind. I tried to control my breathing, but the constriction of my chest refused to relent. I knew I had to hit. In order to breathe I had to hit the damn ball. I ratcheted the club up over my right shoulder, twisting my hips like a corkscrew. Keeping my head bent down, my eyes glued to the motionless ball, I shouted hosanna, prayed for glory and unleashed my torqued body. The club arced out in front of me as my hips reversed their twist and I closed my eyes.
No whack. No thunk. No sound, other than some small tittering coming from the gallery. The club shaft collided with my back as it completed its roundhouse arc from one side of my body to the other. No hit. A clean, inglorious, self-defeating miss. The ball sat still upon its tiny wooden throne and sighed its disappointment. I gathered myself and finally caught my breath. Ok, I figured, it’s a strike. Just a strike. Happens all the time, everyone does this. I’ll just try again.
Re-aligning myself with my ball, I again ratcheted my club skyward. Perilously poised beyond my right shoulder, the magnificent silver head felt angry, powerful. I sensed an electrical surge of passion coursing down my raised fist and into my constricted chest. With a determination borne more from fear than skill, I sung my new mantra, “Hit the damn ball’, and with that, I swung. With all the belief and conviction I possessed in my wayward soul, I swung down and through. The club, weighted by a glob of forged steel at its tip, picked up momentum. I watched the frightened ball awaiting its destiny. I saw it leap from the tee as the massive iron club head mashed it into a flattened effigy. A brilliant magical transfer of kinetic energy and it flew. The damn ball flew. I watched its arc traverse the canyon course. I was proud beyond measure. It moved, the ball moved. It took flight because of me. I was beginning to relax, to think I might have a future at this game, when I heard the first tone of disbelief rise from the crowd. Sighs and whispers of “oh no.” oh my god” “its not” “it is” floated disbelievingly to my ears.
The small voices came through to me as I peered after the dropping ball. I could see it clearly as it had traveled only 150 yards or so. But as it gave way to gravity, I saw what the cries were for. Off to the side of the fairway, made distinct only by the slow stately motion of its ageless craggy head what appeared to be a gray green rock had suddenly materialized. It was a rock that moved. As my eyes adjusted I saw it was a tortoise, slow, lumbering and for the moment, carefree. It stopped its measured progress, blissfully unaware of the doom about to be dropped on it by the unfriendly sky. On the fairway, edging out of the surrounding brush, it sat motionless on the grass. I am sure it was thinking that it had reached turtle nirvana. A terrapin heaven, the endless green smorgasbord stretched before him. I think he saw the promised land, at least in the two seconds he had before the plummeting ball landed squarely on his outstretched head. Instantaneously, with the faint squishy thud of contact, the gray reptilian beast dropped his head to the ground and lay inert upon the green belt.
The gallery was silent and aghast. I was perplexed. Stunned perhaps at the unfathomable random accuracy of what had minutes before been a motionless ball made active by the laughable passion of the true believer. Coming to my senses, I grabbed my bag and with the captain and the boys striding before me hurried out onto the lower fairway. The tortoise lay in blessed repose. Absolutely still. The ball sat not two feet from the poor turtles’ dented head. Unsure what to do, the three of us simply accepted the tableau before us in respectful silence. Our fourth, the ever efficient captain, however, was a man of action. As we three reflected, he gently lifted the dead animal, wrapped it reverentially in his golf towel and in a whisper asked us to walk with him as he carried the passed creature off the course to the pro shop. The gallery played through in our absence.
We cut our game short that day. I returned to my cloistered life among the dried pages and ink of my books. The boys of course stored this escapade in their catalogue of grand tales from the ‘lote. Some two weeks later, I received an official looking envelope in the mail. From the Office of the Park Ranger for San Diego County. Inside, the ranger in chief advised me that it was a serious, an egregious, affront to the natural order to kill protected wildlife in Tecolote Canyon, even unwittingly. The turtle was one of a protected specie and as a result of my errant golf shot, I was being issued a citation for $250.00. The ranger boss informed me that I could pay the fine or work it off as a volunteer in the canyon. I wondered if perhaps he would take a jar of excellent turtle soup in exchange.