Albatross

by Terry Fallis

  “Ask away, Mr. Coryell.”

  “I’d be so much more comfortable out there on the course if you were on the bag. The caddie with me today was not helpful. But you know just what to say and what not to say. You understand what I need to do to play my best. You understand me,” I said. I paused before continuing. “Would you come down and be my caddie for the Masters? I think I could just make it through if you were there alongside me.”

  Nothing. Nothing but the sound of her breathing, and it sounded more like a force-nine gale.

  “Um, Ms. Davenport, are you there? Are you all right?”

  “I’m here, son. Just collecting myself and ensuring control over various bodily functions that just threatened to go rogue on me,” she replied. “Are you seriously asking me to caddie for you at Augusta?”

  “I don’t think I could make it through with the guy who nattered at me all through my round today.”

  There was another long silence. I just let it hang there.

  “Let me be clear, Mr. Coryell. To a lover of the grand game, you are not asking a big favour. You are bestowing an extraordinary honour,” she said in a soft tone I’d never heard her use. “But I see two flies in the ointment. I’m not sure the powers that be at Augusta National would permit my participation as your caddie. It might not be within the rules.”

  “I picked that fly out of the ointment before I left the course this afternoon. Your name was pumped into Google and your various golfing exploits were revealed. And, on my coach’s recommendation, I cited your NCAA success while at Stanford. Anyway, we’ve been given permission to bring you in. And Stanford will pay the expenses.”

  “Merciful heavens and hell’s furnace, you are a resourceful young man.”

  “What’s the other fly?” I asked.

  “It’s the bigger, nastier fly with a painful bite,” she replied. “My back.”

  “I’ve got your back. I promise,” I said.

  “No, I mean my wonky, blasted, lamented, cranky, cruel, and malevolent vertebral column. I can’t carry those gargantuan professional tour bags around eighteen holes. I’d be on morphine and a backboard by the fifth hole.”

  “I meant it when I said I’ve got your back,” I assured her. “You won’t believe this, but when Bobby Jones—he’s a big-name golfer from the past who was around when the Masters started, and…”

  “Mr. Coryell, I’m quite familiar with Bobby Jones and his founding connection to the Masters. Do carry on,” she said.

  “Right. Anyway, when he would play the course on his own just because he loved it so much, he’d carry his own clubs in this very small and light fabric bag. It weighs next to nothing. They still have it in the pro shop at Augusta. Anyway, they’re going to let me use the bag in the Masters.”

  “Wait just one blessed moment. They’ve agreed to let you use Bobby Jones’s personal golf bag that he once carried around the course?”

  “Exactly, and it’s nowhere near as heavy as my Stanford bag.”

  “But son, even so, I don’t think I could even carry a light bag around the course.” She sighed. “I think we’re scuppered.”

  “No, no. You don’t understand. I’ll be carrying the bag. You just have to wear those funny-looking white caddie coveralls and walk the course beside me.”

  “But that’s never been done before,” she persisted.

  “I checked the rule book. There’s nothing in it that says players can’t carry their own bags. We can’t use a power cart, or a pull cart, or transport my golf bag on a donkey, but the rules do allow me to carry my own bag.”

  “By the beard of Odin and the winged feet of Hermes, you’ve got it all figured out, Mr. Coryell. I commend you,” she said. “But I have one condition. If you agree, I’ll be there for all four rounds with scads of conversational gambits to keep your mind far away from the game you’ll be playing.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “I carry the bag onto the first tee and perhaps partway through number one. And I carry the bag up the eighteenth fairway to the green. You’ll probably have to carry it the rest of the way. But I’ll be snookered in sunshine if I’m not hoisting the bag for one and eighteen. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I replied. “And I wish I knew what ‘snookered in sunshine’ means.”

  * * *

  —

  THE WEATHER WAS nasty on Thursday for the opening round, just not quite nasty enough to suspend play. The temperature was low, the wind high, and the drizzle occasionally horizontal. The elements needed to be quite a bit harsher to call off the round. With lucrative TV deals in place and tickets sold, there had to be lightning, a monsoon, and a looming tsunami before they ever sounded the horn to call the players back into the clubhouse. So we soldiered on in the drizzle. I was playing with one other amateur and a veteran Tour player who was enjoying the denouement of his professional career. None of us was expected to be anywhere near the first page of the leaderboard. But they were very nice, and pretty well kept to themselves from tee to green. The crowds that followed us around in the rain were smaller and quieter, which was just how I liked it. The big swarms of spectators amassed around the stars of the PGA. Fine with me.

  Ms. Davenport was the only woman sporting the white coveralls and the only caddie in the tournament who wore a perpetual smile on her face through an hour of putting practice, the rain, the formal first-tee introductions, and all eighteen holes. She was also the only caddie carrying to the first tee a comically small and spartan beige fabric golf bag that looked as out of place at Augusta as a Model T at the Indianapolis Speedway. I relieved her of her burden partway down the first fairway, as promised.

  I didn’t have much experience playing in the rain. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to gain experience playing in the rain. It was not pleasant. It was, well, wet. We did have giant golf umbrellas, and they worked to keep us relatively dry. But I never figured out how to shoot and hold the umbrella above me at the same time. So I was plenty wet by the ninth hole. I could feel rivulets of water running down my backbone from my neck to my waist.

  Ms. Davenport and I talked about home and what was going on at my old school. I quizzed her on her teams’ performances that year. We talked about the new Visconti models that had just been released, and why the company seemed to have quality-control issues with their nibs. We talked about a lot of different things, as long as it wasn’t golf, beyond brief exchanges about yardage, alignment, club selection, and putting. She even briefed me on Dr. Gunnarsson’s growing fame. He seemed to be taking it all in stride. His ultra-direct approach to human relations still got him into trouble now and then. But as his notoriety grew, his odd responses became almost predictable, though still inappropriate. Despite the publicity for his theory, I was still the only human found to have a Gunnarsson score north of ninety.

  For the entire round, a teenager walked along with us, carrying a sign that listed the scores in our threesome. He seemed confused by the range of topics Ms. Davenport and I tackled in our walk around Augusta National. At the end, he even asked me what starter fountain pen I’d recommend, as he’d been intrigued by what he’d overheard on the course. I suggested a TWSBI Eco or a Pilot Metropolitan, both good, smooth writers right out of the box.

  We finished the first round in the middle of the pack. Despite the weather, with Ms. Davenport on the bag—or at least near the bag—I’d never been more at ease in a tournament. I’d have been even more comfortable if my clothes weren’t so wet. But it was really nice to have Ms. Davenport with me again. I’d forgotten what it was like to walk a golf course with her. She kept me occupied and entertained. For the spectators, it was quite unusual to see a golfer and his caddie laughing their way up to the green.

  “Are you at least enjoying the courses?” she asked at the hotel restaurant that night.

  “I’m certainly enjoying my literature and writing courses. The golf courses, not so much.”

  “But your scholarship demands you deliver in both areas.”

/>   “That is true,” I agreed. “My classes and profs are all wonderful, and the campus is lovely. But I do find the golf tougher to enjoy.”

  “But you’re winning almost every tournament Stanford enters. You’re the talk of the NCAA,” she said. “You’re a rock star.”

  “Yeah, but only because of my chart-topping Gunnarsson number. I wouldn’t mind so much if I had even the slightest ability to influence my golfing prowess, but I don’t. The only thing I can do is make my game worse.”

  “What about your teammates? Do they laugh and call you names and never let you join in any reindeer games?”

  I smiled. “Well, yes, you could say that. But that doesn’t really bother me anymore,” I explained. “If I were in their shoes, I think I’d resent me, too—this guy who just showed up one day, never goes to the range, never goes to the weight room, never hits the running trails, never swims laps, and never needs to worry about junk food or beer. I’m living a charmed collegiate existence and it bugs them. It would likely bug me, too. Sometimes I feel like punching myself in the face to save them the trouble.”

  “But they must like it when you win for old Stanford?”

  “I’m not sure about that. If I win, it means they don’t. So school loyalty only stretches so far.”

  “You know, if you win this little tournament we call the Masters, you’ll be under tremendous pressure to skip out on your last year at Stanford and join the Tour.”

  “Hmmm. I hadn’t thought of that. What if I come second?”

  “Well, it would still be pretty big news if an amateur came second at Augusta, but in the end, they only hand out one green jacket.”

  * * *

  —

  THREE DAYS LATER I was one stroke clear of the field as I lined up my birdie putt on eighteen, a 465-yard par four. I was on the green in two shots, though the wind took my second a little further from the hole than we’d expected. The undulations in the green made it a long and winding putt from about fifty feet. I abandoned my trusted heads-up technique and took four putts before my ball finally dropped into the cup. The crowd gasped at my collapse. Ms. Davenport gave me a funny but knowing look. A look that said, I’m onto you, Mr. Coryell. But we never talked about it. We didn’t need to.

  I came second in the 2017 Masters. The media play was that as an amateur, I’d cracked under the pressure and choked just as I was about to make history and slip on the coveted green jacket. The truth was that I never really coveted the green jacket or the media circus that came with it.

  “Same time next year?” I asked as I dropped Ms. Davenport off at the airport.

  “Same time next year, if you’ll have me,” she replied.

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t do it without you.”

  “Well, I’m retiring in a couple of months,” she said, taking her bag from me. “So I’ll have some time on my hands.”

  She hugged me as the wheels in my head turned.

  “I’m proud of you, Mr. Coryell,” she said, releasing me. “Keep writing, get that degree, and let everything else unfold as it will.”

  DECEMBER 2017

  I made it home again for Christmas. It was great to step out of the glare of the NCAA spotlight in the U.S. and just retreat into my family. They really did keep me grounded, although even they couldn’t fully grasp the kind of media exposure and hoopla that enveloped me in California. I had continued winning golf tournaments and was by then the top PGA prospect in the collegiate ranks. All I really wanted to be was the top-ranked writer at Stanford, but I thought plenty of my classmates were better candidates for that title than I. I knew my writing still needed work. That just made me want it all the more. But at home, if only for a couple weeks, everything returned to normal. Sure, the local TV and radio sports shows all wanted a piece of me, but I got that over with early, so for most of my stay in Toronto I was just who I’d always been.

  “So what’s next? You’ve got one more term before graduation. What happens then?” my mother asked as the three of us lounged in our family room.

  “Well, unless I sign a lucrative publishing deal for my blockbuster debut short-story collection, I suspect I’ll see about the PGA Tour. I’m told by my coaches that my performance on the golf course these last three years pretty well assures me a spot, if I keep playing the way I have been.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” my dad asked.

  “I think of it more as, it’s what I’m built to do,” I replied. “And it seems almost unforgivable to turn my back on golf and squander the gift you two passed along to me.”

  “Well, let us know if you plan to give it all up, because we might just try for another golfing prodigy who can keep us in the lifestyle to which we’d like to become accustomed in our retirement years.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” I deadpanned.

  On Christmas Eve, an uncontrollable force seemed to propel me over to Allison’s house. I’d kept my promise for nearly three and half years and figured the statute of limitations on contacting her had passed by then. Of course, I wasn’t counting that time a couple of years earlier when I happened to see her at the mall while I was doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. She hadn’t seen me, so I admit I just watched her for a bit from a distance before heading to the subway. My heart felt funny afterwards.

  I could hear music coming from inside her house and noticed several cars parked in her driveway and on the street in front. Arriving during a Christmas party may not have been my best idea, but I rang the bell before I lost my nerve. As luck would have it, Allison opened the door, as Christmas carols spilled out around her. She was wearing a long-sleeved white blouse and a short black skirt.

  “Adam!” she said with a shocked smile. “Look at you. The famous golfer returns to his roots.”

  “Hi. I’m sorry. I know we agreed not to see each other, but it was so long ago I thought it would be okay. I mean, it’s Christmas and all.”

  She closed the door and stepped out to join me on the porch.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said as she leaned in to give me a very delicate hug that felt reserved for an aging relative rather than a romantic interest. Okay. Got it.

  “You must be freezing,” I said. “Would you like my pants?”

  She had the manners to laugh. “I’m fine. It’s so hot and crowded in there. It’s my mother’s office party. I’m supposed to be bartending.”

  “Are you writing?” I asked.

  “All the time—mainly short stories. Some for school and some for me.”

  “So at least one of us is doing just what we dreamed about.”

  “Hey, you’re living a dream, too.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure it’s my dream,” I replied. “Hey, will you send me a few of your stories? I’d love to read them.”

  “Um, yeah, sure, I guess so. But you’re still writing, aren’t you?”

  “As often as I can. And I love my writing classes. My profs are awesome and they’re really pushing me. I’m learning a lot.”

  “Submitting anything?” she asked.

  “I had a poem published in the Stanford Daily under a pseudonym.”

  “A poem? That’s new for you. Fantastic,” she said. “Why didn’t you use your own name?”

  “I never really liked my name,” I quipped.

  “Ha. No, really, why?”

  “I just wanted to be sure I was being published on my own merits as a writer, and not as that guy who is miraculously topping the NCAA golf rankings. You know?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “I like that. Will you send me your poem?”

  “Sure,” I said. “So what do you have inked?”

  “Well, of course, your amazing Duofold is always inked. But right now I’m also loving my new Kaweco Elite, with a big, fat, smooth, and wet broad nib. It’s like butter on hot glass. It was an early Christmas present from…It was an early Christmas present.”

  “I love the shiny piano-black finish on those,” I repl
ied.

  Just then we both noticed a rather good-looking young guy eyeing us through the bay window before disappearing from view. My spidey senses were tingling, and not in a good way.

  “I guess I’d better head back in,” Alli said.

  I could feel it all slipping away. “Really? And here I thought things were going so well.” Then the door opened and the handsome dude was standing there.

  “There you are,” he said to Alli. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

  In a move I will never forget, he sidled close to her and put his hand on the small of her back. I was gutted. But I don’t know why I thought she’d still be single.

  “Sorry, just catching up with an old friend,” Alli said in a voice that sounded a little tight. She turned back to me. “Adam Coryell, this is, um, my friend Robert Usher.”

  “Adam Coryell the golfer?” he asked, shaking my hand.

  “Guilty. Nice to meet you, Robert.” I looked at my watch. “Well, hey, look at the time. Allison, I really should be going. Great to see you, and um, you too, Robert.”

  I resisted the temptation to sprint and affected a casual stroll down her front walk and back to the street. It took me a very long time to “stroll” back home. I should never have even gone over to Allison’s house. Of course she’d have a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t she? They could have been together for years by now. I hoped I hadn’t seemed desperate. I just needed to see her. I felt a little sick by the time I let myself in the front door. It had started off so well. It had briefly felt like it had when we were together all those years ago. And then he interrupted us and it suddenly felt quite different.

  JANUARY 2018

  It happened at a Stanford golf team pub night. I hadn’t exactly been a social butterfly in my time at university, particularly on the golf side of my collegiate experience. I felt a little closer to some of my English and creative writing classmates, but still was never really fully immersed in the social life of the campus. But I made sure I’d been seen at the pub night by at least some of the coaches and players so I could bail a little early with a clear conscience. When it was time to pull the ripcord, I carried my jacket and sauntered for the door. I’d almost made my escape when I felt a tap on my shoulder.