Albatross

by Terry Fallis

  It may sound like I’ve descended into the realm of greeting card prose, but I went to Tokyo for Bobbie. I suppose I was there to finish our journey, partly for me but mostly for her. She’d have never forgiven me if I’d missed this perhaps once-in-a-lifetime Olympic opportunity. Obviously, my parents were concerned about me going on my own, but I promised to check in with them every day. Additional security was assigned to me, beyond what other high-profile athletes were given. As well, I had round-the-clock access to the team’s sports psychologist in case I decided to start processing Bobbie’s loss when I was in Tokyo. Finally, the Canadian Olympic Committee assigned a “handler” just for me, to take care of anything I needed, twenty-four hours a day. A young staffer at the COC, Kerry Copeland, drew the short straw.

  I had many offers from PGA caddies who had befriended and respected Bobbie to be on the bag for me in Tokyo. But I didn’t want a new caddie. If Bobbie couldn’t walk the course with me, I wanted to walk it alone. I carried my own bag on the PGA Tour anyway, with Bobbie always walking next to me. But the rules approved by the International Olympic Committee stated that “all athletes in the Olympic Games shall employ caddies for all practice and competition rounds.”

  Eventually a compromise was reached. I needed an official caddie, but I could carry my own bag. Kerry Copeland would pull double duty and serve as my caddie as well as my “handler.” I briefed her when we met at Canada House shortly after my arrival in the Japanese capital.

  My goal was to know the course very, very well by the time the Olympic tournament got underway. Course knowledge would ease my club selection decisions during the tournament now that I’d be without Bobbie’s counsel for the first time in my golfing life. I played a few practice rounds at the Olympic venue, the Kasumigaseki Country Club, and walked it several more times without swinging a club. Kerry accompanied me each time and we practised her caddying skills as we went. I asked her to walk close enough to me to suggest she was my caddie, but not so close that she was a distraction. She took it well. She was a fast learner and never said a word to me on the course unless I said something to her.

  The only thing I didn’t practise during those pre-tournament rounds was talking to Bobbie. My plan was to picture her next to me on the course and to talk to her, in my mind, just as I would were she actually there. I had compiled a long list of topics to carry me through seventy-two holes of Olympic golf and I didn’t want to squander them on my practice rounds.

  The long days before the tournament left me tired and sad, though I didn’t cry. I couldn’t stop thinking about Dubai and Bobbie’s heroic act. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said to me atop the Burj Al Arab. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much she would have loved this Olympic experience. Once in a while I also thought about how stupid it was to be driving golf balls into the Arabian Sea from the roof of a luxury hotel.

  Somehow, I made it through to the Thursday in the second week of the Games. Kerry performed her faux-caddie role to perfection. She followed instructions well and stayed far enough away so it worked for me and close enough so it worked for the Olympic officials. The commentators initially focused on our unorthodox approach, but after the first day it just became the norm. Kerry kept her eyes focused on me at all times and sustained the agreed-upon perimeter. She stood very still when I was shooting, with her hands behind her back, looking more like a Wimbledon ball girl than an Olympic golf caddie. Whenever I looked at her, she always responded in the same way. She would offer the first very faint traces of a smile and nod her head once, as though she were saying, You got this. It seemed to work.

  I was nervous as the first round got underway. I played with Byeong Hun An from Korea and Nicolas Colsaerts from Belgium. I’d played with Nicolas once or twice before, but never with An. I was talking to Bobbie in my head as I lined up my drive on the first tee. I was silently expounding on my theory of fiction as the ideal vehicle for truth-telling, even better than creative non-fiction. It was a discussion we’d had often, so I could also hear in my mind her responses. It was kind of like watching reruns of shows I’d seen before. In the middle of this, I knocked a solid drive down the right side of the fairway, straight and true. And I was off.

  When I watched the TV highlights in my room that night, I was surprised to see my lips moving as I lined up shots later in the round. Clearly my plan to keep my conversations with Bobbie completely inside my own cranium had eventually fallen apart. It looked like I was in the middle of a deep discussion with someone just outside of the TV camera’s frame. Well, in fact, I was in a deep discussion at the time, and that’s what got me around the course at four under par and near the top of the leaderboard.

  I don’t want to dwell on the remaining rounds themselves. I find it boring enough to play eighteen holes of golf. Describing the whole proceeding is even more mind-numbing. Suffice it to say, the combination of Kerry’s silent support from a distance and Bobbie’s spiritual presence from an even greater distance just seemed to work. It certainly wasn’t the same as having Bobbie there in the flesh, as it were, but we adapted.

  At the end of the fourth and final round, as my par putt disappeared into the hole, Kerry’s cool and calm demeanour dissolved and she jumped into my arms. I was so shocked I almost dropped her. Without getting maudlin, when I stood at attention to the strains of “O Canada,” the Olympic weight no longer on my shoulders but now around my neck, I cried. Many, even most, gold medallists cry on the podium. But mine weren’t tears of joy, or national pride, or personal achievement. By the time the last notes of the national anthem died away, I knew what I had to do.

  On the Monday morning after I returned to Toronto from Tokyo, Susan organized a jam-packed news conference at the King Edward Hotel. She’d spent the previous week or so dealing with my sponsors and calming them down. She told them my gold medal made their contracts with me even more valuable and that we intended to honour every clause in our agreements with them. Several of them wanted extensions to the terms of our contracts, but I was adamant. Susan was disappointed, as any agent would be in similar circumstances, but she understood. I’d declined all of the post-Olympic celebratory events hosted by the federal government and Canadian Olympic sponsors as graciously as I could. Almost everyone seemed to understand, even if I wasn’t yet sure I did. Don’t get me wrong. I was certain of my decision. I just wasn’t sure I could explain why.

  Just before the news conference was to start, my cellphone chirped.

  “Hello?”

  “Adam, I think you are being an idiot. You just won the Olympic gold medal. Please do not do this.”

  “Professor Gunnarsson, so you obviously got my message,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you directly. Your office said you were at a conference.”

  “You have so much more to do, so much more fame to gain, so much more money to make. Do not do this. It defies logic.”

  “I never really wanted the fame, at least not this way. And I’ve already socked away quite a bit of money and more is on the way, at least until my endorsement deals expire. I mean, how much money do I really need?”

  “As much as you can get.”

  “I’m sorry, professor, but my mind is made up. Bobbie agrees with me, or rather, agreed with me, and helped me see the light,” I said, as I noticed Susan frantically signalling me. “Oh, sorry, professor, but I really have to go now. We’ll talk again. Bye for now.”

  “Okay, it’s time,” Susan said when I reached her in the small anteroom. “Are you sure about this? Because I can shut this whole thing down right now.”

  “Thank you for everything, Susan, but I’m as sure about this as I’ve been about anything in my relatively short life.”

  She smiled and nodded. “I know you are,” she replied. “Okay, you’re on your own up there until you finish your statement, and then I’ll take the podium to direct the Q&A. Now, don’t forget to make eye contact, particularly with the cameras on the risers at the back of the room. Your real aud
ience is watching through those lenses. Be yourself and don’t get drawn off track. This is a short and simple story, so keep it short and simple.”

  “Got it.”

  When she opened the door, I walked to the skirted table at the front of the room and sat behind the single microphone. I’d made notes and they were folded in my pocket. I knew I wouldn’t need them. I was calm, even serene. That’s how I knew I was doing the right thing.

  “Thank you all for coming on short notice, and I thank my agent, Susan Maddocks, for making all this happen this morning. Some of you may have already guessed what this is all about, but to make it official, I’m here to announce that I am giving up professional golf as of this moment. The Olympic Games was my final tournament.”

  There was no gasp from the reporters. They’d put it all together before I even opened my mouth. That’s their job.

  “It is important to me that you all understand that today’s decision was not driven by the trauma in Dubai just a few weeks ago, though it is certainly not an unreasonable theory. I’ve actually wanted to do this for a while now, but just felt I owed too many people—the fans, the sponsors, Ingemar Gunnarsson, Bobbie Davenport—and that I somehow had a duty to make the most of the strange gift I was given at birth. My parents’ combined DNA created a physical body that allowed me to excel at a sport I’d never even played until Bobbie Davenport put a nine-iron in my hands less than seven years ago. As you all know, my rise in the golf world was just as swift as it was inexplicable. And I felt a lot of pressure to use the gift I’d been given. But Bobbie said something to me on the top of the Burj Al Arab that changed my view and, in a way, liberated me. I have her to thank for so much, including the last insight she ever shared with me.”

  Most of the reporters were looking right at me, but some were taking notes as I spoke. Susan was watching me and smiling for support. I took a deep breath and headed for the home stretch.

  “It’s the right time for me to take a break from golf and figure out my life. I’m grateful for what this game has given me, and I’m painfully aware that it’s given me a lot, including the financial security to take this step, a luxury not many enjoy. But I’m going to seize this moment after completing the Olympic journey that Bobbie Davenport cared so much about, to move on to the next stage in my life. Don’t bother asking what my plans are as I don’t actually know, but I’ll now have the time, and I hope privacy, to figure that out.

  “To close, may I express to the whole country what a privilege it has been to represent Canada and to have our national anthem played and our flag raised with a gold medal hanging around my neck. It was all I could ever have dreamed of. Beyond the gratitude I owe Bobbie, I also offer my deepest thanks to the people around me, including Lisa Griffiths, Susan Maddocks, Professor Ingemar Gunnarsson, my last-minute Olympic caddie, Kerry Copeland, and of course my parents, who have always supported me unconditionally.

  “Thank you again for coming.”

  After the Q&A, I did a series of pre-arranged satellite interviews with media in other parts of the world, and then I escaped. I thanked Susan for everything and then eluded the hordes of reporters in the lobby when I slipped down a back stairwell, out a side door, and into my mother’s Tesla. Then, the very next day—after many hours of shopping and preparations—I again eluded the hordes of reporters still dissecting my decision when I slipped out of town under cover of darkness. Actually, I pulled out around eight p.m., so it was more like under cover of dusk. The point is I slipped out of Toronto, unnoticed and alone.

  Chapter 12

  AUGUST 2020

  IT TOOK ME nearly four hours to drive from Toronto to North Bay. I pulled into the Pinewood Park Resort just before midnight. I was rocking more than three days’ worth of beard growth, a Toronto Maple Leafs ball cap pulled low, and glasses that did nothing for my vision and less for my appearance. I’d made the reservation under my standard pseudonym, Adam James, just to minimize the likelihood of my whereabouts being discovered. I need not have worried. The young and very sleepy guy staffing the late-night reception desk barely lifted his eyes to mine as he passed over my key. He probably wasn’t a golf fan anyway. I crashed as soon as I got to my room. I was still wallowing in melancholy about Bobbie and all that had happened, but for the first time since Dubai, it was balanced by a sense of excitement and anticipation about what might lie ahead for me now that I’d severed my ties with the golf world and essentially killed the goose that laid my golden egg. So what did lie ahead? I honestly didn’t know. That was the point of my little sabbatical.

  The next morning I drove up Highway 11 in my rental car. By midmorning I pulled in to a marina on the shores of a familiar lake.

  Temagami is an Ojibway word meaning “deep water.” It’s no coincidence that Lake Temagami is a very deep body of water. My many summers at camp on this lake, the wonderful weekends spent at Alli’s cottage, and the utter isolation from civilization made it the perfect place to contemplate my next act. No obligations. No schedule. No couriers delivering important papers. No one seeking autographs. And no reporters waiting outside my door. In fact, the only door I’d have would be a zippered panel on my tent. I’d be truly alone. I was interested in how I would handle the seclusion and a few weeks of monastic living. To be clear, I wouldn’t be stuck in the Stone Age. I’d packed my laptop, my mobile phone—a cell tower had recently been erected on Bear Island—my iPad, and a high-end solar battery charger. I planned to be isolated from the world without the world being isolated from me.

  It took about twenty minutes to finalize my canoe rental. The guy at the marina encouraged me to rent an aluminum boat with a twenty-five-horsepower outboard, but I wanted the physical strain and the thinking time that paddling would give me. I knew the lake well and had canoe-tripped through most of it in my youth. So I was headed for familiar territory, the Southwest Arm. Arguably the least populated part of the lake. It would be a full day’s paddle on a calm day. Two days against the wind and waves. Mercifully, the lake was like glass. I loaded up my gear and shoved off as quickly as I could. It was not uncommon for the wind to come up later in the day.

  It was so tranquil and serene, and I loved the dull ache that gathered in my shoulders as I paddled. I kept up a steady pace and only referred periodically to the GPS on my phone. For the most part, I knew where I was going. I remembered all of the major landmarks, including Bear Island, the old Wabun Lodge, Camp Wigwasati, and Cattle Island. Near the end of the journey, I recognized an island we’d always called Birch Island, though I don’t think that was its official name. Courtesy of a very dry summer and a lightning strike in the early part of the last century, the island had burned pretty well to the ground. As nature took its course thereafter, the deciduous trees—mainly birch—grew much faster than the more dominant red pine, giving the island a much lighter shade of green than the mainly coniferous islands and shoreline around it. The colour difference really made the island stand out. And it became a guidepost for trippers navigating the lake. It marked the end of another leg in my journey that morning.

  Paddling for several hours straight naturally lends itself to thinking, whether you’re ready for it or not. For a good part of my journey across the lake, an idea flitted in and out of the mists in my addled brain. It wasn’t fully formed but it hung around, knocking over other thoughts and generally making a ruckus. I wasn’t quite ready to focus on it in any depth, but it was there, orbiting, trying to land.

  I made it to my destination late in the day, with very little left in my muscles and bones. I was exhilarated and exhausted. Back when I’d spent so many summers on Temagami, we’d always called this spot Silverbirch. It was a lovely and large campsite just a half hour’s paddle from the boys’ camp. It was often where we’d spend the last night of canoe trips before the easy paddle home the next day. Thankfully, it was uninhabited, at least by humans. I beached my canoe around the small peninsula, where the water was even calmer. I had some difficulty walking after so many hours
kneeling in the canoe and paddling, but I eventually found my feet and managed to haul my gear, food pack, cooler, and tent up to the decrepit picnic table that still featured my initials, carved into one of the legs along with those of my cabin mates when we were eleven years old.

  I really wanted to rest for a bit, but feared if I didn’t pitch my tent right then while I was still upright, it wouldn’t happen at all. So I did that, then inflated an air mattress and unrolled my sleeping bag and mini camp pillow. If you’re thinking it sounds more like “glamping” than camping, well, you might be onto something. But I wanted to be comfortable. Camping wasn’t the point of the canoe trip. I was there to think, to take stock, to make a few life decisions, to remember Bobbie, to grieve, and to write.

  I found that writing often helped order my scattered thoughts. When I developed characters, mapped out their movements, charted their lives, it somehow made it easier to do the same things in my own life, without it being such a big deal and so intimidating. It happened more by stealth. I could sneak up on those important challenges in my own life by wrestling with them in my characters’ lives. In hindsight, that was clearly the whole point of the antiphonal novel I’d been writing with Alli all those years ago.