Copyright 2018 by Robert Killinger.
All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.
ISBN: 978-1-54392-466-4 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-54392-467-1 (ebook)
For all my buddies at Houston Oaks Country Club,
and my muni-brothers at Memorial Park and Sharpstown.
Thanks for the great times we’ve had,
and I look forward to the great times to come.
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Through Her Eyes
Chapter 2
Coming Home
Chapter 3
The Reason
Chapter 4
T-Mac’s
Chapter 5
The Beginning
Chapter 6
Dreams and Change
Chapter 7
A Better Understanding
Chapter 8
The Learning
Chapter 9
A New World
Chapter 10
Tough Questions
Chapter 11
The Chance
Chapter 12
The City Amateur
Chapter 13
The Newspaper
Chapter 14
Helpless
Chapter 15
Fear
Chapter 16
Survival
Chapter 17
The Reunion
Chapter 18
The Plan
Chapter 19
The First Round
Chapter 20
The Second Round
Chapter 21
The Lonely Beloved
Chapter 22
The Third Round
Chapter 23
The Transfer
Chapter 24
The Joy
Chapter 25
You’re Welcome
Chapter 26
The Final Round
Chapter 27
The Truth
Chapter 28
The Aftermath
Special Thanks
About the Author
Foreword
This is a great story by a natural storyteller.
I first met Bob Killinger at Houston Oaks Country Club in 2015 when Olympian Liezel Huber was establishing the tennis program there. Bob was working on his game with a view toward winning the club championship (he did), and I was trying to find something to do after my semi-successful triathlon career was over (I didn’t).
The first thing I learned about Bob was that he started his own successful company as a twelve-year-old boy by trademarking the phrase “If God isn’t a Longhorn, why’s the sunset burnt orange?” and selling thousands upon thousands of bumper stickers to loyal alumni and fans of The University of Texas.
We hit it off and started meeting for the occasional lunch or breakfast, and I found that I did little of the talking—and that was quite fine—because Bob had many more stories than I did, and they were quite a bit more interesting than mine. Stories like:
His success as a walk-on on the #1 ranked NCAA men’s soccer team at the University of North Carolina
His pro soccer career
His pro golf career
His conversation with OJ Simpson
His dance with Phyllis Diller at the Petroleum Club
His singing lessons at the Houston Grand Opera, and his days of playing the ukulele and singing in front of the local Home Depot
How his grandfather invented the Koozie (called “Killinger Koozies,” and some still exist)
As with most proud fathers, our conversations often swing to his three children, Jordan, William, and Caroline, and to his lovely wife, Elizabeth, who is a captain of industry in Houston, and they are all quite remarkable in their own right.
One of his stories was about a book he had written years ago and how one gets a book published. He let me read the book (this isn’t it), and I was pleased, but not surprised, as to how good it was.
He later told me about another book he planned to write (this book), and the plot sounded like a movie waiting to happen. I have been Bob’s guinea pig on this book—reading it chapter by chapter as he cranked out the pages, and I found myself pushing him for each new installment.
While I am not a literary critic, I read quite a bit for both business and pleasure, and I can confirm that this book is not the work of a first-timer or an amateur. In truth and in fact, it’s a bit of a page-turner.
Don’t let the cover fool you. This is not a book about golf. While golfers will undoubtedly enjoy finding the links sections to be technically accurate and situationally plausible, non-golfers will find these parts to be completely understandable, engaging, and compelling.
As they say on the golf course, “You’re up!”
Mark Day
Houston, Texas
January 4, 2018
Chapter 1
Through Her Eyes
It was his hands. As a child, I never understood why his swing was so lauded and admired, but now, with twenty years of playing under my belt, I finally appreciated why he was such a phenomenon. His hands knew how to hit a golf ball. They were born knowing, with a grasp of not only how to hold the club but also how to create an angle of approach that leads to a consistency of contact beyond my comprehension.
His hands led him to develop his unconventional swing, and unconventional was an understatement. His foot positions changed with each pass of the club, like a spontaneous dance with the golf ball. By manipulating his feet, he could hit it high, low, fade, draw, in a way only he could pull off because his hands always got him back to perfect position at impact, and the sound when he struck a golf ball was primal, shocking, like a charismatic mixture of hostility and precision. If you love golf, you marveled at the smooth rhythm of his takeaway, the effortless transition at the top, then the mighty thrust through impact, ending with his trademark exaggerated finish. Watching him now, it was almost ethereal, with the orange-tinged Texas sunrise gently glowing through the pine trees in the distance.
But he didn’t respect or care about his swing. He never did. Travis was almost embarrassed by it all.
I’ve never met a human being with more gifts who acted like he didn’t want them. A handsome man, with unexpected deep blue eyes, taller than average, and born with a six-pack, even in his early sixties now. A smart guy, but he resisted flaunting it, almost hoping not to show it, or maybe not wanting to be expected to use it in life. Always approachable, with an endearing smile. Travis was simply the finest, most beloved golfer that the Houston municipal golf world had ever known.
Watching him on the driving range, it brought back my memories of being a little girl and getting weekly lessons from this legend, starting over two decades ago. Crowds would gather trying to eavesdrop on the golf secrets Travis taught me, and I was known as ‘Travis’s little girl.’ God, I loved him. When I lost my father at age six, Travis took over for him. Whenever it was Special Visitor’s Day at school or field day, or I just needed someone to talk to, he was always there for me. If Travis’s family went on a trip, I tagged along. His two daughters were about the same age as me, but we weren’t close. I think they were jealous of Travis and me. His daughters never played golf, both were more into academics than sports, and there was always a little distance between them and Travis. Their kindred relationship was always awkward, and I think Travis liked
using me as a buffer between them.
He caddied for me in my high school golf tournaments, carrying me to ten amateur wins, and also helping me obtain a golf scholarship from Duke University. One phone call from Travis was all it took for my scholarship. He wouldn’t let me go anywhere else, said I’d be safe there. With that one phone call, Travis gave me the opportunity to receive one of the best educations in the country, and the ability to build an extraordinary life, a life with options, more options than I deserved with my under-achieving grades. He never wanted a thank you, just wanted me to be safe.
Travis loved me, and he changed my life many times, always for the better.
But we lost touch over the years. I got busy in college and then in the working world, and when both his daughters left for college, it was almost like Travis dropped out for a while, traveling randomly across the country, I’m not sure why. I stopped calling, feeling like he needed his space.
I flew into Houston yesterday morning, the first time back in six years, to visit my mother for a couple of days was the stated excuse. A few days before, I called Memorial Park Golf Course, talked to the head pro, Glenn, and asked him about Travis. He said Travis was back and living in Houston again, and that Travis played Memorial Park every morning. Walking here from an unknown residence, Travis would hit a few practice balls on the range at around 6:00 am, then he played the back nine alone. Glenn said that if you weren’t watching for him, you’d probably miss him.
Typical Travis. He does everything alone.
So I got to the Memorial Park early this morning and watched as my mentor slowly came into view, walking with a carry bag over his shoulders, golf shoes on his feet, heading for the far end of the range. Practice balls were already poured out for him by the grounds crew, and after some minor stretching, he began his familiar warm up. There was a bench near his stall, so I snuck up and sat right down, quietly appreciating this moment in time, but I couldn’t take it any longer.
Chapter 2
Coming Home
“That’s the ugliest swing I’ve ever seen.”
A little startled, Travis turned with a fake smile, probably thinking it was a sarcastic fan, then looked blown away. “Ava?”
“You got it, old man,” she said, walking over, then giving him a big hug.
“Oh my God. Did you graduate?”
“Sure did,” she answered, giving one last big squeeze before letting go. “Five years ago. Last in my class, probably.”
“You are such a lazy ass. What’s your degree in?”
“Communications.”
“Perfect,” Travis laughed, placing his seven iron back in the golf bag. “The only thing you could ever do was talk. Now at least you have a degree in it. So what do you do with a communications degree, champ?”
“I wanted to be a sportscaster.”
“Wanted?”
“I just quit a broadcasting job in Connecticut and flew back to Houston for a couple of days, to visit Mom. I figured you never had a job so why should I? Maybe I can be your caddy now.”
“Oh, Jesus, Ava,” Travis grinned. “Your mother must hate me. Please tell me you don’t say stuff like that around her.”
“She doesn’t care. Mom got married again, so I’m old news. I’m staying in the ‘outside bungalow’ of their mansion. It’s so weird for her to be rich now. She even talks differently.”
“Good for her.”
“By the way, did you walk here? Where the hell do you live?”
“Dumpster #7, by the tennis courts,” he answered wryly.
“Hey Travis, how’s it going, brother?” a random guy yelled from across the parking lot. “We love you, man, and screw everybody else!”
Travis put on a plastic smile and gave him a thumbs-up. “I better tee off. Golfers are starting to arrive now.” He slipped the golf bag over his shoulder. “Hey, you want to ride with me while I play the back nine? Or, hey, do you have your clubs? Join me.”
“My sticks are in Connecticut, but I’d love to hang out with you.”
They headed toward a cart on the other side of the range.
“You don’t pay for practice balls, or a cart, or your golf,” Ava said. “They just put everything out for you. No wonder you don’t have a job.”
“Just get in, Miss Communications.”
The course was as beautiful as ever, Houston’s municipal golfing diamond. One of the oldest and most revered courses in Texas, Memorial Park had been the home to many of Houston’s most celebrated golfers, like Jimmy Demaret and Doug Sanders. A long golf course, mostly straight, with deep penalizing rough and bumpy-slick greens, it was the home for all the major amateur competitions for the city, and from 1951 through 1963, was the site for The Houston Open, where the great Arnold Palmer won in 1957. Of course, there were more expensive and exclusive clubs in Houston, with better playing conditions and fresher designs, but Memorial Park was the Mecca for Houston golfers, and the only place someone like Travis would call home. As we drove toward the tenth tee, I almost felt like saying a prayer.
“Do you get to play much anymore?” Travis asked as he pushed down hard, trying to tee his golf ball in the baked Texas ground.
“Not really. Seventy-hour workweeks didn’t give me much of a chance. And I needed a break from golf, also. Duke golf kinda’ burned me out and the game wasn’t as much fun anymore. Work became more fulfilling than golf, you know what I mean? I haven’t picked up the sticks in almost six months.”
“You’re just growing up, kid,” he said, beginning his swing, then pounding it down the right side of the fairway, a slight draw, teasing a fairway trap ever so gently, then the ball skipped down the middle, about 310 yards. “You were always too smart for your age, and I knew you couldn’t play a game your entire life. You get bored too easily, and you like meaningful challenges. I’m just proud of you for playing golf long enough to get your degree. I’m sure you’re an amazing young woman now.”
“Thanks,” Ava said. “I was a little scared to tell you that I wasn’t playing anymore. I loved it as a kid, and hanging out with you was the greatest time of my life. But I guess—.” She composed herself. “Well, I guess that I finally realized that I could never be you.”
“Oh, Ava,” Travis said, getting out of the cart, studying his next shot. He pulled out an iron, lined it up, then gently launched it skyward, the ball landing dead center of the green. “You will always be better than me.”
“No, I’m not. Especially not at golf. I look back now and realize how amazing you were, how you convinced me that I was a great golfer and that I could do anything on a golf course. I won golf tournaments in high school because you convinced me that I could, walking with me and telling me that I was a badass. But I got to college and they all hit it further, hit it cleaner, and I learned that I couldn’t read greens without you. I’m not a great golfer. I’m just a woman who knows how to play golf, who knows a guy who is a golfing genius, and he got me a golfing scholarship that I didn’t deserve.”
Travis looked the other way, trying to find the words, then stopped the cart by the green.
“You earned that scholarship, Ava.”
He walked onto the green, fixed his pitch mark and picked up his ball, not wanting to putt but concentrate on Ava.
As he walked back, Travis explained, “I got a call from the Duke golf coach decades ago, way before you graduated from high school. He heard about me through a friend and wanted me to talk to a recruit for him, a Houston girl, as a favor, to help the girl understand that Duke wasn’t New York City, and how prestigious this opportunity was for her. I did it, and she went to Duke. He called me three more times through the years, and all three of those girls went also.
“So your senior year of high school, your mom had no money for college, and your grades were mediocre at best. I called the Duke coach and said it was time for him to return the favor. He a
greed and happily offered you the scholarship.” Travis sat back down in the cart. “You earned that scholarship. You’ve been there for me my whole life.”
“Oh, Travis,” Ava said, shaking her head. “All I’ve ever done is take from y—.”
“That’s a bunch of bull,” Travis interrupted. “When I needed a caddy, you were there. When my wife died, you were the first person to call me and ask if I was ok. You were a six-year-old kid when you called to check on me. You’ve been there for me through thick and thin, no questions asked. You made me understand that life is worth living again. So you did, yes, you did earn that scholarship. Maybe not for golf. But for everything that you did for me. It was all that I could give you. You earned it.”
“Oh, you bastard,” Ava said, wiping away a few tears. “Here I am, trying to tell you how I let you down, but you make me into some fake hero. Don’t you ever stop?”
Travis pulled the cart under the shade of an oak tree.
“So why did you come home?”
Ava sighed, “I needed a break. Life got complicated, and I just wanted to slow down.”
“Are you in love with some guy?”
“What the hell, Travis?” Ava asked, shaking her head in amazement. “Is there a sign on my back?”
“Just makes sense,” he answered. “You haven’t been home in ages. What, he can’t afford a ring?”
“I haven’t said ‘Yes’ yet. I asked for some time to think it over.”
“Wait. Let me get this straight. You quit your job so you could figure out if you want to get married?”
“No. He popped the question after I quit.”
“Wow, brave man,” Travis laughed. “He must really love you, or is he completely insane?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she blurted out, her head in her hands now. “He’s great, but I’m not.”
“What’s wrong, kiddo?” he asked, leaning back in the cart.
“I don’t know what I want to do in life. He has it all under control. And I don’t want to screw up his life. I could end up being my mom, and he’ll hate me.”
Disappearing like the Wind Page 1
