by Dave Leys
leaned back against the doorframe and proceeded to scan the front cover in front of him. Then the newsletter slid out and onto the ground. The man picked it up and looked at it, beginning to read. Brad didn’t know what to do. This must be Emma’s father.
He started to open his mouth to ask if Emma was home when the man finished reading and looked up at Brad with a strange expression on his face.
‘So that’s you in the newsletter, saving children, risking your life,’ he said in a booming voice.
‘Oh, well, just doing my bit,’ said Brad, stepping back a pace.
‘Hmmm,’ said the man. He looked directly at Brad now. ‘Son, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. You’re a hero.’
Brad blushed. ‘That’s what people say.’
‘Well, that’s the problem,’ said the man. ‘I don’t want my little girl hanging around a hero. You’re risking your life every week. What if you get hurt, or worse? It would break Emma’s heart. I can’t let that happen to her. That’s why I’ve decided – you can never see her again.’
‘What?’ said Brad. His lip quivered slightly and in a daze he walked back to his cart. The door closed.
Just as he picked up his cart and began to walk off, the door opened again and the man’s face popped out. He had a sly look in his eyes and a smile beneath his black beard.
‘Keep up the good work!’ he yelled out. ‘Being a hero can be a lonely thing!’
Brad smiled, uncertainly, and walked off along the street, alone.
The Bald Golfer
Oliver was what you might call a keen golfer. Now, many people hate golf. They think chasing a tiny ball over hills, under trees and in and out of sand traps is like slow torture, and surely it would be easier just to stay at home and stick pins in your ankles. Oliver saw things differently. To him it was the supreme sport, a challenge that demanded patience, skill and sometimes a little luck.
Any Sunday morning if you were looking for Oliver, maybe because he owed you some money, or he hadn’t been returning your phone-calls, there was only one place you should search for him – Carrington Golf Course. If you turned up there and drove down the fairway you’d see him, dressed in his red polo shirt, his tan slacks and his black and green golf shoes. He looked natural on a golf course, like he’d been born to do one thing in life, and that was hit tiny white balls with long iron sticks.
Not only did he look natural on a golf course, he was also pretty good at golf. That was why he had made it through to the final round of the Carrington Golf Classic Competition. If Oliver won he planned to use the prize money to open a golf bag shop. Yes, Oliver’s whole life was golf.
One Sunday morning Oliver was playing a round of golf, practising for the competition, with two other golfers – Buck and Lai. Although they always played together, and sat around with Oliver afterward drinking lemonade and discussing golfing techniques, you couldn’t quite call them his friends. In fact, Oliver didn’t really have any friends. The reason was that Oliver had a very sharp tongue. He just couldn’t help but make fun of people. He didn’t even need a good reason – he just opened his mouth and out popped an insult.
The three of them walked up to the first tee-off but had to wait because there were two old ladies in front of them about to take their shots. Oliver leaned against his golf bag and watched the first lady take a swing. She hit the ball badly, sending it slicing off to the left of where she wanted.
‘Hopeless,’ he laughed. ‘She should give up and go back to her retirement home.’
The old lady turned, gave Oliver a hurt look, and helped her friend to the tee. The second lady, perhaps nervous at Oliver looking on, played an even worse shot, sending the ball high into the air but only about ten metres along the fairway.
Oliver doubled over in exaggerated laughter. ‘Come on, Grandma, put some effort into it!’
The two ladies looked at each other, grimaced, and waved Oliver and his friends through.
Soon enough they were at the third hole, and Oliver watched Buck line up a putt that would put him in the lead. The ball came clean off the putter, dribbled towards the hole, and then hit a bump in the green and veered off to the side. Oliver whistled softly.
‘What a shame, Buck,’ he said. ‘What a shame you’re such a lousy putter.’
Buck thought of saying something in return but he knew Oliver too well so he swallowed his words and just stood there.
Lai pulled his putter out of his bag and leaned over to stretch his back and his arms. Oliver watched him at an angle and laughed.
‘It’s not gymnastics, Lai.’ he said. ‘It’s golf.’
Lai ignored him and took his shot. It hit the same bump and spun away from the hole and right off the green.
‘Ha!’ cried Oliver. ‘Lucky it’s not gymnastics. You’re so useless you’d probably bounce right off the trampoline and into a wall!’
Now it was Oliver’s turn. He ummed and ahhed, lining up the shot from every direction, then he drew a deep breath and putted. It made a sweet click sound and went directly into the hole. He let his breath out, pumped his fist in the air and whispered ‘I am perfect today, just like every day.’ The two others exchanged glances and then the three of them continued on their way to the fourth hole.
When they got there they had to wait behind a man who was playing on his own. He was skinny, with a shirt that didn’t quite make it all the way down his arms, leaving his long, thin wrists dangling out the ends of his sleeves. He had glasses and bow legs. But what took Oliver’s notice was the fact that the man was bald. He didn’t have a hair on his head.
The man swung hard and played a decent shot. Buck and Lai nodded in approval, but Oliver turned to the man and leered.
‘Hey fella,’ he said, pointing to the man’s head. ‘Are you sure you’re not really a snooker player, cause your head looks a lot like a cue ball.’
The man winced slightly but ignored him and walked off to where his ball lay, a hundred metres away. Oliver tried another insult as he walked off.
‘No, you must be a rabbit instead, because you sure aren’t no hare! Get it? No hair!’
Things went like usual for that hole – Oliver would outplay Buck and Lai and then make them feel bad for not beating him. When they got to the fifth hole they came upon the same bald man again. As he lined up to play his shot Oliver couldn’t help himself.
‘Hey,’ he chuckled, ‘I wear my hair parted, Buck wears his unparted, you wear yours departed!’
The bald man ignored him, played his shot beautifully, and then turned and raised his club a little at Oliver.
‘Enough,’ he said, looking upset. ‘I came here to get some peace and quiet. Leave me alone.’
‘Sure,’ said Oliver. ‘Your hair’s left you, so why shouldn’t I?’ He turned to Buck and Lai, who were embarrassed by all of this and looked away. The bald man sighed, picked up his golf buggy, and went on his way.
But in fact Oliver did not leave him alone. As chance would have it they kept seeing him for the rest of the morning, and Oliver did not let one chance escape him to make some crack about the man’s head.
‘Is your best friend Bacon? Because you’re an egg!’
‘Your head’s so smooth you could ski on it!’
By the end of the day even Oliver had run out of proper insults and he was reduced to just calling the man ‘Baldy’. Somehow all that concentration on insulting the poor man didn’t affect Oliver’s game at all. In fact he played beautifully, almost hitting a course record. He was in excellent form, and he was pretty confident he could win the Carrington Golf Classic Competition the following week.
After the game, Buck and Lai were so mortified that they walked off without a word, leaving Oliver alone in the clubhouse. As he sat drinking lemonade he looked around and noticed the bald man standing in a corner talking to four old men in hats. The bald man pointed at Oliver and all five of them looked at him with serious faces. T
hen they took off their hats and Oliver realised all five of them were bald. He laughed to himself and started to say something but they had exited before he got a chance.
The following Sunday was the final day of the competition. Oliver had gotten up early, practising his swing in the kitchen at home, polishing his golf clubs – the drivers, the irons, the wedges – as well as his golf balls. He was determined to win, and he wanted everything to go right for him. He zipped his golf bag shut and imagined himself in the future in his own golf bag shop, where he would talk about golf all day every day. What a dream!
He got to Carrington Golf Course, tied up his black and green shoes and strode out to the fairway. Today was going to be his! He looked around – the sun was shining brightly and there was a crowd gathered. Since he was the player everyone expected to win, the crowd would walk from hole to hole with him. It was like having a personal fan club – he loved it.
Dudley Simons was playing against him. It was the final round –whoever won today would win the whole competition. Dudley was also a great player, in fact most people thought if anyone was going to beat Oliver, it would be Dudley. As Dudley took his stance to play the first shot, Oliver leaned in and began to mouth off.
‘Dudley rhymes with Cruddley, doesn’t it?’ he said to him. He laughed to himself.
Dudley didn’t blink; he didn’t even twitch an eyebrow. Oliver frowned. He felt as though he were invisible.
