“A quarter swing is all we want today. For our purposes, it’s better. On the way back, just enough of a turn to get your weight on the inside of your right foot. Then plant the left and turn around it.”
I have him rehearse the move several times before I pluck a yellow ball from the basket and place it on the thin mat. Jerzy’s first swing is a whiff. So are the second, and the third; and the fourth catches so little of the ball, it doesn’t roll off the mat.
The next hour is a blur of shank hooks and shank slices. He hits behind the ball, on top of it, and beside it, and yet, within two thirds of a bucket, I know he has the makings of a golfer. Not because he’s flashed an inkling of athletic talent or shown evidence of having absorbed a single thing I’ve said, but because he is a glutton for punishment. An hour of nonstop frustration and repeated failure rolls off his thick shoulders like rain. Undaunted, he tries as hard on his eighty-eighth swing as his fifty-third and his eleventh. Not only that, he is having fun.
“Keep your grip pressure constant throughout the whole swing,” I say, and nudge another Big Oaks rock between his feet. “And try not to get so geeked at the ball. Don’t react to it at all. Pretend it isn’t there.”
“What ball?” he asks.
For the hundredth time, Jerzy pivots and unleashes his abbreviated swing, and for whatever reason (Yahweh, Vishnu, Jesus, grip pressure), the sound of club striking ball is entirely crisper, deeper, and sweeter—and the velocity with which it flies off the face is deliriously disproportionate to the effort put into it. When it drops out of the air and stops rolling, it’s traveled more than two football fields.
“Piece of cake,” says Jerzy.
41
JERZY SMILES LIKE THE Pope the whole drive home. That’s the effect hitting it on the sweet spot has on one’s sense of well-being. It smooths out the edges, even the jagged ones. It’s like Zen meditation, only better because it isn’t bullshit. Although I couldn’t be happier for him and even take some credit for his beatific glow, my own state of mind is precarious. I’ve been uptight since we stashed the clubs at the front desk and headed for Simon’s truck, and as I dodge the potholes on Route 38 my unease blooms into something closer to panic.
It started when I placed my hands on Jerzy’s shoulders and saw the toll of those punches, and his flinch recalled Rodica’s half-smile when I asked about spending time with her son. I realized that the reason she didn’t want to tell Jerzy was not to preserve the surprise. It was to protect him from the likelihood that it wouldn’t happen at all, that I would have a change of heart or “something would come up” and my impulse to help her kid would evaporate as mysteriously as it arrived.
Rodica’s pessimistic scenario didn’t pan out. I did show up. Not only that, I snatched him out from under the nose of that little vacant-eyed assassin and introduced him to the wonder that is Big Oaks. But what now?
As I turn onto the street that dead-ends at Roxbury Farms, I think about the bruises on Jerzy’s arms and wonder how much of a commitment I’m prepared to make for a goofy teenager who shoveled my driveway and was nice to Noah and whose sardonic wit reminds me of my grandfather. Maybe Rodica knows me better than I know myself, and I’m not cut out to be a do-gooder. If her assessment is accurate and I bail after two or three or four sessions, will that be worse than doing nothing?
And then for some inexplicable reason (Yahweh, Vishnu, Jesus, grip pressure), the anxious voices shut up long enough for me to think, Who knows? And besides that—fuck it.
“So, Jerzy, I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-oh.”
“How about we do this every Tuesday afternoon?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really. You’ll help me get through my draconian suspension, and I’ll teach you a little about golf.”
I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised. Or pleased.
42
WHEN I PICK UP Jerzy the following Tuesday, I can tell from his eyes it’s been a rough week. I don’t know how rough until we get to our stall and Jerzy takes two easy swings with the 7-iron, stops, and looks down at his feet.
“Jerzy, what’s the matter?”
“My arms, my shoulders, my ribs. I can’t do it.”
To be here at Big Oaks and unable to hit a shot is devastating to him, and I don’t know what to say. I’m still struggling to come up with plan B when Jerzy hands me the club. “Since I’m so useless, why don’t you hit a few? Maybe I can learn by watching.”
After a few practice swings, I scoop a ball from the plastic basket with the blade and bounce it into my palm. “You’re in for a treat, my friend. Bear in mind that what you’re about to see is on a whole different level from just hitting balls.”
“I’ll try.”
“When I have to describe to the layman what it is that I do, I often fall back on the language of art. To put it simply, I use my clubs to paint pictures.”
“Let me see if I grasp the analogy,” says Jerzy. “The irons, woods, and putter are brushes. The ball is the paint, this stall the easel or studio, and the golf course, or in this case Big Oaks, is your canvas.”
“Very good.”
“And you’re Picasso.”
“Hey, you said it, not me.”
“Paint away, Pablo.”
My first two swings are Jerzyesque. I don’t whiff—I’m a former U.S. Senior Open champion, for Christ’s sake—but like him, I get too amped, hold the club too tight, and the result is two ground balls.
“Maybe you need to loosen up. Or is this your blue period?”
“That’s an excellent suggestion. Thank you.”
I bend at the waist, windmill my arms, and swivel my hips. “A routine I picked up from my amigo Miguel Ángel Jiménez,” I say. Despite the elaborate stretching and Castilian lisping, my third shot rolls harmlessly off-line. On my fourth, I finally make a good pass at it. It produces a hard hook that never gets five feet off the ground and misses my target by inches.
“I get it,” says Jerzy, almost smiling, “you’re trying to hit the guy in that lunar vehicle picking up balls.”
“It’s not easy being a role model,” I concede. “There’s a lot of pressure and responsibility. And, in case you haven’t noticed, that thing is moving.”
Which is why I consider my next salvo—a vicious slice that bores in on the buggy like a heat-seeking missile before scoring a direct hit on the front door—one of the two or three best shots in my career, and as the driver slams on the brakes, I improvise an understated victory dance, which goes on for minutes and owes heavy debts to the WWF and Soul Train.
“Good thing you stretched,” says Jerzy.
The guy behind the wheel, who is being bombarded while picking up balls at minimum wage, is less enthused. “McKinley, you do that again,” he shouts, “I’m going to come up there and kick your ass.”
43
THE CAGED BUGGY, WHICH had drawn perilously close, makes a U-turn and goes back to collecting Big Oaks range rocks.
“Jerzy, I’m sorry you couldn’t swing the club today, but we’re going to make a golfer out of you, I promise.”
“Turn me into a Cheez Doodle for all I care. As long it’s something other than Jerzy Solarski—dipshit, fat fuck, pizza face, loser, and one other thing, what is it? Oh, yeah, Polack.”
“When I’m through with you, you’ll be Jerzy Solarski—dipshit, fat fuck, pizza face, loser, Polack, golfer. How does that sound?”
“Better.”
And that should have been enough for me. Thankfully, it’s been a while since Elizabeth and Simon passed through the pricklier stages of adolescence, yet not so long that I’ve forgotten that conversation with a teen is a minefield. If you are able to extract a glimmer of a smile from a seventeen-year-old, you’ve done a full day’s work. Time to go home, crack a beer, and put your feet up, but I’m so relieved about having salvaged the afternoon, I prattle on like a twit.
“I hope you realize that not a single thing those moro
ns are calling you is accurate. You’re a big dude, but you’re hardly fat. You’re no bigger than Jack Nicklaus was at your age, and he’s only the best golfer of all time. You’re not a loser, your skin issues are minor and temporary, and you’re not a dipshit, whatever that is, and the last I checked, you can’t be a Polack, if you’re not from Poland. Although I suppose they could make an exception.”
“How did you know I’m not Polish?”
“Your mom told me that she and your sister and you came here from Rumania.”
“When did you talk to her?”
“A few days ago. I couldn’t show up at school and pick you up without running it by her.”
“Why didn’t she tell me? Was this some plan she dreamed up to boost my self-esteem?”
“The reason she didn’t tell you was because she was afraid I wouldn’t follow through and then you’d be disappointed. Your mom had zero to do with this. Believe me, she has enough on her plate.”
“What is that supposed to mean? What do you know about her plate?”
“Not much.”
“Exactly,” he says, and lumbers off in the direction of the bathroom. While he’s gone I work my way through the bucket with the 7-iron and berate myself for having learned so little in half a century. After ten minutes, he still hasn’t returned, and after fifteen, I realize he’s not going to. I reach the parking lot in time to see him step onto an eastbound bus.
44
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, I’M back in the New Trier parking lot waiting on Jerzy and the bell, and once again, I’m not alone. Till now, I’d never appreciated the commitment, discipline, and punctuality required to be a top-notch high school bully. Less motivated sociopaths-in-training would be in the library reading a muscle mag or carving sinister symbols into a desk. Instead, they’re out here freezing their asses off behind the maintenance shed and choreographing their next ambush.
My rivals are conscientious, but I have the element of surprise. This morning I persuaded Sarah to swap cars, so that while I keep an eye on the boys in black, they take no notice of the green Jeep or the man behind the wheel, his face buried in the afternoon paper.
From my reading, I learn that the Trevian hoopsters dropped their ninth straight last night to archrival West Hill. The photograph shows West Hill’s Dave Bond scoring over a New Trier player with distinctive straight bangs named Brune Pickering, and according to the box score, Pickering led the losers with eleven points and seven assists. Is that all it takes to become a total shit?—be the best player on an awful basketball team, and be saddled at birth with the name Brune? Whatever.
When the bell goes off, I close the paper and scan the exits. This afternoon, Jerzy makes his retreat from the study hall. While the Parkas move to intercept him at the end of the walkway, I roll up from the other side of the lot, moving slowly so as not to be noticed.
As I inch along, I study Jerzy’s face and body language and am encouraged by what I don’t see. There are no fresh wounds on his face or neck, and his gait doesn’t favor one side or the other. Wishful thinking, maybe, but I also detect a new bounce in his step and a hint of defiance.
Unaware that anyone else is eyeing their prey, the boys take their time. That allows me to slip in front of them just before Jerzy reaches the end of the walkway. When Pickering spots me, I’ve already reached across and opened the front door and called out in an urgent whisper, “Hey, Jerzy, it’s me. Get in.”
Jerzy is so close the front door nearly hits him, yet nothing in his expression indicates he sees me. The blank mask he adopts for his tormentors is now aimed at me. Instead of climbing into the safety of the Jeep and heading to Big Oaks, he walks directly past the car into a whirlwind of flying fists.
45
THREE DAYS LATER, I’M back at New Trier again. This time I park and walk around to the main entrance, where I inform the guard I have an appointment with the assistant dean of students, Reece Halsey. On the way to Halsey’s office, I must make a wrong turn, because instead of entering the administrative wing, I find myself in a wide hallway lined with classrooms. The classrooms are empty and so is the corridor, but the tin lockers and low water fountains drum up a parade of ancient memories, mostly lousy.
When the corridor ends, I turn in the direction of the noise, which grows more urgent with each step till I push through a pair of doors into a vast rotunda. The multicolored flags of every nation, presumably including Rumania, hang from the high ceiling, and to my left is a stack of faded green plastic trays. I grab a tray and a plate and watch a woman wearing a hairnet ladle something brown onto something white. Then I slide the tray over the rails, fill a paper cup with something pink, and face the din.
The cafeteria must hold a thousand students. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of them crowd around a hundred tables, and one, his jug head tilting toward the straw in a carton of milk, sits alone, surrounded by empty chairs.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I hear the chef does an amazing beef stew.”
“Yeah,” says Jerzy. “He opens the can.”
As I take my first bite, a wet napkin lands with a splat at the center of our table, setting off a round of laughter.
“There’s something I want to tell you, which I haven’t shared with anyone in thirty-five years. Not my wife, my kids, or my best friend. Not even Louie.”
“Louie?”
“My dog. I believe you two have met.”
Half a muffin hits the table, followed by several packets of salt and pepper. I open one of each, sprinkle them on the stew, and take another bite.
“In eighth grade, the same shit happened to me. At that point, I was as tall as I am now, absurdly skinny, braces, glasses, an all-round winning look. This kid named Rudy Laplante, who happened to be the scion of a huge trucking company, decided he was going to make my life miserable, and for several months did a thorough job. At one point, my mother found out what was happening. You know what she said I should do?”
“No.”
“I guess you wouldn’t, since I haven’t told you yet. Take a chair and smash it over his head.”
“Did you?”
“What do you think? But I’ve always been grateful for the suggestion.”
“Just as well. You could have fractured his skull. How would your mother have felt then?”
“You know, I’ve wondered about that. One possibility is that she knew I wasn’t capable of it. The other is that she didn’t give a shit. Figured that was Rudy’s problem. I prefer that one.”
“You saying I should smash a chair over Pickering’s head?”
“In your case, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea, although I’d love to watch, if you did. In fact, I’d pay to watch.”
The aerial assault picks up and the incoming turns healthier—grapes, pineapple cubes, an apple core, a banana—and Jerzy and I ignore it all, having reached an unspoken agreement not to give the assholes the satisfaction. More miraculous than the manna from heaven is the arrival at our table of another student. She is small and thin and wears a black Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt over a black vintage dress, with black nail polish and black lipstick. In addition to being monochromatic and brave, she’s pretty.
“Welcome to Pariahville,” says Jerzy. “Population three. I hope you brought an umbrella.”
“You’re funny,” says the girl.
“I think you mean funny-looking.”
“No, I mean funny,” she says with a touch of impatience. “As in witty. And I like your blazer. Very Angus in AC/DC. All you need is the shorts.”
You’re right, that’s all he needs. But I appreciate the sentiment. To me she looks like a black angel.
“So, Jerzy, we good?”
“Yeah.”
“See you next week, then,” I say, and wielding my tray like a shield, I head for the exit.
46
THE FOLLOWING WEEK WHEN we return to Big Oaks, Jerzy grabs the 7-iron and swings without discomfort. Pain-free, his mov
e is as long and loose as Sam Snead’s.
“Pickering’s appendix burst,” explains Jerzy. “He’s been out all week and could be out for a month.” I would rather have heard he’s on life support, but I’ll take it.
“How about that wonderful girl? Any more interaction with her?”
“Which girl?”
“Don’t give me that ‘which girl.’ The one who joined you at lunch.”
“Lyla,” says Jerzy. “Of course not. That was a once-in-a-lifetime event, like Halley’s Comet.”
“She likes you.”
“That’s a physical impossibility. As far as I know, she’s not blind.”
“She’s not. She commented on your attire. Favorably. In any case, between Pickering’s appendix and Lyla’s Comet, I’d say things are looking up. I propose we show our gratitude, up the ante, and go to work.”
That afternoon, we spend almost four hours in the stall. Jerzy makes so much progress, we decide to come back the next afternoon and Thursday, and in our third session, Jerzy has a breakthrough that most golfers never do. He learns how to “save it for the bottom,” as in connect his considerable size and heft to the bottom of his swing where the club meets the ball, the only part that matters. It sounds like a shotgun and turns every head on the range.
“That was stupid long,” I say as his 3-wood bounces off that old Srixon banner. “At least thirty yards longer than I hit that club.”
“You’re not exactly a spring chicken, Travis.”
“True. I’m a September chicken.”
Over the next couple of days, he tattoos the old banner so many times that it finally gives up the ghost, detaches from the wire curtain, and flutters to the ground. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to see that,” I say. “Like Berliners when the wall came down.”
The bigger revelation comes a week later, when I hand him my old bull’s-eye putter and walk him to the green rectangle about the size of three parking spaces which they have the temerity to call a putting green. I don’t know if it’s up there with Harvey Penick and Ben Crenshaw at Austin Country Club, but I’ll never forget the first time I see Jerzy roll it on the Big Oaks cement.
Miracle at Augusta Page 8
