by James Ross
The pro shop was nothing more than a trailer. The parking lot was a gravel dust bowl. Most of the synthetic grass mats were weathered so much that they were rendered useless. The golfers, more often than not, chose to hit off of clumps of grass that sprouted from the barren clay soil.
The range was located outside of Houston and most of the golfers that stopped in were on their way either to or from the big city. It offered a great situation for J Dub. In between the customers, he could work on his game and still keep a watchful eye on the trailer and lot.
In the days following the disappointment of the Q-School tournament, J Dub was having a difficult time readjusting to life as a driving range pro. He was frustrated by the turn of events and had no idea which direction his life was headed. So, he turned to what he knew best . . . practice on the range.
To the non-golfer or the social golfer, life on the range is incomprehensible. Most people get a set of clubs for Christmas and head to the golf course to play golf. Others get invited to fill out a scramble a couple of times a year and just hack it around.
For the serious golfer however, life on the range is a necessity. To the low handicappers and the pros, hitting a bucket of balls is an absolute.
The skilled players understand that perfect practice makes perfect shots. To find the sweet spot on the club every time takes years and years of hard work. To groove a swing means hours of repetitive motion that only the pro can understand.
J Dub went back to the corner of the range to pound ball after ball. He worked on driving the long ball. He fine-tuned the precision of his approach shots. He mastered the delicate touch of the chip shot. He practiced the pace of his putts. Each drill was performed with consistency and skill from the many years of practicing. He had mastered practice to an art form and it showed.
His mood wasn’t the same though. On one of his first few days back from the tournament things became doubly frustrating. It was warm for an early day in January. The wind blew the dust from the gravel parking lot across the range. The mosquitoes and flies seemed to breed in the trailer.
J Dub was servicing a customer when an old Ford station wagon with Illinois plates and front-end damage pulled onto the lot. It came to a stop. Lew Zerrmann got out of the car, looked around in an arrogant way, and in a crass manner, spat on the gravel.
As was customary, Lew was dressed in his mechanic’s outfit. The boots and the work pants didn’t really lend themselves to the golf environment. After he sized up his surroundings, Lew continued into the trailer and waited as J Dub wrapped up a transaction with a previous customer.
Nothing was going right for J Dub at this time of his life. As he bent over for ice, the scoop snapped in the ice bin. In frustration, he fired the scoop into the trash can. He placed the cup under the soda dispenser and hit the refill button. The soda canister ran dry and splashed soda all over him. J Dub hurriedly grabbed a towel to dry off and placed it into his hip pocket.
As he dropped a token into the golf ball dispenser to prepare a bucket of balls for the customer, he accidentally knocked the container over. With balls bouncing across the floor and around the trailer, J Dub chased them down and refilled the bucket. After the customer left, he threw the towel in frustration against the wall.
J Dub noticed Lew in the back of the trailer. “It’s been a rough week. What do you need?” J Dub asked.
“Lessons,” Lew answered.
J Dub laughed in Lew’s face. It’s not too often that someone out of the blue walks into an off-the-beaten-path trailer and asks for lessons, especially in January. J Dub looked at Lew’s thinning hair and noticed his advancing age. “It’s kind of late for you, isn’t it?”
“I need to learn how to win at the game of golf. That’s the only thing that counts with me,” Lew explained.
J Dub was all too familiar with the lesson that he had just been taught at Q-school. “It doesn’t always work that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just because you get lessons and you want to win, doesn’t mean that you’re going to be successful,” J Dub clarified.
“It should increase my odds,” Lew implied.
“Maybe,” J Dub hinted. “Then you need to factor in the elements like the hills and water and sand and wind . . . not to mention your own mind.”
Lew looked around the place, glanced outside, and replied, “You better make that just water, sand and wind. There doesn’t appear to be a hill in sight from where I stand. What do I need to get started?” Lew inquired.
“Twenty years would help,” J Dub smirked as his irritation grew. “Why now? Where have you been all of your life?”
“Busy with real estate,” Lew responded.
J Dub looked out the window at the banged-up Ford station wagon with out of state plates and glanced back at Lew dressed in work clothes. “ . . . Yeah, right. Who do you think you’re fooling? What brings you from Illinois?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. I’m interested in lessons at the moment.” Lew was taken aback a little. He didn’t expect to be belittled when he walked into the trailer. He was used to people kissing up to his backside. “Golf looks like a great game,” Lew continued.
“Sometimes it can be . . . sometimes not. But I guess what’s most important is the lessons in life that you take away from the game.”
“Like what?”
“You’ve heard the expression, ‘It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game,’ haven’t you?” J Dub asked.
Lew nodded and said, “Then it might not be right for me.”
J Dub found the answer to be very curious. “Why is that?”
“I could care less how I play the game. I play to win, period,” Lew stipulated.
“Then maybe golf isn’t suited for you,” J Dub said. “It’s a gentleman’s game.”
“What the hell is that?” Lew laughed.
“It’s a sport that requires a lot of principles in life like honesty, integrity, and respect. That’s not to mention politeness and patience,” J Dub replied.
“You don’t need to preach that crap to me, kid,” Lew stated adamantly.
J Dub was getting aggravated. “Then you really don’t want to learn how to play, do you?”
“Sure I do. Get me set up with some clubs, a bucket, and a few lessons,” Lew insisted.
J Dub glanced at the pair of boots that Lew was wearing. “You could use a pair of golf shoes, too,” he quipped.
Lew looked down at his work boots and agreed, “Those, too.”
“Got time to practice?” J Dub probed.
“Who’s got time for that?” Lew asked. “I just bought a golf course. I told you that I play to win. I need a cram course in how to play so that I can be the best player on my own place.”
J Dub forced a laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Life hasn’t thrown you any three putts?”
Lew was getting tired of J Dub’s questions. “Look, kid. I never lose. In any deal that I make I come out on the winning side. Let’s keep it plain and simple. Teach me how to play the game,” Lew insisted.
“If you’re willing, then maybe I can help out.”
“In more ways than one, I hope,” Lew mumbled under his breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” J Dub asked.
“Would you rather be in a sand trap or the fairway?”
“Either one is better than a divot,” J Dub joked.
Lew was puzzled by that comment.
J Dub brushed it off and said, “Never mind.”
Lew didn’t want J Dub to know that he had read the article in the newspaper and had realized what the reference meant all along. “It may have been the best thing to ever happen to you,” Lew proposed.
“Why do you say that?”
Lew was a master of catching people off-guard and switching them to his way of thinking. “You know, you might be just the kind of guy I need,” he thought out loud.
“Good. I told you I’d give you lessons,�
�� J Dub maintained.
“No. No. I told you I would get to the reason I am here from Illinois.”
J Dub was puzzled. “Why?”
“You can tell I don’t know much about golf,” Lew admitted.
“No kidding.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A few months I guess,” J Dub responded.
“You seem to work well with people.”
J Dub was intrigued by the direction of the conversation. “I try.”
“Is this what you want to do the rest of your life?” Lew inquired.
“Not really. It’s just a place to park myself until my next opportunity comes along. At least I can still practice my game down here. It beats the cold back home at this time of the year,” J Dub rationalized.
“Would you want to help me out with more than just lessons?” Lew asked.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Like I said, I just bought this golf course,” Lew explained.
“Okay. Good for you.”
“I need somebody that knows what they’re doing to run it,” Lew continued.
The very thought piqued the interest of J Dub. However, he was in no mood to give away his services. “What’s in it for me?”
“I need someone that’s honest with the cash.” Lew’s paranoia seemed to always be centered on money.
“Why is that . . . so you can sleep at night?” J Dub pried.
Lew nodded his head. “I won’t tolerate somebody ripping me off,” Lew maintained.
“That’s one thing my folks taught me not to do.”
“Good. That’s real important to me.”
J Dub looked Lew in the eye. He sincerely wanted to get away from the driving range and hoped that a head pro job would open up at a nearby course. “What did you have in mind?”
“The word on the street is that a very talented, hot-shot golfer is looking for a head pro job,” Lew confided.
“I’ve got a few resumes and a couple of applications out there,” J Dub admitted.
“So I’ve heard. I’m thinking that you can move back to Illinois and be my partner. That way you won’t steal,” Lew suggested.
J Dub’s interest had turned genuine. The very mention of becoming a partner in a golf course operation stirred his juices a little.
“You can come in, get a little slice of the pie, run the place for a few years. When it’s time for me to move on, I’ll sell the place to you,” Lew proposed.
“Then put it in writing,” J Dub demanded without blinking.
“You’d be interested?”
“Golf is all I know. Of course I’m interested. But I’m also a married man. I have to run all of this by my wife,” J Dub clarified.
They studied each other carefully. “It would be a great opportunity for you two,” Lew insisted.
“I want to stay in golf and the tour is out for now. This place isn’t where I want to park myself for very long,” J Dub confessed. “There is more to life than giving lessons as a teaching pro at a driving range.”
Lew dropped a token into the ball dispenser. He had forgotten to place a bucket under the machine. Golf balls bounced throughout the trailer. J Dub turned to Lew in disbelief. What kind of an idiot am I getting involved with?
“Ahhhh . . . forget the lessons for now. We have more important stuff to discuss,” Lew concluded.
Chapter Twelve
Over and over, J Dub’s mind was playing the scenario of moving to Illinois and becoming a partner in a golf course property. It was easy to get lost in thought when he grilled. His eyes squinted as the billows of charcoaled smoke chased him from one part of the grill to the other as he plopped the patties of hamburger meat on their raw sides. J Dub had to admit to himself that the one thing that he really liked to do was barbecue on the outside grill. He had fashioned a nice sized pit out of an old thirty-gallon drum of oil. It didn’t matter if it was hamburgers or pork steaks, chicken breasts or filets, J Dub could cook. Plus, it seemed that everything tasted that much better if he kept his throat moist with a generous swallow of beer now and then.
There was just something missing at the trailer park. And that was called atmosphere. Dirty little kids were playing in the dust. Clothes would flap in the breeze off a line strung between trees. Puddles of water from the frequent rain showers of southeast Texas would sit for weeks and act as a breeding ground for mosquitoes. Even the community mail box was constantly vandalized. J Dub looked around taking the scenery in, hoping that it would be the last bit of “Humble” pie he would have to eat for a while.
As he flipped the burgers that evening, Marcia came out of the trailer to bring J Dub a beer. She swatted flies with a fly swatter on the way to her husband. It was hot and humid, even as dusk was overtaking the huge Texas sky. Both glistened with sweat as they silently prayed for the slightest breeze to blow, which never came. She yelled her mosquito fatality count to no one in particular, “One down, a few thousand to go.” The fly swatter had been discarded rapidly after a couple of misses. A rolled-up newspaper seemed to be much more effective and covered more ground.
J Dub snickered. “Go get some dog crap and maybe you can get ten or twenty at a time.”
“Is it hot, or what?” she asked as she wiped the perspiration off of her brow.
“Maybe we can get out of here pretty soon,” J Dub said.
“That went out the door when you didn’t take the nine-iron.”
“You won’t let that go away, will you?” he said with a smile.
Marcia walked over to kiss him. Affectionately she said, “It was your dumbass decision. What were you thinking about?” She had hoped to impress upon him the fact that stubbornness can be a detriment as well as an asset.
J Dub grinned and shook his head in dismay. He changed the subject as quickly as he could. “I had a bit of a surprise today,” J Dub mentioned.
“A golfer came by to hit balls?” Marcia asked sarcastically.
He smiled at her. “We had a few.”
J Dub watched his wife swing the rolled-up newspaper at another pest. “Well, are you going to tell me?” Marcia asked.
“ . . . About what?”
“The surprise you had today!” Her temper easily flared in this miserable weather.
“Oh. Yeah. It was the weirdest thing,” J Dub started the story when a mosquito landed on the back of his neck and took a blood-thirsty gulp. The smack of his hand behind his ear clapped across the lot. “Let’s get inside so all of these insects won’t eat us to death, Marcia,” J Dub stated as he smiled over his shoulder at his wife. She was swinging the newspaper rapidly and wildly. J Dub took the burgers off of the grill and they entered the trailer.
They crammed around the undersized breakfast table. Marcia had thrown a vinyl, red-and-white checked table cloth on it. It looked like something from the truck stop where J Dub had been working nights. Pork and beans, potato salad, and sliced tomatoes were Marcia’s treat for the two of them this evening. J Dub made sure that he squirted a generous supply of ketchup on his hamburger.
“So tell me what happened today, J Dub,” Marcia said.
“It was nuts . . . just a bad day all around. Nothing was going right. And then this guy dressed in work clothes and driving a beat-up station wagon came in,” J Dub volunteered in between bites of food.
“Probably to tell you that you just won the lottery?” asked Marcia, tongue-in-cheek.
“No. He started talking about winning this and winning that and how much of a big shot he was. Then he wanted me to give him lessons,” J Dub explained. “He looked like a clown . . . right out of the old jeans and tennis shoes crowd.”
J Dub chuckled to no one in particular. It had been a standard joke in their family that the guys that didn’t know anything about the etiquette of golf always showed up at the golf course dressed in jeans and tennis shoes. “This guy didn’t have a clue about golf. He didn’t know a three-wood from an eight-iron, let alone a Top-Flite from a Titleist.�
��
Marcia was growing impatient with the golfisms and finally asked, “So what happened?”
“I started talking about the principles of the game and how they applied to life . . . just the general philosophy stuff. Then he said he didn’t care about any of that because he didn’t play by the rules anyway,” J Dub revealed.
Marcia inquired, “Did you send him packing?”
“No. He’s in a little bit of a jam. He really needs some help,” J Dub went on to explain.
“Tell him the psych ward is in the next county,” Marcia countered. She continued eating her tomatoes and potato salad but something in her gut told her this guy was a whacko.
J Dub carried on. “He goes on to say that he just bought this golf course and he doesn’t know a thing about golf. He watched me taking care of a customer and thought that I was being real helpful. Then he said that he was interested in getting a guy over at his place that wouldn’t steal from him. He wanted to know if I would be interested in being his business partner in this golf course that he was buying.”
“How ridiculous is that?” Marcia exclaimed. “Going into the golf business and not knowing a thing about it. And why would he make a comment like that about ‘not stealing’ from him? C’mon, J Dub . . . use your head. Why would he drive down from Illinois to ask YOU to be his partner? I mean, I love you and all that, but c’mon, he must be nuts.”
“I thought so too, but he wants to know if I’d be willing to give it some consideration. He wants me up there in two weeks,” J Dub halfway grinned. “I’m thinking real seriously about it.”
Marcia came unglued. “What? Don’t you think you’re rushing into this? Did you even get his name?”
