by Pat Flynn
*
The next morning Kane tells me to meet him in the toilet. We sneak into a stall and lock the door.
‘You go first,’ I say.
He takes an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to me. I open it and pull out a huge wad of cash. I’m sure there’ll be coloured paper or Monopoly money in the middle of the bundle, so I check it closely.
It’s all there, $346 of real money. Yes!
‘How’d you do it?’ I ask, amazed.
‘Piece of cake. They just needed a bit of gentle persuasion.’
I hand over the 50 bucks and put more cash in my wallet than I’ve ever seen before. Ashleigh will soon be mine!
Later that day, Mulligan comes up and thrusts out his hand. ‘Hey, Rossy. No hard feelings about yesterday?’
‘Nah,’ I say, shaking it. ‘You came good in the end.’
‘Yeah. I wanted to talk to you about that. I was wondering if I could give you another 50?’
I’m a bit confused. ‘Umm. What for?’
He gives me a funny look. ‘You know, the investment. Kane said you’ll be doubling our money in two weeks. He said you know a bloke who works at the track and that some of the races are rigged. That’s how you knew Life’s a Gamble was going to get disqualified, he said.’
‘Kane said all that?’
‘Yeah.’ Mulligan’s nostrils start to flare. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? ’Cause if it’s not …’ His fists bunch into two balls of knuckles.
‘Of course it’s true,’ I say, quickly. ‘I know a bloke at the track named Joe. It’s all rigged.’
‘Good.’ He calms down. ‘Well, here you go.’ He takes 50 bucks out of his pocket. ‘That’s 200 you owe me.’
‘Yeah. Great,’ I mumble.
I find Kane at the handball courts. As usual, he’s the King. I work my way up to the Queen square so I can have a good discussion with him.
‘Kane, what the hell did you do?’
‘Hey, you didn’t tell me how to get the money off ’em,’ he says, chuckling. ‘You just said get it, and I did.’
‘Hurry up and serve the ball,’ yells the Dunce.
‘Shut up,’ says Kane. ‘I’ll serve when I’m ready.’
‘Yeah, shut up,’ I agree.
‘But kids are expecting me to double their money in two weeks,’ I say to Kane. ‘How am I going to do that?’
He shrugs, serving a spinning delivery to the Dunce. ‘That’s your problem.’
‘Kane!’
He laughs. ‘I don’t know what you’re worried about, Rossy. You’re rich. For a few weeks, anyway. That should give you time to get Ashleigh back and earn some more money.’
Get Ashleigh back. Earn money. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?
The ball makes its way into my square and I hit a left-handed drop shot into the King square, catching Kane by surprise.
Yes! I’m King. If I can beat Kane, I can do anything.
‘Double bounce!’ he yells.
‘Was not!’
We stand there chest-to-chest until the usual thing happens when there’s a disagreement in handball. Someone gets pushed out of the square and to the back of the line.
And because Kane has already burst through the puberty gate while I’m still waiting in the stall, that someone is me.
I swear that I’m going to get even with Kane, if it’s the last thing I do.
But first I’m going to buy two tickets to the monster truck show.
I’m sure Ash will love it.
The Caddy versus Psycho Man
‘Rossy! You can’t wear that!’
This is how Kane greets me when I show up at his house on Saturday morning. He’s got some nerve. He’s dressed in a pink polo shirt, long shorts and socks up to his knees. And he tells me that my clothes are bad.
‘What’s wrong with this?’ I ask, holding my arms out and looking down at my boardies and T-shirt. ‘These are perfect for golf. There’s heaps of sand and water there, you know.’
He chucks a spaz so I run home and borrow some golf clothes off Dad. Kane has lined me up a job caddying for some rich guy at the golf club, so I need to look the part, he reckons.
By the time I arrive back at the Steeles’ they’re all in the car waiting. Kane’s dad is driving and his mum is in the front seat. They both play golf at the same time on the same course, but never together.
I’m in the back, wedged between Kane and Lacey. She gets a lesson from the golf pro on Saturdays and supposedly has heaps of talent. Although maybe if I charged $100 an hour, like her golf pro does, I’d say she had talent as well, just to keep her coming back.
Mrs Steele turns to us, a little visor peeking over her head. ‘Who are you caddying for today, Kane?’
‘Dr Graham.’
‘Oh, the gynaecologist. He seems very nice.’
I’m not exactly sure what a gynaecologist is, but in SOSE the other day Miss Mason said that ‘ologist’ means someone who’s an expert in their field. Maybe Dr Graham is an expert in guys?
‘Who’s Tony got?’ Mrs Steele asks.
Kane grins. ‘Dr Edwards.’
‘The psychiatrist?’
‘Yep.’
She looks at me. ‘Watch out. George Edwards is the most competitive man on earth.’
‘A real stickler for the rules,’ adds Mr Steele. ‘That’s why he never uses carts. He likes to play by tournament conditions, which is why he insists on a caddy, not only for him but for whoever he’s playing with.’
‘So we don’t get to drive those golf buggies around?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Kane. ‘We have to carry their clubs.’
‘That’s dumb.’ I can’t think of anything crazier than walking around a golf course when you could be driving.
‘I’ve heard that George only tips when he wins,’ says Mrs Steele. ‘So make sure he scores well, Tony.’
‘I’ll use my psychiatric powers,’ I say. ‘He’ll get eighteen holes in one.’
Lacey giggles. I think she’s starting to not hate me.
We arrive and Kane points out Dr Edwards. I walk up to him. ‘G’day, George. Heard a lot about you. My name’s Tony but everyone calls me Rossy.’
He doesn’t shake my outstretched hand.
‘If you must address me,’ he says, ‘call me Dr Edwards or sir.’
‘Umm … okay. G’day, sir.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Hello, young man. Your first job is to clean these balls.’
He hands me ten golf balls, all brand new. I’m not sure how to clean something that isn’t dirty.
‘Put them through the ball washer,’ he says. ‘They grip and spin better when they’re washed. And make sure you dry them thoroughly.’
He walks off.
Kane’s gone to get Dr Graham a drink or something so I have to figure it out by myself. I can see where the ball goes in but I’m not sure what to do after that.
Lacey sees me looking at the machine and comes over. ‘You turn the handle, like this.’ She does it and a few seconds later the ball drops down, sparkling wet. ‘You use this handtowel to dry it.’
‘Thanks, golf pro.’
She shakes her head at me. ‘How’d you get so hopeless?’
‘Dunno. It comes naturally.’
I’m halfway through cleaning the balls when an announcement comes over the loudspeakers. ‘Now up on the first tee, Dr George Edwards and Dr Mark Graham.’
I finish the ball I’m on, put the rest in my pocket (he won’t know the difference), and hurry over to the first hole.
Dr Graham is stretching, touching his toes and then reaching up to the sky.
Dr Edwards is sitting on the bench with his eyes closed.
‘Big night?’ I ask him.
‘No.’ He doesn’t open his eyes. ‘
I’m mentally rehearsing.’
‘Mentally what?’
‘It’s where you visualise the entire round before you play. I’ve just hit a birdie on the eighteenth.’
‘Yeah? Kookaburra or crow?’
He looks up at me, eyes boring like drills into mine. ‘I believe golf is like life. The winners are those who prepare properly and take it seriously.’
That’s so wrong, I think. I never study and always joke around, and look at me.
Dr Graham steps up and places his ball on a little red stick. He puts it back on and whacks the ball down the fairway. It goes long and straight.
He nods at Dr Edwards. ‘So, George. What’s the wager today?’
Dr Edwards fiddles with his golf glove. ‘I’m feeling especially focused. Say, 100 a hole and 500 for the overall winner?’
Geez. Kane told me they bet big but I didn’t think it would be this much.
Dr Graham taps his pocket, thinking. ‘Why not? If I’m lucky, I might just make your wallet shrink.’
Kane laughs, although I don’t know why.
I hand Dr Edwards a ball and he steps up to the box.
He does three practice swings, wiggles his hips and starts twisting his toes into the ground. He twists them so many times it’s like he’s trying to dig to China. All this takes a long time and I’m starting to feel a tickle in the back of my nose. The freshly mowed grass is really stirring up my hayfever. As he starts his backswing, I can’t hold it in any longer.
‘Ahh-CHOOOOOOO!’
The ball hooks off to the left, heading straight for a group of old ladies.
‘Four!’ Dr Edwards yells.
I think he’s making a cricket joke so I laugh, even though it’s not that funny. I need to get back in his good books.
The ball lands on the roof of a golf buggy and bounces over the fence, disappearing down a bitumen road.
‘More like a six,’ I say, trying to add to the gag.
Dr Graham chuckles.
I’m glad someone appreciates it because Dr Edwards is just staring at me.
‘Out of bounds,’ says Dr Graham. ‘That’s a penalty shot, isn’t it, George?’
Dr Edwards doesn’t answer, but instead clicks his fingers at me and says, ‘Another ball.’
I take a couple out of his bag and notice that they all have different numbers written on them. Maybe the doc is superstitious?
‘Sir, you can have a three, a five, or—’ I swallow a laugh. ‘… a six.’
‘Just throw me any damned ball!’
You don’t have to be like that, I think. I throw him the six.
This time he whacks it straight down the fairway, past Dr Graham’s ball.
‘That would have happened the first time,’ he says, ‘if someone didn’t ruin my concentration.’
He flips his club at me and starts striding away. I pick it up, put the woolly hat back over the club head, and hurry after him.
As we walk down the fairway, Kane whispers to me, ‘Fore is what you yell in golf when someone might get hit.’
‘Four? Why don’t you yell heads?’
‘You just don’t.’
Geez, this is a stupid game.
Before Dr Graham hits his next shot, Dr Edwards says loudly, ‘Remember to keep the head down, Mark.’
It must affect Dr Graham’s concentration because he hits the ball along the ground like a cricket shot. It doesn’t go very far.
Dr Edwards chuckles. ‘I think you might have killed a few worms, Mark. Don’t worry, I’ll show you how it’s done.’
By the time I arrive at Dr Edwards’ ball he’s already clicking his fingers. ‘Six iron,’ he says.
I quickly slide it out and hand it over, and after more of the usual practice swings, hip wriggles and toe twists, he hits the ball. It goes straight and high but lands well short of the green.
He looks confused. ‘How did that happen? I hit it perfectly.’ Then he looks down at his club. ‘Young man, you gave me a nine iron, not a six!’
‘Whoops.’
He throws the club at my feet. I feel like telling him that if he didn’t rush me this wouldn’t have happened. Really, it’s his own fault. But somehow I hold my tongue.
We wait for Dr Graham to hit his next shot. He smacks it onto the green.
‘Great shot!’ says Kane. ‘Way to use the wind.’
‘Kane knows a lot about wind,’ I murmur to Dr Edwards, trying to make him feel better. ‘Especially the hot variety.’
He ignores me.
When we get to Dr Edwards’ ball, he says sharply, ‘Give me a wedge.’
‘Excuse me?’ Even though I’m an expert at giving them, I don’t think a wedgie will help his game much.
‘From the bag. A wedge.’
‘Oh.’ He’s talking about the golf club with the W on it, not his underpants going up his bum.
He lobs the ball onto the green, not far from the hole. Finally he starts looking a little bit happier.
I copy Kane by leaving the bag on the fairway and follow Dr Edwards onto the green. He takes the putter from me and says, ‘Pick the ball up and mark it.’ Then he walks a long way behind the hole and squats down. It looks like he’s practising going to the toilet in the bush.
I check my pants for something to mark the ball with. Dad likes to do the crossword at work and, sure enough, there’s a pen in the right pocket.
Dr Graham’s first putt misses, but he taps the next one in.
‘I do believe that’s a bogey,’ he says.
A bogey? Sounds like the stuff that comes out of my nose when I sneeze.
Dr Edwards finishes pacing the green and says to me, ‘Put the ball back.’
‘Okay …’ I was hoping he’d do that job.
‘Umm. Where do you want me to put it, sir?’
He gives me a look. ‘Where you marked it, of course.’
He starts looking around the green. ‘What did you use? A plastic marker? A coin?’
‘A pen,’ I say, holding the ball up so he can see my drawing of a smiley face. It’s not bad at all, I reckon. I even put glasses on it.
‘What have you done?’ he hisses.
Dr Graham laughs.
‘Well, you said mark it,’ I say.
‘I meant the green!’ Dr Edwards turns to Kane. ‘Where did you find this kid? The stupid factory?’
I feel like throwing the ball at Dr Psycho-man, but if I got him in the head he might not give me a very good tip.
‘Not marking the ball on the green,’ says Dr Graham. ‘I believe that’s a penalty stroke, isn’t it, George?’
I put the ball down close to where I picked it up. Dr Edwards makes the putt.
‘Way to go, sir,’ I say, trying to be positive. ‘Hole in seven.’
After that, things start getting better for Dr Edwards. Three times in a row he scores a par – which I thought meant average but apparently in golf is pretty good. Once he hit a great shot out of the bunker with a sand wedge, which gave me an idea. When I get home I’m going to put sand in Simon’s undies and give him a sand wedgie.
By the eighth hole Dr Edwards is only one shot behind, but then he yells ‘No!’ after he slices a ball into the thick rough, which is the golfing name for the bushes.
We try to find it. ‘You look behind those big trees and I’ll search in the long grass,’ he says.
‘No worries.’
Once I’m behind the trees, I get another idea. Actually, the idea is bursting to get out of me. We’ve been on the course for nearly two hours and there hasn’t been a toilet in sight. I had half a bottle of Coke to wake me up this morning and now it’s begging to escape. I stand behind a tree and quickly unzip.
Ahhhh. That’s better.
For some reason it reminds me of when I was a little b
oy and Dad taught me how to pee. He’d put a ping-pong ball in the toilet and I had to aim at it, kind of like I’m doing now.
Hang on. That’s not a ping-pong ball – it’s Dr Edwards’ golf ball!
Just as I’m pulling up my zip he appears. ‘Any luck?’ he asks.
‘Umm. Yeah, but—’
Dr Edwards suddenly sees the ball. ‘Ah ha! Good work. I can’t hit it out of here so I may as well move it.’
‘I wouldn’t—’
But he’s already grabbed it and tossed it out onto the shorter grass near the fairway. Then he looks at me. ‘No need to tell anyone about this. Understand?’
‘My lips are sealed.’
All of a sudden he studies his palm like he’s trying to read his future. ‘Gee, that’s funny. My hand’s all wet.’
‘Really? Probably sweat.’
‘No, it must have been the ball.’
‘Might have landed in a puddle,’ I say.
He lifts his hand to his face and has a whiff.
‘It smells disgusting! I think some sort of wild animal has peed on it.’
‘Yeah, that’s what musta happened. When I walked up, I saw a wild animal run off.’
‘What type was it?’ he asks.
‘Umm ... a lizard. A really big one.’
He gives me a suspicious look and then strides towards his ball.
*
‘What did you score on that one?’ asks Dr Graham after the hole.
‘A par for me,’ says Dr Edwards.
‘A par? You disappeared in the rough for so long I was going send a search party.’
‘Took us awhile but Tony’s eagle eyes finally spotted the ball.’
I spotted it all right. With my third eye.
Dr Edwards keeps explaining. ‘Turned out I had a great lie. Punched it right out onto the fairway.’
Dr Graham looks at me for confirmation.
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Dr Edwards told a great lie.’
Dr Graham chuckles. ‘That’s a Freudian slip if ever I heard one, don’t you think, George?’
He doesn’t answer.
Who’s Freudian? I think.
‘Remember the penalty for cheating, George,’ Dr Graham says. ‘A one-year ban from the club.’
‘Hang on,’ says Dr Edwards. ‘I think I made a mistake. Put me down for a bogey.’
