by James Ross
Chapter Twenty-Two
“PBR, look what I got for the campin’ trip,” Nada shouted as he rummaged through the garage looking for all of the items to pack away. He was busy gathering lawn chairs, a barbeque pit, sleeping bags, fishing poles and a cooler that were stored in the garage.
Rayelene appeared at the screen door with a wet washrag on her head. With every step she winced. “Nada! What are you drivin’ now?”
“What?”
“Where’s your cab?”
“The guys at work said that I can have this for the weekend.” A Mack dump truck sat in the driveway where the Peterbilt was normally parked. The green truck was equipped with a hydraulically operated open bed capable of delivering several tons of construction products. Hinges at the rear would allow the tailgate to open and the material would slide off the back of the truck as the front end was raised.
“What are you doin’?” Rayelene yelled. She watched as her husband threw the items that he had gotten out of the garage into the bed of the truck.
“We’re goin’ campin’, aren’t we?”
“I’m not gonna be caught dead in that!”
“You can drive the minivan.”
“Why can’t we all go in the minivan?” Frustration mounted in her voice.
“We won’t have room to haul everything that we need.” Nada grabbed a tent out of the garage, walked over to the truck, leaned to one side to get his body behind the weight and heaved the canvas over the side of the truck.
“Ooooooh!” Rayelene’s mouth gaped open. “What do you want me to tell Emmabeth?”
Emmabeth was Rayelene’s sister. She had nine-year-old twin daughters named Emma and Beth that were born out of wedlock. “Tell her to git her butt over here and she can ride with you. Owen can jump in the cab with me.” Nada threw two boxes made for a game of washers and two bags of sand over the side of the truck followed by a bag of charcoal. He returned to the garage and grabbed his cooler chest. Upon opening the lid he asked, “How does it git so dirty in here?”
“God only knows. As much as you use it, it oughta stay clean from the ice alone.” Rayelene stormed through the screen door.
Nada went to the back of the house, turned on the faucet, grabbed the hose and sprayed water inside the cooler. Satisfied he continued into the kitchen with the container. He placed the ice chest in front of the refrigerator and started going through the pantry. “Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What are you l . . . l . . . l . . . looking for?”
“My beer.”
“I . . . I . . . I . . . It’s on the br . . . br . . . br . . . breakfast bar.”
Nada turned to see what was obvious. “Oh.” He tore into a twelve pack and lined the bottom of the cooler. Then he reached into the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice.
“Did you wash your hands?” Rayelene shouted. She was busy preparing sandwiches.
“No. They weren’t dirty.”
“They’re always dirty!” She wiped her hands and threw a hand towel on the counter. “Now I have to wash out the ice container!” She stomped over to the refrigerator, stumbled over the cooler, yanked the bulk ice tray out of the freezer and dumped the whole container over the beer as a dozen ice cubes bounced across the kitchen floor.
“PBR!” Nada bent over and picked up the scattered cubes. “You’re wastin’ the ice!”
“Heaven forbid that any of the beer gits warm!”
“You know that that will make me cranky.” Nada grinned trying to lighten up the moment.
“Don’t be smirkin’ at me. Your beer drinkin’ gits me and Owen a little cranky once in a while too!” She glared at her husband. “Can’t we just go and have a fun family weekend?”
“We are.”
“And your idea of a fun weekend is slammin’ down a case and a half!”
Nada had a tight-lipped smirk plastered across his face. “A guy’s gotsta have a few beers while he barbeques. And what would a game of washers be like without a beer to keep you in balance?” He reached into the cooler, grabbed a can and feigned throwing a washer with his right hand while holding the can in his left.
“So we can all listen to you burp and fart!” Owen snickered in the background. Rayelene pressed her temples. The stress made her head throb. “Can’t we just sit around a campfire and talk?”
Nada looked up at the ceiling. Then he focused on Owen. “That, my boy, is the main difference between men and women.” He popped the tab on the can and took a sip. The warm beer caused him to shake his cheeks violently. “And don’t you ever forgit it.”
“Yoo hoo! We’re here!” Emmabeth yelled as the car door shut. Cousins Emma and Beth scooted through the screen door and into the kitchen.
Nada scurried out of the way, ended up close to Owen and whispered in his ear. “How much fun do you think we’re gonna have this weekend?”
“M . . . M . . . M . . . Maybe swimmin’. M . . . M . . . M . . . Maybe fishin’.”
“Wait ’til the bugs start bitin’ on all of their sweetness.” Nada belted down the rest of the can and snickered at the girls. He grabbed the cooler. “Owen, you get the rest of the beer.”
After a short trip down a two-lane country highway the family arrived at the campground. After driving through the public parking lot and down a private asphalt road Nada located a spot in a grove of trees that offered a view of a lake. With Rayelene not too far behind Nada pointed to a spot by an open pit barbeque area. He maneuvered the dump truck and backed it into a parking space.
With the minivan full of females as witnesses Nada gave a thumbs-up as he pointed to the lake and barbeque pit. Before Rayelene could put the minivan into park Nada hit the button that activated the hydraulic lift. The bed rose into the air and all of the camping gear scooted out the back and fell into a heap on the ground. Nada looked across the seat at Owen, winked and patted the cooler that sat between them. “We’re here!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The smell of freshly cut grass clippings filtered through the air. The morning dew caused the grass to be deposited in clumps around the golf course grounds. A golf environment has a way of bringing the odors of the country to city life. The flags rippled in the gentle breeze. The ropes used to hoist the flags rhythmically flapped against the flagpole mimicking the sounds a drummer would make brushing a cymbal. It was mid-summer and Owen Purler had turned into a golf rat.
Owen couldn’t wait for his mom to drop him off at the golf course every day. It didn’t take long for him to realize what the routine was going to be. If J Dub was busy he had to take some initiative, go down to the range and practice on his own. Today wasn’t any different. J Dub worked with a group of youngsters on the far right side of the range. Bogey, the bull terrier that was as much a fixture around the property as J Dub, playfully nipped at J Dub’s feet as he instructed the kids.
Owen set up shop on the far left side of the range. That was the spot that had always been reserved for the head pro, but J Dub had given the go-ahead for Owen to use the pristine spot where the grass seemed to grow thickest and most colorful. One ball after another seemed to hit close to whatever sign Owen was aiming for. Out of the side of his eye J Dub admired the work ethic and routine that Owen had developed. That kid is really good, he thought. Maybe someday . . . and his dreams would fade away.
“I see you’re still bouncing them off the markers,” J Dub said as he moseyed over to Owen. Bogey mischievously tugged at the shoestrings on the pro’s golf shoes. He jerked his foot away. “Bogey! Cut it out!”
Owen shrugged as if he was almost bored with the repetition. “I’m just doing what you told me to do.” The stuttering had become a distant memory.
J Dub smiled. “When I told you to aim for the sign I didn’t think that you would hit it almost every time.” He scratched his head and kidded the youngster. “Do you have some sort of radar chip in those balls that seeks out the target?”
Owen shrugged his shoulders embarrassed. “What’s so hard about it?” He raised his c
lub and pointed it out to a sign. “That’s what I’m aiming at.”
The head pro chuckled not wanting to explain the difficulty to the kid. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
“I’m about done out here for a while. I think I’ll go up to the practice green and putt.”
J Dub looked at his watch. “The kids only have five minutes left. We’ll go back together when they’re finished.”
Owen nodded approval. He reached forward with his club and scooted a ball onto a lush piece of turf. His routine never wavered. He took a second to ensure the proper grip, checked his alignment, bent his knees, slowly drew the club back with his left arm and released his body toward the target once the club reached the top of his backswing. The first hop missed the marker by less than a foot.
J Dub raised his eyebrows and shook his head in amazement. The kid could do more with the club than seasoned professionals could do. “Gather your gear and clean your clubs. I’ll be back in a few.” He sauntered over to the instructional class.
Owen dipped each club into a bucket of water and carefully cleaned each groove in every club. He strapped his bag onto the golf cart and petted Bogey as he patiently waited for J Dub to wrap up the clinic. “You like that, don’t ya?” he said as Bogey rolled over on his back to have his stomach scratched. The left hind leg shook uncontrollably as Owen hit a ticklish spot.
“Are you ready to go to the practice green and putt?” J Dub asked as he approached the cart. Bogey rolled over, scrambled to his feet and jumped up on the seat between the two. Owen nodded his head. He felt like royalty riding the short distance to the putting green while the other kids had to walk. “Now remember,” J Dub continued, “golf has a way of humbling the best players in the world. Just because you’ve met some success, don’t let it go to your head. Keep practicing as hard as you can.”
Owen soaked in every word. He eased out of the cart as it rolled to a stop and reached into his bag for his putter. “I’m just trying to do what you tell me,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, but you have to understand something,” J Dub persisted. “I tell everyone to try to hit the sign. Nobody else can come close.”
Owen made a funny face at the head pro. His eyes widened. “That’s their fault I guess.” He walked onto the practice green and threw two balls down on the putting surface.
“If it ain’t the boy wonder,” Fred barked. He and Easy Earl sat on a bench waiting for Rollie to walk up and join them.
“What was it again that we call him?” Easy Earl asked.
“Opur,” Fred answered. “He doesn’t have peepers. He’s got opurs.”
“Yeah, the O is short for Owen and pur is for Purler,” Rollie reminded his golfing buddy as he strolled into the conversation.
J Dub glanced at Owen as the kid wrinkled his nose. “Like it or not, it’s going to stick. That’s their way of accepting you.”
“Are you going to drop everything in sight today?” Easy Earl asked.
“Or are you going to be off a little like you were yesterday?” Fred commented.
Owen shrugged his shoulders. “Every day is different.”
“He’s learning the game!” Rollie shouted a few decibels above everyone else.
“I have to keep watching him,” J Dub said. “We’ve got to figure out why he’s been missing them the last couple of days.”
“Maybe it’s that ancient putter he’s using,” Easy Earl said. “Where did you guys get that thing again?”
“The lost-and-found barrel,” Owen responded. He had grown fond of the putter. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, really,” Easy Earl said as he backpedaled a tad. “It’s just that with the technology that’s out there, some better ones are on the market.”
“Hey!” Rollie interrupted. “Putting is all about confidence. If that’s the one that he likes and gets the ball in the hole, then let him keep using it.”
“Yeah,” Fred added. “What difference does it make how old it is or what it looks like?”
Owen rolled a putt toward a hole and watched as it missed its mark.
“See,” Easy Earl continued. “He doesn’t make them like he did earlier in the summer.”
“It’s not the putter,” J Dub said as he defended the club. “We just need to figure out what he’s doing and make a couple of adjustments.”
“Yeah, he’s human after all,” Fred quipped.
J Dub walked onto the practice green. The lanky pro, dressed in pressed dress slacks and a flashy short-sleeved golf shirt, looked like he had all of the answers. He turned to Opur. “Hit a few more of them. We’ll make a couple of minor adjustments if you don’t start rolling them in.”
Opur rolled several more putts toward a hole and only one found its mark. “What am I doing wrong?” The sudden failure on the course was something he wasn’t accustomed to.
“It could be one of a lot of things,” Easy Earl barked from his spot on the bench. “You might be moving . . .”
“ . . . or have a loop in your backswing,” Rollie interrupted.
“Or you’re opening the blade,” Fred suggested.
J Dub glanced over at the trio. “We really appreciate all of your help guys, but I’m the one that’s teaching him,” he chastised.
“Have him press his hands forward,” Easy Earl said relentlessly.
J Dub tilted his head forward and looked out the top of his eyes at Easy Earl. “I don’t want to give him too much to think about. He’s just begun to learn.” The pro turned back to Opur. “We’re not going to get much accomplished with all of those comments from the peanut gallery.”
Opur looked at J Dub. “Huh?”
“There’s too many people telling you what to do. I don’t want you to pay any attention to them.” He reached down and picked up the balls and motioned to Opur. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going to go?”
J Dub headed off of the putting surface and headed for the cart barn. “Come on. I’ve got a couple of ideas.” As the pair walked off the green J Dub turned to his regulars. “I don’t want you guys messing with my prized pupil.” For a mild-mannered guy J Dub could lower the boom when he wanted. He didn’t want any of them to wonder who the boss was on the property. “If you guys want to offer some tips, then there’s a whole crew of kids around here that you can talk to. You’ve done enough by giving him a nickname.”
The trio of old-timers shared bewildered looks as the tone in J Dub’s voice got the point across.
Opur followed J Dub through the door of the cart barn. Bogey was on their heels and bolted for his bowl of water. The pro headed to the wooden work bench, opened and closed a few of the drawers, then grabbed a roll of tape. “This might help.”
“What’s that?” Opur asked. “It looks like tape.”
J Dub cut off a piece and placed it on the back of the putter head. “It is.” He applied pressure to make sure the tape stuck. “It’s lead tape.”
“Huh?”
“It adds weight to the club. I want to put a few strips on here to give the putter some extra weight.” He cut off another piece and placed it over the first piece that he had put on the club. “It looked to me like you were picking the club up just a little instead of staying down and moving the club face through the ball.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t. But everything has come natural to you up to now. There’s going to be somewhere along the line where little things fall out of place and you’re going to have to be technically correct. This is just a little aid that might help.”
The head pro cut off another strip. “It goes back to what I was saying when we drove off of the range. This is a humbling sport. Not everything is going to go the way you want it. I don’t care how good you are, you’re going to meet some adversity out there every day that you play.”
Opur soaked up every word. It seemed like he intuitively knew that what the head pro was saying was true. “Now what are you doing?”
J Dub gripped the putter and took a couple of swings at an imaginary ball. “This extra weight might work.” He examined the grip. “But we have to get a new one of these.”
Opur protested. “I like that.”
The leather grip had seen better days. The bands were unraveling and parts of the grip were worn. “That’s because you don’t know any better.” J Dub searched the work bench for another tool. He found a knife with a razor blade that was generally used to cut carpet.
“What are you going to do?” It was amazing how the relaxed golf environment curtailed his stuttering.
J Dub cut the old leather grip lengthwise. He opened the grip along the cut line, ripped it off the shaft and threw it in the garbage can. “Trash it,” he said with a smile.
“Yeah, but I like it,” Opur repeated.
“You’ll like the new one better.” J Dub began unraveling the tape that was still on the shaft underneath the grip. One spot was difficult to remove but he took the knife and scraped the remnants off the club.
“How are you going to fix it now?”
J Dub went through some different drawers above the work bench until he came across a roll of tape. “This is carpet tape. It’s sticky on both sides.” The pro positioned the shaft between his legs and wrapped the tape around the top of the club. He grabbed the shaft closer to the putter head being careful not to touch the tape and walked away.
“Where are you going?”
J Dub walked to a wall where the gas cans were stored. He grabbed a can of lighter fluid. “Make sure no one is smoking in here.”
“It’s just you and me.”
The pro smiled. He popped the top on the can of lighter fluid and doused the tape. “That oughta do the job.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I’m old school. A lot of the guys use rubber cement nowadays, but this is the way I was taught. The fluid acts as a lubricant.” J Dub returned to the work bench and placed the shaft into a vice. He tightened the pressure so that the shaft was parallel to the ground and rummaged through a box off the side of the work bench.
