James Ross - A Young Adult Trilogy (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  “Anything is possible,” the fifty-year-old guy that could pass for a surfer dude answered. “It depends on if he shoots himself out of the tournament. He hasn’t started off too hot the first two days.”

  Percy Fewell Oglethorpe III was the number one ranked player in professional golf. He had grown up as the legacy to his family’s oil fortune in Texas. At six foot five, the popular icon was in the prime of his career. He could drive the ball nearly three hundred fifty yards with pinpoint accuracy. His iron play was polished and he seemed to will the ball into the hole when putting on the greens.

  Since the outset Percy went by his middle name of Fewell. From that came the nickname Tank as it was aptly evident that there was plenty of gas in his game. Tank grew up in a country club environment, had the best golf instructors that money could buy and never had to worry about paying a monthly bill.

  He marched through the amateur ranks, accepted a full scholarship to college, rewrote the NCAA record books and won the first tournament that he played in as a pro. Women worshiped every movement he made, with or without a golf club. Corporate sponsors threw millions of bucks his way and the media credited him with resurrecting the game of golf on television.

  Even the guys on the plane were fans of the world’s most talented golfer. For years they had played in the morning and crowded around the television sets in the afternoon to witness his feats on the tour stop of the week. With a dozen and a half major victories to his credit Tank entered each major championship as the odds-on favorite to win.

  “At least Opur made the cut,” Elia said.

  “Made da cut?” YouWho questioned. “He be jus’ a foo shots off da lead.” With his black bangs, dark rimmed glasses and overbite he looked more like an absent-minded professor than a Japanese businessman transplanted to the United States.

  “It depends on what he does today,” Curt said. Julie delivered beverages to the guys and passed out dollar sandwiches that she had prepared.

  “J Dub has to be having the time of his life,” Dr. DV said. “Have you had a chance to talk to him?”

  “Just briefly,” Curt answered. “He said that the course is unbelievable and that they have to stick to their game plan. You know, one momentary lapse might lead to a triple bogey or something.”

  “They made it through Indian Ambush okay the first couple of days,” Dr. DV said.

  “J Dub said they caught a break with a favorable wind when they went through that set of holes,” Curt said. He took a bite out of a sandwich, looked at Julie and gave her the thumbs up sign.

  “We’ve seen many golfers ruin a round over the years at that point on the course,” Pork Chop added.

  The guys felt the rush of the engines as Captain Jer sped down the runway and lifted the plane into the air. “It won’t be long now!” Elia shouted in a distinct Middle Eastern accent. The landmarks of St. Louis came into view and rapidly passed out of sight as the private jet climbed into a layer of clouds.

  Once the plane leveled off Julie approached Captain Jer. “How did you get certified on this?”

  “It’s something that I always did,” the retired pilot said. His mood was serious and matter-of-fact. There was no kidding around in the cockpit. He took his responsibility seriously. “After I left the airlines I thought it would be nice to fly corporate executives around the country.” He took a can of soda from Julie. “I’ve been all over the world.”

  Julie was impressed. A gentler, softer side of Jerry was emerging. “Any close calls?”

  “You mean flying?”

  “Yes,” Julie answered. Curt, Scottie P, BowTye, BT and Paco walked to the front of the cabin and looked over her shoulder. They all had an opportunity to watch what Captain Jer did and look out the front of the plane. “Tell me one.”

  Captain Jer thought for a second. “I don’t want to disappoint.” He had the settings on autopilot. “Hmmm, the life of a pilot.” He turned and looked at the crowd that had gathered behind him. “I guess you want to hear about the near misses.”

  “I sure the heck don’t want to hear about your conquests,” Julie blurted.

  “Why not?” BT butted in. “He’s told us about some good ones out on the golf course.”

  “That’s a good place to keep them,” Julie countered. “I want to hear about the anxiety attacks.”

  Captain Jer closed his mouth, smiled at the corners and raised his eyebrows. “You’re a sadist, huh?”

  “Dammit, Jerry! Don’t go there. You want to make everything sexual!”

  “Hey, it’s what makes the world go ‘round.” He backed off. “Okay, let’s see. What about the lightning strike? You know,” he paused, “that’s part of the job.”

  “What happened?” Julie pried.

  “You get miniature strikes all the time that bounce off the windshield. But I remember this one night over the Pacific. It was dark. There were flashes in the distance and a hit or two off the nose. Actually there were more than usual that night.” He seemed to drift as his memory recalled the experience. “Then all of a sudden. No warning. A fireball rolled up the underbelly of the plane. The bolt went over the right wing and took out the aileron.” He snapped his fingers. “It was over that quick. Then it was pitch black again.”

  “Were you scared?” Julie asked with eyes as wide as a boulevard.

  Captain Jer shrugged. “It comes with the territory. I was more concerned about the passengers that night. We had nearly three hundred on board.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Flew the plane,” Jerry said nonchalantly. “It made for an anxious landing. But we put her down safely in Honolulu.”

  “Anything else?” Julie loved to hear about experiences that she would never get to witness.

  “Most of my close calls came in the military,” Captain Jer continued.

  “You would think that would be safe,” Julie assumed.

  “Ha! Are you kidding?” Jerry said. “They’ve got the worst equipment. There was always something breaking down. Terrible maintenance. It was an everyday occurrence for an engine to conk out it seemed.”

  “How can you fly the plane with an engine out?”

  “They’ll still fly,” Captain Jer said with a laugh. “You make use of the ones that are still working.” He thought for a second. “I remember when I was new to flying. I was stationed in Guam. We had a party. Pretty little Filipino nurses all over the place.”

  “I knew he’d get to a story with women in it,” BT blared.

  Captain Jer laughed. “You know what they say about young, dumb and full of . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Julie interrupted.

  “I was certainly all of the above when I was twenty-four. And the beer was going down so smooth.” He smiled as he relived the moment. “These little Filipino women,” he turned over his shoulder and looked at Julie, “you know.” He cupped his hands about twelve inches apart and shook his head from side to side. “They are so fine!”

  “I want to find out about what happened to the plane,” Julie said. Then her mouth flew open. “Jerry, you didn’t take them into the cockpit, did you?”

  Captain Jer smiled. “No, but if I would have thought of that at the time I might have.” He started laughing. “They kept me up all night.” He shook his head. “I had a mission the next day. We were flying over the ocean. It had already gotten dark. Then an engine went out.”

  “Noooooo,” Julie drawled.

  “I was beat and was nodding off as it was.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the seat still looking out the windshield. “We were flying into a small airport in Japan. I’d never heard of the place and don’t remember the name of it to this day. Pitch black. The fog rolled in. Mountains were everywhere. One engine. And I’m falling asleep on the landing. Dead tired. Hung over.”

  “See what kind of trouble that thing behind your zipper gets you into,” Julie said.

  “Whew. Tell me,” Captain Jer acknowledged. “Falling asleep when landing a
plane adds to the excitement.”

  “Have you ever fallen asleep in the cockpit?” Julie asked.

  “There are just some things we don’t talk about,” Jerry scolded her. “If the public knew . . .” His voice trailed off. “Oh, never mind.”

  Julie gave him one of her looks. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Jerry looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t want you falling asleep up here right now.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” the retired pilot said.

  “How much longer?” Curt asked.

  Jerry looked at his instrument panel. “We’ll start the descent in a few minutes. Get the cabin cleaned up. We should be on the ground in twenty minutes.”

  The group headed back to their seats. Dr. DV was in charge of the accommodations. “We’ll have valet service from the airport to the hotel.” He handed everyone their ticket. “This is only good for tomorrow so there’s no sense in getting near the entrance today.”

  “Get me to a TV,” Pork Chop yelled.

  “We can watch it in the hotel bar or Jerry and I have a three-room suite. You guys are more than welcome to come up to our room and watch the rest of today’s action up there.” He passed out another ticket.

  “What’s this for?” Fred asked.

  “J Dub got us into the hospitality tent for dinner. We’ll go over there together after the round is over. There might be a few players milling around. I don’t know what to expect. It’s a VIP sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know if my belly can wait that long,” Pork Chop replied. “I’m famished.”

  Julie offered him the plate of dollar sandwiches as Captain Jer took the Legacy Shuttle down for a smooth landing.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  “Look, there he is!” Pork Chop yelled to Fred.

  “Who?” Fred said as he looked around the interior of the hospitality tent. “Where?”

  “It’s Tank!” Pork Chop pointed toward the far corner.

  “Holy sh . . . !” Fred exclaimed as the world’s number one golfer came into view. “J Dub did us good. How did we rate this?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s see how close we can get to him,” Pork Chop said as he tried to get as thin as he could to squeeze through the throngs of people. Fred only frustrated himself trying to follow.

  “Pork Chop!”

  His chubby friend stopped and turned around. “What?”

  “Think about what you’re doing.”

  Pork Chop reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny pad of paper. “I’m going to try to get his autograph.”

  “Come on!” Fred chastised his buddy. “He’s not going to sign any autographs in here tonight.” He grabbed the tablet out of Pork Chop’s hand.

  “Hey! Give that back!”

  “Calm down. We’re in Opur’s camp this weekend,” Fred started. “Look at him.” He pointed to the opposite corner. Three fourths of the media was crammed around their friend’s table. “He’s the one that shot lights out today.”

  “And we missed it,” Pork Chop lamented.

  “But he opened up a five-shot lead and he’s paired with Tank tomorrow. Think about it. We’re going to get an opportunity to walk eighteen holes with J Dub, Opur and Tank! How much better can it get on our first trip to The Classic?”

  Pork Chop stopped for a second to comprehend what he just heard. His smile stretched from ear to ear. “It doesn’t get any better than that, does it?” He gave Fred a high five. “Yes! How good is life?” He danced a little jig.

  “That’s where we oughta be going,” Fred said as he motioned toward Opur’s table.

  “Hey, isn’t that Trent Tee?” He pointed to the voice of television golf. Christened Trent Thomas the sportscaster legally shortened his last name to appeal to the broad golf audience. After a successful high school career in sports he accepted a scholarship to college. His limited level of talent lead to a career riding the bench, but one that paid for a degree in sports journalism.

  After marrying his high school sweetheart Trent subsequently dumped her after fathering three children. His life on the road included private jet excursions and roughly three hundred thirty nights a year in a hotel room. After years of philandering and countless sexual liaisons the proverbial younger woman entered his life.

  His distinction included a boyish face and neatly trimmed black hair that he dyed at the temples. The cameras loved his look. But when Trent opened his voice the pipes filled the airwaves with confidence, entertainment and political correctness. He was a true poster boy for network television and the executives at The Classic loved his presentation.

  Once again Fred turned in the direction that Pork Chop had gestured. Trent Tee was seated with Opur getting as much material as he could for Sunday’s broadcast. Less-known media personnel and assorted cameramen crowded the area. After shooting a sixty-four on Saturday Opur had become the tournament sensation. “How are we going to be able to get a seat at that table?” the portly figure whined. He scoured the tent. “There’s J Dub and Morgan. They’ve even been pushed to the corner.”

  A very pregnant Morgan clearly looked perturbed. The publicity around her significant other happened instantaneously. Hormone imbalance associated with the upcoming childbirth contributed to mood swings. Part of her was elated at the recent success of her boyfriend. The other part, however, was deprived of the attention she desperately sought. She stood against the canvas wall of the tent, arms folded over her belly. Her foot tapped nervously, a sure indication that she was ready to go.

  “We need to get over to J Dub and find out what we’re supposed to be doing,” Fred said. “I’m sure nobody expected this kind of attention.” Curt, Julie, BowTye and the others that flew down from Prairie Winds had the same intentions. They all converged on J Dub at the same time.

  “What the heck happened out there today?” Curt asked his brother.

  “He couldn’t do anything wrong,” J Dub started. “We could get to all of the pins. He was rolling the ball perfectly and everything was going in.”

  “We’ve seen that before, haven’t we?” Fred agreed.

  “It was one of the most amazing rounds I’ve ever seen,” J Dub said. “He saved par two times out of nowhere early in the round and then he went on a run where he birdied seven out of ten holes.” The head pro took a sip of soda. “The roars from the crowd were deafening. It was exciting!”

  They looked at Opur. His long hair gave him the appearance of a rock star more than a golfer. His demeanor was calm and modest. Patiently he answered the questions that came his way. His emotions were spent. But the euphoria that accompanied the success caused the adrenalin to flow. Uncharacteristically he finished a beer and reached for another.

  Morgan stewed. Her footwork sped up. Julie noticed her anxiousness and confronted her. “Are you doing all right?”

  “It’s been a long day. My feet are killin’ me,” she complained.

  “Did you walk the course with him?” Julie asked.

  “Every hole,” Morgan verified.

  “You’re almost eight months pregnant!” Julie said.

  “The doctor said it was fine. It’s just that I’m ready to go back to the cottage.” Morgan looked at Opur in the corner. Lights were shining on his head and microphones were in front of his face. “We were gonna have a quiet dinner.”

  “I’m sure that he didn’t plan on all of the interest,” Julie countered as she thought back to all the years that he had been coming around Prairie Winds, “but he’s been working toward this moment for all his life.”

  “Like I said,” Morgan said, “it’s been a long day. I’m tired.”

  And cranky, Julie thought. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I need some food, a hot bath and a comfortable bed.” She looked at Opur impatiently. “But I don’t think you can get any of that for me and it looks like none of that’s gonna happen tonight.” She gave Julie a look of dismay. “I’ll stick it out.”

  “Let me get you a ch
air at least,” Julie said as she cleared off the table, tidied up a spot for both of them and pulled up two chairs. Morgan pushed her lower lip out as she glared at Opur then reluctantly plopped herself onto a chair.

  “Somebody’s not getting the attention she wants,” Curt said as he nudged Dr. DV then nodded his head in the direction of Julie and Morgan. J Dub had privately told his brother that his biggest concern was that Morgan would ruin any chance that Opur might have in professional golf.

  The veterinarian noticed what looked like a pissed-off attitude exuding from Morgan. “She is very pregnant,” Dr. DV started. “I’m not a human doctor but that can do strange things to the female body.” He studied her some more. In an understatement he continued. “She’s not a happy camper. It looks to me like her hormones are raging out of control.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  “Nobody told me anything about that,” Pork Chop said as the band struck up tunes from a stage at one side of the tent.

  “That’s Daddy Mac and the Furkinators!” Fred replied. “I used to go down to The Digit all the time and listen to them.” He had a cardboard boat full of nachos in his left hand and stuffed a cheese-topped tortilla chip into his mouth. “Hmm. These are good!” One by one he licked the orange goo off his fingers. “And I just love these!” He grabbed a jalapeno pepper and put it on his tongue.

  “Ouch,” Pork Chop said. “I don’t know what hurts more. That thing going in today or coming out tomorrow.”

  “Oh, they’re good,” Fred said as he put another cheese-covered chip overloaded with taco meat, black olives and sour cream in his mouth. With his mouth full he continued, “This is a feast.” He and Pork Chop pulled up chairs and joined BT, Curt, Captain Jer, Elia and Paco around a table.

  “That spicy food tears me up,” Pork Chop followed. “Ever since Dr. Jelly Finger got done with me I can’t eat that stuff.”

  “Dr. Jelly Finger?” Fred asked.

  “Yeah, you know,” Pork Chop continued, “the guy that makes you drop your pants and tells you to bend over. Then he gets that rubber glove out, lubes it up and the next thing you know . . .”