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

by James Ross

  “What are you guys talking about?” Elia interrupted.

  “ . . . your eyes almost pop out of their sockets,” Pork Chop finished.

  “I’m eating!” Fred mumbled with his mouth full of nachos.

  “We’re talking about Dr. Jelly Finger,” Pork Chop said to the guys at the table. “Ever since he went in there and cut my hemorrhoids out, I can’t eat spicy foods like what Fred’s eating right now.”

  A deep, rich voice resonated from the microphone. “And now I’d like to welcome a good friend to join me,” Daddy Mac announced. “Let’s have a warm Classic welcome for the king of rockabilly blues—Mr. Peel It Backe!” With a hop, skip and tiny jump onto the stage BowTye joined his buddy. After brief greetings the band broke into a set of country, jazz blues that had everyone inside the tent moving like synchronized swimmers.

  The interaction between the two polished stage performers proved that their bond was deep. Years and years of playing the river towns up and down the Mississippi as well as the backwoods bars of the South had cemented their relationship. That feeling came across in their music. The crowd felt it. The tent was rocking. There was a party going on.

  “I see that there is an old friend of mine in attendance,” Daddy Mac said into the mic after a few songs. He looked over to the table in the corner where Opur was seated. A few reporters were straggling around the area trying to get as much of a quote as they could from the tourney leader. “I’d like to welcome him to the stage.” He strummed a few chords. “Mr. Owen Purler . . . but I’m sure that you know him better as Opur.”

  Opur sat dazed. The entire day seemed to be surreal. First the great round of golf, then the media mob and now an invite to get up on stage with his friend from several years back. He excused himself from the media and apprehensively strolled to the stage. BowTye handed him a microphone. “I don’t know what to say. The last ten hours have been a dream.” BowTye handed him a bass guitar.

  “What did I tell you a long time ago?” Daddy Mac asked. “There’s no need for words.” He raised his mug in the air. “Just have a sociable.” He smiled and tipped his drink to his lips. Three seconds later the band broke into another round of tunes. Strumming on the bass guitar was like riding a bike to Opur. After pounding down a sociable he didn’t miss a beat.

  “What’s he doin’ up there now?” Morgan complained to Julie. “Where’s J Dub?”

  “I don’t know what he can do for him,” Julie answered.

  “He can tell him how much of a fool he looks,” Morgan moaned. “What does he think he is?” She questioned her own statement. “A rock star or something?” She crossed her right leg over her left knee and started rubbing her foot. “I wanna go home.”

  Julie got J Dub’s attention and motioned for him to come over to the table. “Morgan needs your help.”

  “Can’t you get him down off that stage?”

  “He played with Daddy Mac a long time ago. Let him have some fun,” the pro replied. “He needs to stay loose.”

  “I don’t think he needs those sociables,” Morgan bitched. She watched as Opur drank another beer in record time.

  “He not a big drinker,” J Dub said. “Having a few will help him sleep.”

  “That’s my job,” Morgan said.

  J Dub looked at her stomach. “Now?”

  “Oh, cut it out,” Morgan griped.

  J Dub looked at Julie. “There’s not much I can do to help. I’m going to go and visit with the guys.” He walked off not wanting to get involved.

  “Now what’s he doin’?” Morgan grumbled. Opur slammed down a shot that had come from the crowd. The people at Tank’s table were laughing. “Somebody stop him.”

  Julie shrugged. She was intent listening to the band. BowTye had become one of her favorite entertainers. To see him on stage with Daddy Mac was making her trip as much as watching Opur golf. “Calm down. He’s not hurting anything.” Morgan was starting to get on her nerves.

  Morgan threw her napkin onto the table. “Fine! I’ll do it myself.” She threw her purse over her shoulder and stormed up to the front of the stage. “Opur, what are you doin’ up there?”

  The band was in the middle of a song. Opur did what he had done very well one summer. He continued to play and smiled without saying a word. The snub infuriated Morgan even more. With pick strumming the bass guitar he raised his right index finger, the smile and glaze in his eyes etched in Morgan’s mind. He cocked his head and bobbed it to the beat of the music.

  “Opur, get down off that stage right now!” she yelled as the song faded out.

  A fun night on the guitar was turning into a public spat. Opur inched his way to the side of the bandstand and leaned over to Morgan. “Hold on,” he whispered, “I’ll leave at the end of the set.” He took a step toward Daddy Mac. Then he leaned back toward Morgan. “Is there anything you’d like?”

  “Yeah, for you to get off that stage and walk me home.”

  “We can get a couple of black guys around here for that.”

  “Oh, you son-of-a- . . . !” Morgan reached into her purse and grabbed her cell phone. In a fit of anger she hurled it at Opur. From a few feet away the missile struck home catching him in the right temple and above the right eyebrow.

  The force of the cell phone knocked Opur to the ground. Dazed, he reached for his head, blood oozing from a laceration. He shook his head rapidly trying to shake out the cobwebs. People rushed the stage.

  Morgan stormed out of the tent.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Second Sunday in May . . . 2009

  “Good day ladies and gentleman,” the announcer began. “Welcome to final round coverage of The Classic which is being brought to you today uninterrupted and free of commercials. My name is Trent Tee. We’ll be here to give you coverage on all eighteen holes during the final round of The Classic unless of course there is a playoff. In that event we’ll stay until there is a winner of the prized fedora.”

  “And I’m Callum Foss,” the co-announcer said. He was a two-time winner of The Classic before retiring from golf and becoming a color commentator. At the height of his playing career Callum won four major tournaments and dominated the tour for three years.

  Hailing from England, the past champion spoke with a distinct British accent. Being somewhat of a free spirit Callum was quite outspoken with his comments and actions. Early in his broadcasting career he challenged his network bosses. A coat and tie was standard attire in the booth, but Callum insisted on wearing a golf shirt. He was taken off the air, but the American public demanded his return. So he won the mini power struggle and got to wear a golf shirt when broadcasting while Trent Tee brought the action to the viewing public wearing a coat and tie.

  “Callum, will anything be able to top yesterday’s action?” Trent asked.

  “I see we’ve already had some controversy today,” Callum replied. “Due to inclement weather forecast for later today the governing body has moved the tee times up one hour. The hope is to get all play completed before the rough weather hits.”

  “We’ll see in due time if that decision pays off,” Trent said. “Looking at the storm on radar it looks like that is good judgment. Meanwhile all of the pairings are on the course with the exception of the final twosome which is due to tee off in about two minutes. Callum, offer your thoughts on Saturday’s action.”

  “The field ran into a hot golfer. The kid came out of nowhere. I’ve never seen someone make as many putts as he did out there yesterday.”

  “You’ve played here before,” Trent said. “What’s it like?”

  “Imagine you’re at the bottom of a water well shaft that is straight up and down. Then pour two tubs of grease inside it and try to find daylight. That’s how slick these greens are,” Callum replied. “Try to climb your arse out of that.”

  “Then what’s the secret to playing this course? You’ve had success here in the past.”

  Callum rubbed his hand through his hair. “For Gawd’s sake, Trent,
it’s imperative to stay on the proper side of the hole. What I mean by that is that the player must be below the cup. And that is so tough to do. With the weather drying things out, the greens aren’t very receptive to the approach shots. It’s like bringing the ball down on an asphalt parking lot right now. Trying to place it exactly where you want is nearly impossible,” Callum said. “But that is only part of the battle. Television doesn’t do justice to the greens. What the viewing public can’t see are the elephants that are buried under the putting surface. I swear they had an archaeology dig here at one time in the past.”

  “I can see where coming into some of these pin placements a player would have a tough time stopping the ball.”

  “You’re bloody right, Trent. Spot on. I talked with the greens keeper before coming on air and he said that the Stimpmeter was running at thirteen point eight. That’s unheard of. If you’re above the hole your bum’s in a pickle.”

  “Can you explain to the audience exactly what that means?” Trent questioned his color analyst.

  “It’s not real scientific,” Callum went on. “Basically it’s a metal ramp that they angle toward the ground. The greens keeper will roll a ball down the ramp and they will measure how far the ball rolls. The farther it rolls, the faster the greens.”

  “Can you put that in terms for the average player?”

  “Most players of the game play on public golf courses. At those sites the greens have a Stimp of nine to nine-and-a-half,” Callum explained. “So you can see that here, at thirteen point eight, a player has the almost impossible task of simply getting the ball to stop. If he is above the hole the putt simply won’t cease rolling.”

  “Unless of course it goes in the hole,” Trent interrupted.

  “Ah, yes. Which is exactly what separates the winner from the field,” Callum replied. “Mind you, winning this golf tournament is no easy task. To win a player needs to concentrate all day. Blimeys are lurking everywhere. One mistake can spell disaster.”

  “We saw some of that yesterday,” Trent said. “The field struggled, but we saw one player distance himself from the pack.”

  “Yes we did,” Callum began, “Owen Purler is quite a story in the making. I don’t even know if the public knows that is his name. For the last three days we’ve simply been calling him Opur.”

  “Can you tell us a little bit about him?”

  “If they watched yesterday’s action they know a lot about him,” Callum said. “Opur got into the tournament on what we’d like to call a sponsor’s exemption. He won the English Amateur Chalice. That was open to the finest amateur players in the world. The young man played like the dog’s bollocks. My hat’s off to him.”

  “That’s a story in itself,” Trent added. “This is his first professional tournament.”

  That’s right,” Callum said. “He turned pro prior to teeing off on Thursday. I guess he’s an old pro by now with three rounds under his belt.” He chuckled at the irony.

  “With that limited experience we’ll see what he’s made of today,” Trent followed. “Over the years we’ve seen more than one player melt under the pressure of Sunday at The Classic.”

  The pair looked from their television tower toward the first tee. “I’d like to add a couple of things before we join the action,” Callum said. “The youngster has a five-stroke lead. That’s in his favor. I think that the rest of the field is far too off the pace to be a factor.” He licked his lips. “One thing going for him is his caddy. J Dub Schroeder is a pro. In fact, Opur learned the game from him as a child growing up. J Dub will keep him in the match.”

  Trent spoke quickly. “He was fortunate to be able to add a caddy with that experience. Since this is an invitation only event, teaching pros acting as caddies are allowed.”

  “That’s right,” Callum confirmed. “The other thing is that he’ll be playing against his main competition. Tank Oglethorpe is the guy to beat in my opinion.”

  “We’ve seen him do it so many times in the past,” Trent said.

  “He’s the number one ranked player in the world for a reason,” Callum said. “He’s a fierce competitor . . . and he’s used to taking home the prize.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s join the action on the first tee,” Trent replied.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The starter on the first tee at The Classic was an older gentleman that was in his thirty-third year of announcing the players to the crowd. He was almost as much of a fixture of the tournament as the property. Dressed in knickers, long-sleeved shirt and button-down sweater, he was an institution much like the fedora with the two-foot blue plume that sat atop his head.

  “I can’t believe we’re here,” Pork Chop whispered to Fred. Both were standing on the tips of their toes in an attempt to see through the crowd.

  “It looks just like it does on television,” Fred said as if it was going to be different.

  “On the tee, hitting first today, from Prairie Winds Golf Course east of St. Louis, please give a warm Classic welcome to Owen Purler, Junior,” the starter announced to the thousands in attendance.

  Dressed in black Dockers and a light blue golf shirt with dark blue horizontal pin strips Opur looked like a player straight off any one of the many public golf courses that dotted the United States. He wore a white visor to shade his face. With his long locks flowing well past the line of his collar he had become a teen idol virtually overnight. He drew a deep, nervous breath of air and exhaled slowly.

  “We’ll find out what he’s made of right here,” Callum said from his chair in the TV booth.

  “The first hole at The Classic has been lengthened to four hundred and eighty-five yards,” Trent said.

  “It’s a split fairway that can reward those players that go for the shortcut,” Callum added. “The hole was originally designed as a dogleg to the right, but what the tournament committee has done is provide a landing area on the right side for those players that want to try to carry the ball three hundred yards over the heather.”

  “But today the wind has changed a little.”

  “That’s right, Trent. During the first three rounds, the wind was at the players back. Taking the shortcut was an easy decision. But today the wind is quartered at the golfer. It forces the player to think right out of the chute.”

  “I’m sure that his caddy has noted that,” Trent reminded the audience. “But Opur’s so long off the tee it may not matter.”

  Opur steadied himself over the ball. He pulled the driver back and exploded into the ball.

  “Oh he’s pushed it a tad. The final day at the Classic has a way of doing that to the faint of heart,” Callum said at contact. His analysis of the golf swing was immediate. “That’s not good. The ball will definitely find the heather.”

  Trent looked at the picture on the screen. “I wonder if that has anything to do with the injury he suffered last night.”

  “I see that he’s got a bandage above his eye and on the right side of it as well,” Callum said.

  “We met for a media session after yesterday’s round,” Trent began, “and I heard that after we left he was involved in a little mishap.”

  “Let’s call it like it was, Mate.” Callum had an on-air habit of being blunt. “It was a domestic dispute. He caught a little slag from his main squeeze. She was a bit stroppy, called him a wanker and sent him arse over elbow.”

  “There you have it ladies and gentleman. Now let’s get back to the first tee,” Trent said.

  The starter stood with clipboard in hand. “Now on the tee from Houston, Texas is Tank Oglethorpe.” They shook hands, Tank’s perfect teeth glistening on his bronze face.

  He looked as relaxed as a kitten lying in the warm sun. He was dressed in light brown, pressed business slacks and wore a short-sleeved, lime green shirt covered by a white sweater vest. It was his standard wardrobe for action on Sunday. Atop his head was a black ball cap with enough advertisement to resemble a stock car at the race track.

 
“Will he try for the shortcut too?” Trent asked Callum.

  “I don’t see why not,” the past champion replied. “These guys are long enough. He only has to make a good swing.”

  Tank plastered the ball. He hit it long and straight.

  “Not too far,” Trent coaxed.

  “That’s three hundred and sixty yards to the heather past the landing area. If the ball comes up short he’ll only have a sand wedge left,” Callum added. As if on cue the wind held the ball up just enough and it landed perfectly for an easy approach shot. “This is not the way the kid wanted this day to start. We’ve got an easy birdie/bogey scenario shaping up.”

  “That would be a two-shot swing.”

  “And Tank would only be three back. A hot golfer can make that up quickly on this course,” the Englishman conceded.

  “My head is killing me,” Opur said to J Dub as the pair headed to the heather right of the fairway. Being inside the ropes was a luxury that few got to experience. It offered the competitors a kind of solitude that no other sport offers.

  “Did you take some painkillers?” J Dub asked. He could walk faster than Opur even with a loop over his shoulder and toting a bag full of clubs.

  “So many that I can barely keep my eyes open. Do we have lots of water in the bag? My mouth is dry.”

  “I’ll get some more on the next tee.” J Dub reached in the bag and handed Opur a bottle of water. “There’s the marshal.” He pointed into the heather that was knee high. “Let’s go see what we’ve got.”

  The duo approached the ball. Opur thanked the volunteer for finding the ball. He turned to J Dub. “What’s our yardage?”

  J Dub pulled the yardage book out of his pocket. He walked about forty yards, took a pencil out and came up with a figure. “The front of the trap is forty-six yards. It’s one hundred and two to clear it. Then you have the greenside bunker and a tight pin.”

  Opur crossed his arms over his chest. He took both hands and pressed on the sides of his head. Then he shifted them to the front of his face. “It’s too early in the round for this crap.” He sighed and then persisted. “My head’s killing me.”