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

by James Ross

  “Today we’ve got a cross wind blowing from right to left. The front of the green is heavily guarded by bunkers. It is very firm and doesn’t hold well at all. A shot that is long is liable to release to the collection area behind the green. That’s jail and probably a bogey.”

  “What’s the proper way to play the shot?” Trent asked.

  “It sets up for a high cut. The wind will take a little juice out of the ball and encourage a soft landing. Take a three and get out of here. Most of the field would put that number on their card and place a smile on their face.”

  “Monique, what’s the update on Opur?” Trent asked.

  “After that two putt on the second green he scurried off to the comfort station.”

  “Nature calls for golfers too,” Callum threw in.

  “I don’t think it was quite like that,” Monique said. “Several people heard him,” she said before pausing, “how should I say it . . . upchucking?” She giggled. “Is that appropriate for an on-air comment?”

  “You said it,” Trent followed. “What was that about, Monique?”

  “He’s not feeling well. After exiting the toilette,” she giggled again, “or should I say lavatory?”

  “If that’s offensive then call it the WC,” Callum suggested.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” Trent blurted.

  “The water closet,” Callum explained.

  “That’s a new one.”

  “If you don’t like that then just call it the crapper,” Callum blurted.

  “Uh, hmm,” Trent mumbled as he cleared his throat.

  “There’s no eloquence here. You get the picture,” Monique continued. “He asked his caddy for a stick of gum.”

  “After he got done honking?”

  “Callum?” Trent admonished.

  “Would you prefer I say offering a little pavement pizza?” The Englishman laughed. “And there you have it,” Callum summarized. “He ate something that didn’t agree with him.”

  “We think,” Trent said. “He may not be feeling well.”

  “This shot is very similar to the one they had on their approach on number two,” Callum said. “Tank has the honors. I look for him to take the middle of the green and play it safe. This is not a pin to go after.” The world’s number one player did just that. His ball came to rest about twenty-five feet from the cup.

  “That’s a tough spot to come in from,” Trent said.

  “He’ll have a fast putt that should break about three to four feet,” Callum explained. “Look for him to lag it close and take a tap-in three.”

  “Now Opur has the tee,” Trent announced.

  “He’s got such a fundamentally sound setup,” Callum followed. “A very nice swing. I look for him to do the same.” They both watched as Opur’s shot hit the middle of the green. “It needs to hold!”

  “There’s a ridge toward the back of the green,” Trent said. “If it reaches that the ball might trickle off the back of the green.”

  “And down into that collection area,” Callum stated. “It better stop.” They both watched as the ball dribbled off the back of the green, picked up speed and ran thirty yards away in the collection area. “That’s simply tough luck. Now he’s got a very difficult pitch to get this ball on the green and save par.”

  “He missed the shot by less than a foot and has to pay a severe price,” Trent said.

  “Golf is a lot like life at times, isn’t it?” Callum asked. “It’s cruel when you’re oh so close, yet so far away.”

  Opur looked at J Dub, threw his head back and gazed at the skies. “Stay focused. Let’s get that puppy up and down,” the pro encouraged. He threw the bag over his shoulder and headed for the green.

  “Watch you tink uh dis place?” YouWho asked BowTye. The two were huddled with Scottie P and BT. They were standing fifteen feet away from where Opur’s ball came to rest.

  “It might as well be heaven on earth,” BowTye replied. Even on the golf course his burgundy beret found its place atop his head. He looked around. “I don’t think I’ve been to a place as beautiful.”

  “I’d ask if you noticed that lady over there in the sun dress,” BT said to Scottie P, “but I already know the answer.” As the live-in lover of Father Alphonso Blair, Scottie P was barely aware that women were around. BT nodded toward the side of the green. “The one in the white sun dress with navy polka dots has been walking around with us. She must be part of Tank’s entourage.”

  “You tink she’s a groupie?” YouWho asked as he overheard BT’s comment.

  “Dat woman sure have on quite dee hat,” BowTye said. The attractive dark haired woman had on a white floppy sunhat. She looked like she had just come from the Kentucky Derby.

  “There’s no question, you can’t miss her out here,” BT said.

  “Better keep ‘er away from Captain Jer,” BowTye said.

  “Whatchu tinkin’ Opur is goin’ to do here, Scottie P?” YouWho asked as the players reached the front of the green on their walk from the tee.

  Scottie P was a scratch player in his own right. He almost always had the low round when he teed it up with the boys at Prairie Winds. One look at Opur’s ball caused him to frown. “That an awfully tight lie. He needs to flop it and have it bite. If he can carry it past the pin and leave himself a straight uphill putt he’ll have a chance.”

  J Dub walked over to identify the ball and stood next to the bag. He and Opur were so focused on the task at hand they didn’t notice the group of regulars from Prairie Winds. “You’ve got this shot Opur. Leave yourself an uphill putt.” Opur grabbed his lob wedge took several practice swings then walked onto the green and surveyed the area where he wanted to land his ball.

  “What do you think, Callum?” Trent asked his partner in the booth.

  “Here’s a shot that takes a lot of intestinal fortitude,” the Englishman started. “This situation can be very intimidating. He’s playing with the number one player in the world. Tank is certain to get at least a par here. This is clutch.”

  Opur flopped the ball high in the air. The crowd roared as the shot hit the ground and barely released. “He pulled it off,” Trent announced.

  “Now we get to watch that Gawd-awful setup. I bet there aren’t a handful of players in the country that play right handed and putt left handed,” Callum said. “He should be able to handle this six-footer. There’s not much break. Maybe inside right. Firm.”

  It was Tank’s turn to putt. “The way he’s looking at this it looks like he’s trying to make it,” Trent said. “Can he start three under through three?”

  “Don’t put it past him. But it has a three-foot break. He has to think about stopping the ball,” Callum replied. “If he gets enough opportunities he’s going to make his share of putts.” They both watched as Tank’s putt rolled toward the hole. “It’s got great pace! Oooooh. Just over the left edge!” Tank fell to his knees as the ball grazed the cup.

  “He can’t complain about his start,” Trent rationalized.

  The pair watched as Opur rolled his ball to the back of the cup. “Four putts in three holes. If the kid can start hitting greens that blade might get him some birdies,” Callum said.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  “It doesn’t get any easier, does it Callum?”

  “Number four is straight uphill and today it’s playing into a stiff breeze. By the looks of those trees, that storm might get here a little quicker than they thought.” On the fourth tee Tank looked at his caddie before shifting his eyes to the rapidly moving clouds traversing the sky. “There’s quite a front moving in.”

  “That’s why they moved the tee times up an hour. Hopefully we can get the round in before the bad stuff hits.”

  Dickie Doo and Tank were longtime friends. They had originally met briefly when they were in high school playing amateur events in the Midwest and South. Each accepted a full scholarship to college and became teammates. Dickie Doo, from northern Ohio, was an up-and-comer on the golf scene unti
l he tore his Achilles heel making an early morning swing on some wet turf during his senior year in college. He never recovered enough to excel in the professional ranks.

  But Dickie Doo’s bond with Tank had been cemented. The two had become best friends. Tank respected Dickie Doo’s knowledge and golf acumen. Plus he could read greens like no other. He was an asset to the winning formula and the two were often seen running around town together after the work on the golf course had finished.

  “What do you think here?” Tank asked.

  “Keep it right center of the fairway,” Dickie Doo said. He pulled the yardage book out of his pocket along with the pin placements. “The pin is tucked back left. If we can come in from that angle we can take the trap out of play. Hit all you’ve got. We’ve got room.”

  “Let’s put this guy away,” Tank said as he took the head cover off of his driver. He stepped away from Dickie Doo, placed the club head on the ground, checked his hands and alignment and then made four practice swings.

  “Wind is at you. Rip it,” Dickie Doo encouraged. Tank did just that. He had a smug look on his face as he returned to his bag and handed his driver to his caddie.

  “I don’t like his caddie,” Julie said. “He looks as cocky as a rooster in a hen house.”

  “Heck with the caddie. These guys are like robots,” Captain Jer said. He and Dr. DV were standing with Julie and Morgan.

  “We all know how much hard work Opur has put in to perfect his game,” Julie said.

  “Tell me,” Morgan replied. “He lives, sleeps, drinks and talks golf all the time.” She patted her belly. “I don’t know if he’s gonna have time to help me with this.”

  “If he wins today,” Dr. DV said, “I’ve got a funny feeling you’re going to be on your own a lot this year.”

  “Should I be pullin’ for him?” Morgan asked the vet. Then she winked in his direction and smiled. “He wants this so bad.”

  “He’ll have to earn it today,” Dr. DV said. “It looks like Tank is on top of his game.”

  Monique scurried to the landing area. “Tank clobbered his drive into the wind,” she announced. “There’s a small sideboard ramp that he caught on the right side of the fairway that propelled the ball an extra sixty yards or thereabout after it hit the ground. He’s only got one hundred and twenty-three yards left to the back left hole location.”

  “That means he hit his drive three hundred and sixty yards into the wind,” Trent commented.

  “That’s huge in these conditions,” Monique added.

  “Tell that to the ordinary weekend player,” Callum replied. “Most of them need a driver and a mid-iron to hit the ball that far.” From the booth he looked down at Tank who was standing at least seventy yards ahead of Opur. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

  “Dickie Doo,” Tank said, “stand over here.” He motioned for his caddie to stand on the first cut of fringe. “They’re coming over here with the cameras. I want to give them my better side.” He sucked in his stomach, placed both hands above his buckle inside his belt line, continued them to the side and smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt. “How’s that look?” Dickie Doo flashed a subtle thumbs-up.

  “Everything is still lined up for next week, right?”

  “Yeah,” Tank replied. “We’ll get on You’re Da One and fly to LAX after the round tonight. Then it’s off to Australia for a week.”

  “One charity event and the rest of the time R and R?”

  “You got it.” Tank glanced over his shoulder. He rubbed some lip balm over his lips. “Here she comes; let’s act like we’re talking about the shot.”

  Dickie Doo retrieved the yardage book once again and handed it to Tank. The caddie then bent at the waist and examined how the ball was laying on the turf. He turned to Tank, “Clean lie. No mud on it.”

  “If there was ever a pin that he could get to, this is it,” Monique announced to the viewers. “He works the ball right to left. He can give himself room on the right side. Once the ball hits, it should release toward the pin.”

  “Then he’ll dial it in,” Callum confirmed. “I like his chances for birdie number three on the day.”

  “To say he’s on fire would be an understatement,” Trent added. “Tank is on a mission to take his nineteenth major championship.”

  On the course J Dub and Opur faced a different battle. “You’ve got one hundred eighty-three yards to the pin,” J Dub said. “Middle of the green here is the shot.”

  “One more club?” Opur asked.

  “You bet,” J Dub confirmed. “Commit to it.”

  Seconds later, after the swing Opur blurted, “Dammit. I missed it, J Dub.”

  “Watch this ride up the elevator shaft,” Callum said on air.

  “The wind has it,” Trent confirmed. “That should find the greenside bunker.”

  “Worse yet,” Callum said, “that will short side him. Oh my, this could be disastrous for him with Tank in the position that he’s in.” The ball fell into the sand trap. “The young man has to start hitting greens.”

  Tank licked his chops. He had the green light to put the ball close and chose to hit a pitching wedge. With his favorite club in his hand Tank stuck the ball seven feet from the hole. After the ball checked and spun to a stop Dickie Doo put his fist in the air for Tank to tap. “That a way to stick it!”

  “That’s almost gimme distance. We’ve seen this once before today,” Callum said. “Opur is looking at dropping four strokes in four holes if he doesn’t get his ball out of the sand and into the cup.”

  As the players marched to the front of the green Monique surveyed the lie of the ball in the sand. “Opur caught a little bit of a tough break,” she started as the camera zoomed in to show the ball. “He’s on a slight downhill slope up against the far lip. He has to pick his club up on a steep angle and stop it quickly.”

  “What kind of odds do you give him?” Callum asked.

  Monique walked away to whisper in the mic. “One in five maybe. He’s a good player but it will take some incredible talent to get this ball close to the hole.”

  “Come on, Opur,” Morgan whispered as her boyfriend climbed into the sand trap. She and Julie and Dr. DV were holding hands with fingers crossed.

  “You’ve got this shot,” J Dub said. “Stay focused.” At impact Opur jerked his head so that he was looking back toward the tee. Sand blew up against the back of his neck and down his shirt. “Grab! Bite!” J Dub yelled. The ball bit, kicked slightly to the right and spun back. “Now go in!” A roar from the crowd caromed across the countryside. The ball just missed the side of the hole and stopped four inches past the cup.

  “Wow!” Callum exploded on air. “That’s some kind of talent right there.”

  The smirk on Tank’s face disappeared. He and Dickie Doo suddenly realized the importance of the next shot.

  “You know, this isn’t quite as simple as we originally thought,” Trent said. “It’s straight downhill. If it gets away from him he could have a longer putt coming back up the slope.”

  “Don’t think that Tank isn’t aware of that,” Callum said.

  They watched on the edge of their seats as Tank steadied himself over the ball. “Oh, no!” Callum blared. “He waved at it. The ball went straight right.”

  “He’ll want that one back before this tournament is over,” Trent said. “It looked like he tried to stop it instead of knocking it firmly into the back of the cup.”

  “These putting conditions will do that,” Callum said. “I can’t stress how important it is to stay below the hole.”

  “That’s an incredible turn of events,” Trent cooed. “Instead of a two-shot swing, Opur’s lead stays at three strokes with fourteen holes left to play.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  “That is gorgeous,” Julie said as the group from Prairie Winds inched their way toward the fifth tee. The front right section of the green was guarded by a lake that wrapped around the right side of the green. A fountain sprayed water in
the air. The brisk wind moved the mist toward the tee box.

  “Here’s another par three that will test your skills,” Callum began. “The players are shooting straight into the wind. The pin is only four paces on the green barely over the water.”

  “A shot that is short winds up in the hazard and is almost a sure double bogey,” Trent added. “Only four birdies have been recorded here all day.”

  Fred and Pork Chop had jumped ahead of the others. Even though the temperature was in the mid-eighties, Pork Chop wore a short-sleeved windbreaker. His golf shirt had worked itself out of the tucked-in position and stuck out under the light jacket. He had snuck a satellite radio into the arena and was listening to the broadcast through ear plugs. The pair, with a hot dog in one hand and a soda in the other waddled their way toward the green.

  BT, Elia, YouWho, Scottie P and the others in the group from Prairie Winds saw an opportunity to jump ahead and headed for the green. The twosome in front of the final pairing had taken a longer-than-normal time to clear the green. The continuity of play slowed slightly.

  As they stood on the fifth tee J Dub glanced sideways at Opur. He was standing with one hand on the top of his bag, facing the green but with his eyes closed. “Are you okay?”

  Opur gently tilted his head down and then back up. “Resting.”

  “Try not to fall asleep out here.”

  Opur wasn’t feeling well. The sluggishness continued. But he wasn’t about to complain about it anymore. He had too much respect for J Dub. There was no need to revisit the topic. He silently told himself to suck it up. His job was to win the golf tournament.

  As he stood there with his eyes in the resting position Opur methodically slowed his breathing. His relaxation level had gotten to the point where everything around him had disappeared. It was a wonderful place to be. Gone was the crowd noise and the excitement associated with the surroundings. He pictured the next shot in his mind, over and over and over again. Reaching that state of relaxation in the heat of the moment was a talent reserved for the best of athletes.

  On the other side of the tee Dickie Doo had gotten a bottled beverage out of the cooler of ice that was located on the tee. He held it out for Tank, whose mood had suddenly turned cranky. The missed opportunity on the previous hole had soured his disposition.