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

by James Ross

  “What are you thinking about?’ Tank said under his breath as he chastised his caddy. “If my sponsors saw me drinking that brand they’d pull my contract before the sun went down.”

  “Whoops. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Get rid of that. The cameras might be on us.” He took a step toward the middle of the tee realizing that all eyes were on him and broke into his charismatic smile.

  “There’s a ridge that traverses this green from back to front,” Trent continued from the television booth.

  “From this length . . .” Callum started.

  “It’s two hundred and sixteen yards,” Trent interrupted.

  Callum leaned in his chair and looked at his broadcasting partner. “Well, thank you, Trent.” He paused. “Like I was saying, from this length most of the players are forced to stay on top of the ridge which then calls for a slick putt down the slope to the hole location.”

  “If they are fortunate enough to catch the ridge with their tee ball then they might find their shot easing close to the hole,” Trent added.

  “But there simply isn’t much room on the right side before the water creeps in to try that,” Callum stated. “Under these wind conditions the players have to shoot for the middle of the green and the top of the slope. If one of them gets close to the cup, then it was a mistake.”

  Trent continued the conversation. “That’s not to say that it can’t be done.”

  “Of course not,” Callum replied. “But we’re only talking fifteen feet or so to work with. Back home we call that a little jabberwockie.”

  Trent looked at Callum. “Jabberwockie?”

  “Yeah. Jabberwockie.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Callum shrugged. “I don’t know what it means.” He paused and looked at his broadcast partner. “That’s just what we call it.”

  Down by the green Morgan was facing more challenges.

  “Oooo look what I stepped in.” Droppings from migrating birds littered the area.

  “Do you think that came from the paddling of ducks or the gaggle of geese?” Captain Jer asked.

  Julie gave him a bewildered look. “What are you talking about? How do you know about that kind of stuff?” She paused. “Most of your little witty comments come out of you when you’re drunk.”

  Captain Jer grinned and watched Morgan attempt to clean her shoes. She had grabbed Julie’s bicep for balance, bent her right leg across her left knee and was wiping her shoe with a napkin. “I just bought these,” she complained. “Look at this mess.”

  “What I said wasn’t witty by the way,” Captain Jer volleyed back at Julie. “That’s a simple fact.”

  “How do you know that kind of stuff?”

  “Hahahahaha. I learned it. I fly too you know. You need to know groups of birds. For instance, that is what they are called when they are swimming. Do you know what they are called when they are flying?”

  Julie was totally lost. “I’ve got no idea.” She looked at the retired pilot. “Enlighten me.”

  “When in flight, ducks are a team and geese are a skein,” he said and then paused as Julie digested what she just heard, “unless the geese are flying in a V-formation.”

  “Then what?”

  “In that case it’s considered to be a wedge of geese.”

  Julie stopped before replying and looked at Captain Jer out of the side of her eye. “You never cease to amaze me, Jerry.”

  “Look over there by the lake,” the pilot motioned. “See those birds?” Julie shook her head. “That’s a cover of coots.”

  Dr. DV had been a bystander but had been listening to the conversation. Animals were his expertise. “You also see loons and grebes around here.”

  “What are some of the others?” Julie asked. She was getting a charge out of pumping these two good friends for information.

  “A couple of holes back I saw a hummingbird,” the vet continued. “Now if that would have been a group of them it would have been a charm.” He went back into his memory bank to recall some of the things that he had learned over years of dealing with animals. “Down here you might see a flight of cormorants or a herd of cranes, but most likely you’ll just see one, or maybe two of them scattered here and there.” He thought some more. “And I don’t think we’re far enough south to see a siege of herons.”

  “How do you guys find all of that stuff?” Julie quizzed the two.

  “You pick it up along the way,” the vet answered.

  “Do you think that the only thing we do on the golf course is golf?” Captain Jer asked.

  Julie raised her palms skyward. “Well,” she paused, “yeah.”

  “My wife and I were up along the river road three or four months ago in January or February,” Captain Jer said, “watching the eagles soar above the bluffs. They are amazing creatures.”

  “A convocation of eagles,” Dr. DV interjected.

  “I’ll take your word for that one,” Captain Jer said. “The full grown ones with their white heads dive into the Mississippi for fish.”

  “What a way to go,” Julie said. “Swimming along in the water, minding your own business and then . . .”

  “But you know, we saw a lot of young eagles. Their heads hadn’t even turned white yet,” Captain Jer added.

  “I think it takes two to three years for that,” the vet said. “And then on the way home we saw a flock of trumpeter ducks or something real big like that.”

  “Were they flying or in water?” Julie asked.

  “Neither,” the retired pilot answered.

  “Because you’re wrong,” Julie corrected in an attempt to impress him with what she had recently learned. “They wouldn’t be a flock.”

  “They were on the ground eating stalks in a corn field,” Captain Jer said.

  “Then that would be a raff,” Dr. DV said.

  “Huh?” Julie blurted.

  “A group of ducks on the ground is considered a raff,” the vet explained. Then he diplomatically offered an opinion. “But what I think you probably saw, Jerry, were tundra swans or trumpeter swans. A group of them is considered a whiteness.” To please Julie he added, “But I’ll have to check that when we get home. They may come in flocks. Then of course she would be right.” Julie raised her chin in the air and stuck her breasts out.

  “That could have been,” Jerry admitted. “They were huge.” He looked at Julie. “No, not yours.” He chuckled. “I meant the swans.” Julie made a fist and feigned throwing a blow.

  Due to the slow play the golf tournament had taken a back seat to birds for a few minutes. They looked up to see Tank and Dickie Doo as well as Opur and J Dub advancing toward the green. One peek in that direction indicated that both players had found the middle of the green.

  “He’s finally hit a green,” Trent said. “We’ll soon find out if that putter is as hot as it’s been all week.”

  “From their position I look for them to both ease the ball down the slope and lag it close,” Callum stated.

  In the next few minutes that is exactly what happened. “I’d have to say that both are happy with three’s on this testy hole,” Trent offered.

  “You bet,” Callum agreed. “Let’s move to the downhill, downwind par-five that’s coming up next.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  “The sixth hole at The Classic is a behemoth,” Trent started.

  “Callum has played it many times and can probably describe it better than me.”

  “The sixth is every bit about what this championship is all about,” the Englishman said. “Strategically placed sand traps in the landing area make it essential to drive the ball down the middle. Anything off the fairway is almost a sure bogey. The rough here eats the ball up.” He paused. “It’s got a blind shot, water, majestic trees, length and the green is hard, fast and slopes away from the golfer.”

  “Can you tell us more about the green complex?”

  “The lake wraps itself around the back of the green. If place
ment of the shot isn’t perfect a lot of players will see their ball run down the slippery slope and disappear into the water.”

  “With wind at their back will the players have an advantage today?” Trent asked.

  “Actually that might make conditions more difficult,” Callum stated. “The wind has dried the greens out making them faster. A player might get too close to the green so that he can’t get enough spin on the ball to get his third shot to stop.”

  “So what is your advice?”

  “Make sure you go to church on Sunday.”

  “And there you have it folks,” Trent summarized.

  “But I forgot to mention one thing,” Callum interjected. “The tournament committee decided to bury a herd of elephants in the landing area of the second shot. A player might think that he hit a beautiful shot and find out that he has an uphill or downhill or side hill lie.” He shook his head in the booth. “It’s a booger of a hole. The blokes that dreamed it up must have been bladdered.”

  “Tank still has the tee, but Opur has a three shot lead,” Trent said.

  “The young man simply has to grind out pars,” Callum said. “Right now he has seven putts through five holes on greens that are . . .”

  “ . . . as slick as a well digger’s arse,” Trent said. “Ha, I beat you to it!” He grinned at the Englishman then looked at the golfers on the monitor. “It looks like Tank is going with a 3-wood here.”

  “That’s a smart play. Even though he’s three strokes behind he has to remind himself to be patient and not force his shots.”

  “Now tell me,” Trent said. “You’re a past champion here. Is there any advantage hitting first off the tee?”

  “Ah. I don’t think so. These guys are pros. They know what they’re going to do.”

  The broadcasting pair watched as Tank split the middle of the fairway. “Opur has chosen the same club,” Trent said. “We’ll see if he can duplicate that.”

  After Opur’s swing Callum exploded. “No,no,no,no,no! He got way ahead of it. That’s a pull hook if I’ve ever seen one! Get down ball! Get down!”

  “Can you take the time to explain that, Callum?”

  “Hey guys, can you queue up the replay?” Callum asked the producers and directors in the truck. Seconds later a slow motion replay appeared on the monitor for the viewing audience. “We’ll slow this down for the fans. Now let’s look at the takeaway.” A shot of Opur taking the club back from the ball went through several sequences. “He’s okay here. Everything is fine. Now stop it!” Callum snapped.

  Callum looked at the video replay. “Here he is at the top. Great shape. Now watch his lower body.” The video continued. “He’s throws his hips at the target and got his body way ahead of the hands. He’s got nowhere to go but dead left.” The images went on as the pair described the action.

  “Let’s get down to a live on-course report from Monique to find out where the ball went,” Trent called.

  “I wish I could tell you that he wasn’t in trouble,” the female champ started, “but it looks like he hit the trunk of one of these statuesque pine trees, bounced off and buried in about four inches of deep fescue.”

  “Does he have a swing?” Callum asked.

  “There’s no problem with that,” Monique said. “The difficulty is with the thickness of the grass. Hitting anything more than a pitching wedge might not get him back out into the fairway.”

  “And, of course, that will sacrifice a lot of distance,” Trent mentioned.

  “Well,” Callum said, “when you play this game you have to play what the shot calls for. He might not have enough club right now to get him far enough down the fairway to reach the green in regulation, but I trust that he’ll listen to his caddy and explore all of the options. Can we get in on their conversation?”

  The camera zoomed in to Opur and J Dub. Monique held the microphone only a few feet away from their voices. “We’ve only got one choice here,” J Dub advised. “Take your pitching wedge and try to get it out in the short grass. Let’s take our medicine here.”

  “But that won’t get me far enough down the fairway to reach the green in regulation,” Opur argued.

  “Listen to me,” J Dub said. “Did I tell you about the time I said the same thing to my wife and promptly blew my chance to play professional golf?”

  “No, what happened?”

  “We were in the same situation. She was on my bag and told me to hit my 9-iron. I gave her the reply you just gave me and promptly grabbed my 4-iron. What happened next is that I messed up the chance of a lifetime.” He looked Opur squarely in the eye. “This is your chance. Don’t blow it. This game is as much about using what’s between your ears as it is talent.”

  Opur stared back at J Dub. His hand was on his 4-iron. “How far are we?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter.” He stared back at Opur. “Hit your wedge and get the ball out of here.”

  Opur glared back at J Dub. “I told you, that won’t give me the distance I need,” he said defiantly.

  J Dub provided some theatrics. He tossed the bag to the ground. “You’re a big boy. Make your own decision.” He stormed away.

  The throbbing in Opur’s head was as rapid as it had been all day. He peered down the fairway toward his landing area then raised his hands to his head and rubbed his face. With his middle fingers he massaged the corners of his eyes. Incredibly he yawned.

  “What’s he doing down there, Monique?” Callum asked.

  “Trying to make the right call on a tough decision.”

  “He needs to get out of trouble,” Trent said.

  “Absolutely,” Callum seconded. “The thing he has to stay away from at this juncture is a big number.”

  “Exactly,” Monique whispered. “A seven or eight or even a nine would cost him the prized fedora.”

  “But I know where he is coming from,” Callum rationalized. “To play at this level you have to be a little cocky and press the envelope at times.”

  Opur reached down and grabbed a club. He positioned himself over the ball. Seconds later the ball flew out into the fairway. Opur flung the club against the bag.

  “He advanced the ball maybe eighty yards at best,” Monique called through the microphone.

  “Ooooh. I like that,” Callum said as the club bounced fifteen feet away from the bag. “But that was a very smart play under the circumstances.”

  “Now he has to keep his temper under control,” Trent warned the audience.

  Monique scurried out of the rough as J Dub retrieved the bag. Opur stormed to his ball. “It looks like he has three hundred and ten yards left,” the French woman said.

  “Down wind,” Trent confirmed. He looked at Callum. “He won’t go for it, will he?”

  “I know he wants to. Look at that determination on his face.” Callum said as he watched every mannerism.

  “Does he have enough to get there?” Trent asked.

  Callum thought long and hard before answering. “These guys nowadays can hit their 3-woods three hundred yards or more. I’d say he has enough to get it home.”

  “Then let’s go down and listen in on their conversation. Monique?”

  She raised her arm in the air. Tank was positioning himself over his shot. As anticipated he laid up to the one hundred and thirty yard marker. “Now I’ll hustle over to join Opur.” She crept into the view of the camera. “His caddy says they are three hundred and fourteen yards.”

  “What do you think?” Opur asked J Dub. He had calmed down considerably since the mini-temper tantrum he threw on the chip out of the rough.

  “You’re asking my opinion?”

  Opur shook his head up and down.

  “We’re downwind and you have enough to get there,” J Dub said. He paused and studied Opur reaction. “But I feel like you’re a championship race horse. I’m in the saddle. You want to sprint down the backstretch and maybe get yourself in trouble down
the stretch.” He looked at Opur in the eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Sure.”

  “We can take that 3-wood out and take a chance of you getting it there. But if you don’t hit it just perfect, then we’re going to bring the traps into play. Or you might catch it so pure that the ball hits in the front fringe, skips onto the green, catches the down slope and then there’s nothing to stop it from going in the water.”

  Opur had his hand on the 3-wood and was ready to take the head cover off the club. “Okay. I follow.”

  “But if we make that decision we might be bringing an animal onto our back. You’ve got a three-stroke lead in this golf tournament. Let’s make the other guy work. If we don’t give him too many openings he’ll have to make a ton of putts to beat you.”

  Opur looked down at the ground. Like a little boy he stuck out his lower lip.

  “I say you’d be a lot better off if you took out your 6-iron and played to the one hundred yard marker,” J Dub said as persuasively as he could.

  Opur took his visor off. The breeze blew hair toward his face. Alternating hands he rubbed them over the top of his head. Then he looked up to the sky to let his hair fall backwards, raced each hand across the side right above the ear and slipped his visor back into place. He contemplated the advice.

  “Let me tell you a quick little story,” J Dub continued. “A few years ago this little boy walked into the pro shop at Prairie Winds. I took him out to hit balls. Before we got through the bucket he was bouncing balls off the one hundred yard sign.” He paused to let the words sink in. “You go with your bread and butter. There’s no decision to make.”

  Opur cocked his head, gave a tiny grin to J Dub, reached into his bag and grabbed his 6-iron. Twenty seconds later his ball was in the middle of the fairway, one hundred yards away from the pin.

  “That son of a buck isn’t going to give us any openings,” Dickie Doo said to Tank.

  “Why should he?” Tank said. “He’s got the lead. He’s telling us to come and get him.” Tank surveyed his shot. “Let me put this close, knock down a putt and if he doesn’t get it up and down we pick up two strokes.” A moment later Tank left himself an eighteen-foot putt for birdie. “Damn wind.”