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

by James Ross

  As the group walked along Morgan looked to see where Opur was. He was stepping off the footbridge when he fell to the ground. “J Dub! Somebody! Help him!” A marshal restrained her from getting inside the ropes.

  “I’m a nurse,” the brunette said. She attempted to duck under the ropes and rush to Opur but the marshal let go of Morgan and subdued her. In the panic, J Dub let the golf bag fall to the ground and jogged to help Opur.

  “Opur, are you okay?”

  The young man laughed. “The bridge was swaying so much that my legs got wobbly. When I hit the ground they collapsed.” J Dub helped him to one knee. When Opur felt steady the caddy pulled him to his feet.

  “I’ll walk with you the rest of the way in. We don’t need you falling into one of these canyons.” J Dub walked a half step behind him with his right hand on Opur’s left triceps.

  The golfer started breathing harder as they climbed the hill. “This is steeper than what I remembered.” He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “Did you figure out the yardage?”

  J Dub nodded. “You’ve got one forty-six left. Keep it right of the flag.”

  Opur went to his bag and wiped his hand on a towel. He shook his right wrist. “I kind of jammed it when I caught myself.” His hair was flopping in the breeze, his shirt was hanging out in the rear and a grass stain covered his knee. His disheveled look had become the opposite of Tank’s pristine appearance.

  J Dub picked up the bag so that Opur could retrieve a club. “It’s uphill and into the wind. Look for it to play one sixty to one sixty-five.”

  In the booth Trent and Callum were as anxious as nine year olds waiting for Christmas morning. “Is he going to be able to finish this round?” Trent asked. “What’s going on down there, Monique?”

  The camera panned to Monique. She turned her back to Opur and J Dub so the wind wouldn’t muffle her voice as badly. Holding the microphone in her left hand and loose notes above her head in her right, she spoke to the booth. “Opur may have sprained his right wrist when he caught himself before dropping to the ground. He told his caddy that he got sea legs.”

  “He doesn’t look prepared to finish,” Callum commented.

  “He’s fighting his health, the gusting wind and the world’s number one player. And that’s not to mention one of the toughest golf courses in the country,” Monique followed. “His caddy said that they’re going to wing it on the way in and use teamwork. He’s aware that his horse is losing its legs.”

  “They’ve only got about an hour left on the golf course,” Trent said.

  Monique looked to the sky. “Unless that rain gets here before they can finish.” The wind blew her three steps before she caught her balance. In an understatement she continued, “These conditions are going to make it tough to score.”

  “Opur has the club in his hand,” Trent said. “What’s his caddy doing now?” Trent watched as J Dub stood behind Opur and shouted instructions to the player. Opur moved slightly. The caddy then walked in front of the ball and pointed to a spot on the ground.

  “Opur is having equilibrium problems and has been complaining that he can’t focus on anything. That’s where the teamwork is coming in. His caddy is helping him with alignment and direction, you know, another set of eyes.”

  “Can that be effective?” Trent asked.

  “I’ll answer after the shot.” Monique stayed quiet as Opur pulled the trigger on the swing. She watched as the ball rode up into the wind and found the bent grass green. “He left himself thirty feet on a very difficult putting surface. Under these conditions I’d be quite happy with a par.”

  “Whatever they’re doing seems to be working,” Callum said.

  “They’re trying to get in and post a score,” Monique said. “This is his first tournament as a pro. They’re after a paycheck. He’s got a fiancé that’s about eight months pregnant and the wheels are falling off. The two of them didn’t plan on these problems today.”

  “The odd thing about it Trent is that we’re talking about his game coming unglued and the young man is coming off a birdie,” Callum stated.

  “And he has a one-stroke lead in the final round of The Classic with only four holes to play,” Trent added.

  On the course Tank and Dickie Doo were working hard on a critical shot after Opur’s ball came to rest on the green. “Here’s your opening, champ.”

  “What’s our distance?”

  “You’re one thirty-two.” Dickie Doo pointed toward the green. “That mound on the right side will funnel the ball to the flag if you can hit on top of it. We have to be right of the pin. It fits your ball movement. You can get this close. Dial it in.”

  Tank grabbed his club out of his bag. He stepped back and took one, two, three, four, five, six practice swings. His eyes were locked on the target. He rolled his tongue around lips and then gnawed at his lower lip. All the while his gaze didn’t leave his landing spot. Tank took a deep breath as a final relaxation tool. His focus didn’t allow for his mind to feel the blowing wind.

  The ball flew off the club as true as a mathematic axiom. It never left its mark. The ball hit, jumped forward twelve feet and spun left to the hole. The gallery erupted as the shot rolled to a stop seven feet from the cup. Dickie Doo jumped in the air, fetched the divot and gave Tank a high knuckle tap as the golfer took off for the green. His rapid pace was in stark contrast to Opur sauntering toward the green with J Dub holding on to his arm.

  After taking Opur’s blade out of the bag J Dub placed the clubs on the side of the green and then walked up to remove the flag. He handed the putter to Opur and stalked the line of the putt. J Dub squatted behind the ball and looked at it from behind the cup before he returned to Opur. “It’s curling right to left. Roll it out there about eighteen inches,” he said as he walked forward and pointed to a spot on the green in front of the ball, “and think speed. There’s nothing wrong with two putts here.”

  The point had been made. Opur understood that the putt could get away from him if he wasn’t careful. He got over the ball from the left side and eased the ball toward the hole. It dove low of the cup and stopped a foot away. The crowd sighed. Only minimal damage was done. He and Tank were tied after the number one player rattled home his birdie putt.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  “Whew!” Trent sighed as the final pairing made it to the sixteenth tee. “With three holes to go we have co-leaders at The Classic for the second time today.”

  “And I’ll be ready for a few checkers after this match is completed.” The Englishman looked at the monitor. “These guys on the course are trying to finish before the rains hit,” Callum added before changing the subject again. “That sure was some birdie Tank made on the last hole.”

  “What impressed me the most was that he answered the birdie that Opur threw at him on the previous hole,” Trent mentioned.

  “That’s why he’s at the top of the charts. How many birdies does that give him today?”

  “By my count that makes at least six,” Trent answered.

  “That is an incredible day’s work,” Callum agreed. “But he knew when he finished yesterday’s round that he would have to post a number like that to have a chance in this golf tournament.”

  “We’re coming up to the last hole in Indian Ambush and so far, so good,” Trent said.

  “They’ve both made it to this point with no major damage,” Callum conceded. “We’ve got one more hole on the top of the ridge and then the course takes a lower route into the clubhouse.”

  “Because the wind has changed from the first three days, all of the shots will be into what is turning into gale-force winds. I haven’t heard from the weather forecasters in a while but I wouldn’t be surprised if they put this area under a tornado watch any minute,” Trent guessed.

  “Don’t say that!” Callum demanded. “I hate the thought of them.”

  “Why don’t you set the stage for us on number sixteen?” Trent asked.

  “It’s another mammot
h par four measuring in at four hundred and eighty-nine yards. Trees line both sides of the fairway and anything pulled to the left or pushed to the right will spell trouble.”

  “That isn’t good news for the average hacker,” Trent plugged in.

  Callum laughed. “No way because the rough is thick and will make it difficult to recover. Slag bunkers line the landing area on the left side and some huge boulders dot the right side of the fairway.”

  Trent looked at the monitor and noticed that the footbridges were swaying dangerously in the wind. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “The players have to cross the gorge twice. The first one is about a hundred yards off the tee and shouldn’t pose a problem, unless you count walking across the bridge as a hurdle,” Callum commented.

  “That would scare me to death with the wind blowing like it is,” Trent said.

  “The second gorge is twenty yards in front of the green and can gobble up any shot that comes up short. We may find that to be the case today with the wind blowing at the players.”

  “If I read what you’re saying, then this hole might be the difference maker, right Callum?”

  “It’s an incredible test. You have to be long and straight off of the tee. A long shot into a hard green follows. And that devil is slicker than a Saudi oil field.”

  “How slick is that?” Trent asked.

  “Slicker than an Olympic curler’s playing surface.”

  “Can you do better?”

  Callum shrugged. “Slicker than a waxed-down surfboard?” He threw his arms up.

  “And there you have it folks. Stay tuned for the action coming up on number sixteen at The Classic!”

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  The sky had turned ominous, a precursor of an impending storm. Unorganized cloud formations created an uncertainty as to where or when the storm would unleash. The humidity suggested a build-up was necessary to simply cool off the earth below. In the distance a towering thundercloud rose to a height of what appeared to be at least sixty thousand feet into the air. Billowy cumulus clouds stacked upon one another like cotton balls stuck together in a plastic bag.

  “Let’s put him away, boss,” Dickie Doo flapped. In the middle of a battle a caddy is oftentimes the only ally a golfer has. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the yardage book. After examining the pin sheet he said to Tank, “The pin is back left today. If we can come in from the right side of the fairway we’ll have a better angle into the green.” He reached down, grabbed several blades of grass and tossed them onto the air to demonstrate the obvious. “It’s at us pretty good.”

  Tank peered down the fairway. The look in his eye was clearly focused. He visualized the shot he wanted to make. He placed his left hand on the top of his driver, closed his eyes and swirled his neck in several circles. After a deep sigh he grabbed the club out of the bag, took the head cover off and gently placed it on top of the other clubs.

  The fight for the fedora had come down to which golfer could finish the round stronger. The final pairing had distanced themselves from the rest of the field. No one else was within four strokes of the lead. The fedora was going to go to either Tank or Opur.

  Tank stepped away from Dickie Doo, slowly set his grip and went through his mental checklist. He checked his stance, alignment and posture. After a deep breath to relax his muscles he took seven practice swings. It was important to find the fairway on this tight par four. He moseyed back to Dickie Doo. “We need it long and straight here. There’s no place to bail.” He held his hand out for a ball. Dickie Doo obliged.

  “You’ve got it champ. Let’s put the hammer down.”

  Across the tee J Dub stood by Opur’s bag looking at his yardage book. Opur tried to stay loose in spite of the pounding in his head. He spread his legs wide, bent at the waist and touched the ground with the palms of his hands. When he finished stretching he stood erect and placed both hands on the side of his head, pressing in an attempt to relieve the throbbing.

  The challenger took his right arm, wrapped it around his upper body and grabbed the left side of his neck. With his left hand he pressed on the back of his right elbow and twisted at the waist. Then he alternated arms and reversed the torso twist. It was crunch time and Opur knew it.

  “Do you have enough in you to finish?” J Dub asked.

  Opur gave him a crazed look. “I told you I’m fine.” He was frustrated that he hadn’t started feeling better through the round. “We’ll figure out a way to get a score on the card, even if you have to carry me in.” He suppressed a heavy sigh.

  J Dub confirmed what Dickie Doo had told Tank. “If we can come in from the right side of the fairway, the pin is accessible.”

  Screams went up from the gallery and people started running to a spot about eighty yards off the tee. Dense woods lined the left side from the tee to green. Both players and caddies craned their necks to see what the commotion was about.

  “Help! Help me!” a woman’s scream could be heard.

  The gang from Prairie Winds was the first on the scene. A top of a tree had snapped off in the wind. The brunette in the blue culottes desperately tried to help her friend. A blonde in a sundress lay motionless, pinned underneath the limb.

  “Grab that end!” Curt yelled to Scottie P. The two couldn’t budge the fallen branch. Dr. DV, Captain Jer, Paco, Elia and BT went into emergency mode. The vet and retired pilot jumped in to help Scottie P. The other guys got on the opposite end. “Pull her out if we can raise it enough,” Curt instructed Elia.

  “Barbara Jean! Barbara Jean!” the brunette yelled. Panic had turned to tears. The others in the group of women retrieved her purse as the wind scattered personal belongings.

  The men with Scottie P couldn’t budge their end of the massive branch. Finally Curt, Paco and BT raised the smaller end of the branch for Elia to pull the woman from the debris. The brunette immediately administered CPR.

  “That’s Curt!” J Dub said. He took off running. “I’ll be right back!”

  “What’s going on down there?” Trent said to no one in particular.

  “It looks like we’ve had some sort of an accident off the side of the fairway,” Callum replied.

  A siren could be heard in the distance. The television cameraman was instructed not to show the recovery efforts. The blonde’s body was motionless.

  Trent Tee announced on air. “I’ve just been informed that we’ve had a storm-related mishap on the course and there will be a delay while the situation is cleared up.”

  Callum looked at the clouds. “I know we live in a politically sensitive world, Trent, but while the accident appears to be tragic this will make it tough for this group to finish before the rain hits the area.”

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  A tournament official informed both players that a stoppage of play would take place while emergency attention was given to the fallen spectator. During the delay Opur walked to the rope, stretched his neck and saw that Morgan was fine. He returned to the tee, laid his bag on the ground and did what he could to relax. That was to sit on the bottom ring around his bag and close his eyes.

  “Are you ready to go?” J Dub asked when he returned to the tee. He tapped Opur on the shoulder.

  The golfer slowly raised his head and stifled a yawn. “How long was I out?” he asked as an emergency medical vehicle drove across the fairway.

  “It’s been about twenty-five minutes,” J Dub said.

  “What happened?”

  “The wind snapped a tree branch and it fell on a woman.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  J Dub gave Opur a solemn look and shook his head side to side. “She didn’t know what hit her.”

  “I’m sorry.” Opur squinted. “Morgan is fine?”

  “She and Julie had been talking to the gal’s friend on the last hole and had stopped to watch us hit.” He snapped his fingers. “It came out of nowhere.” J Dub reached out and helped Opur to his feet. “We’re up in three minutes.
Take a few clubs and stay loose.”

  “Our sympathies go out to the injured party’s family,” Trent said from the booth after play was scheduled to resume. “Back on the sixteenth tee Tank has the honors.”

  “It will be interesting to see how this delay affects the players,” Callum said. “Normally they would be given a time to warm up but this incident was out of the ordinary as far as play stoppages go.”

  After Tank lashed out at the ball with his driver Trent said, “What delay? That ball was struck perfectly.” The pair watched the monitor as the ball came to rest in ideal position.

  “That was some shot under the circumstances,” Callum stated. “The players haven’t made a swing in nearly a half hour and the wind is still howling.”

  J Dub watched assiduously as Opur went through limited warm-ups in an effort to keep the continuity of the round going. The player’s energy level had waned even more. To the public it looked like he was disinterested, but to those aware of the situation it was evident that he was battling issues far greater than lethargy.

  The broadcasters in the booth watched as the challenger hit his drive. Callum commented immediately. “He’s late with his release!” The ball hung up in the wind instead of boring through it. “If he’s not careful that ball might find those boulders on the right side,” the Englishman warned.

  Viewers watched in dismay as the ball landed short of a rock formation, took one hop and bounced against a boulder as big as a bus. “That’s exactly what he couldn’t afford on this hole,” Trent declared.

  “That’s no Blarney Stone out there for him,” Callum followed. “Goodness, with the final resting spot of that ball, he’ll have no play to the green.” The ball stopped a few feet away from the rock.

  “What are his options now?” Trent asked his on-air companion.

  “That collision with the boulder not only cost him distance, but I don’t think he can advance the ball forward either.”

  “If that’s the case Tank has a chance to make history.”