The Back Nine: A Novel About Life After Fifty

by E. A. Briginshaw

  The Back Nine

  E. A. Briginshaw

  Copyright © 2016 Ernest A. Briginshaw

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Photographs appearing on the front and back covers of the book were taken in the fall of 2014 by Norma Briginshaw. Thanks to Riverbend Golf Community for permitting access to their beautiful property.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 978-0-9921390-6-3 (Book)

  ISBN: 978-0-9921390-7-0 (eBook)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Although the novel is a work of fiction, some of the characters are composite characters based on my family and friends. Thanks to all of the people who reviewed and critiqued numerous drafts of this novel including friends, members of my family and writers from the London Writers Society.

  This novel is dedicated to my mother, Frances Briginshaw, who is eighty-six years old as I write this. She roller-bladed until she was eighty, never wearing a helmet, claiming she’d just dive toward the grass alongside the path if she felt she was going to fall. She says it has been all downhill since eighty-two, but she continues to try every day, even on her “bad days”. I am only about ten years into my experience of life after fifty, but I have seen through my mother’s eyes what I can expect to encounter over the next twenty-five (hopefully more) years. She is my inspiration.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Wake-Up Call

  Chapter 2: First Tee Jitters

  Chapter 3: Staying on Plane

  Chapter 4: Mid-Life Crisis

  Chapter 5: One is A Lonely Number

  Chapter 6: Nobody Said It Was Easy

  Chapter 7: Father/Son Competition

  Chapter 8: Taking Care of Mom & Dad

  Chapter 9: Old Versus New

  Chapter 10: Trying New Ways

  Chapter 11: Changing Teams

  Chapter 12: Getting Help

  Chapter 13: Christmas Presents

  Chapter 14: The Southern Swing

  Chapter 15: Amen Corner

  Chapter 16: Tempo & Timing

  Chapter 17: Money Games

  Chapter 18: A Marathon, Not a Sprint

  Chapter 19: League Play

  Chapter 20: Black Friday

  Chapter 21: The Rescue Club

  Chapter 22: Foreplay

  Chapter 23: Integrity Of The Game

  Chapter 24: The S-Word

  Chapter 25: Thunder & Lightning

  Chapter 26: Toward The Light

  Chapter 27: The Back Nine

  Chapter 1: Wake-Up Call

  It was an absolutely perfect autumn day when Jerry arrived at the golf course. The leaves on the hills overlooking the river valley in Southwestern Ontario were a brilliant mixture of reds, golds and yellows. It was cool, but not cold enough to trigger a frost delay to prevent the golfers from pursuing their favourite pastime.

  Jerry was a starter at the golf course and once again, had been forced to get up at the crack of stupid to get there before the first golfers arrived. There was something magical about being one of the first golfers of the day to tee off and watch your ball land on freshly manicured fairways and greens, and there were always a few keeners trying to get out before the first “official” tee time.

  Jerry was in his late sixties and had been semi-retired for several years. Although being a starter only paid minimum wage, Jerry loved the job. It required the people skills of a concierge at a five-star hotel along with the organizational skills of an air traffic controller. Just get people organized and off the first tee at their allotted time. Sounds simple enough. Most days it was relatively easy, but on others, it was like herding cats.

  Jerry entered the back-shop area of the pro shop and found Murray pulling golf bags from the storage racks and moving them outside in preparation for the arrival of the golfers. As he pulled each bag, he put a tick-mark beside their name on the tee sheet.

  “Bit cold for shorts, isn’t it?” Jerry said.

  “Not at all,” Murray replied. Murray was also in his sixties and had worked at the golf course since it opened almost twenty years ago. He had originally been a member of the grounds crew, but decided about six years ago to take a “cushier” job in the back-shop.

  Murray always wore shorts, whether it was the hottest day of the summer or threatening to snow in the last few days of the golf season. Although he wouldn’t admit it, Murray was in competition with the other back-shop staff as to who could go the latest into the year wearing shorts. He always won.

  “What cart do you want me to take for sand and seed?” Jerry asked.

  “Take number fourteen. It gave us a problem yesterday and I don’t want to send it out with any of the members until we’re sure it’s fixed.”

  Jerry started loading the bottles into the cart. The bottles consisted of a mixture of sand and grass seed that were used by the golfers to fill in their divots. A bottle was given to each golfer when they teed off, but the starter was responsible for placing extra bottles on the third and twelfth tees for those who forgot to pick one up before they teed off or ran out during their round.

  “Be back shortly,” Jerry said as he jumped into the cart.

  “Don’t forget your walkie-talkie,” Murray yelled.

  All staff were supposed to carry a two-way radio with them so they could be reached wherever they were on the course, but Jerry had always wondered whether it was worth it. Most days, he didn’t use it at all. He trudged back into the pro shop and clipped one onto his belt.

  Riverview wasn’t just a golf course; it was a gated golf community with houses and condos overlooking the various holes. It was targeted at people over fifty who were retired, or near retirement, and who had led pretty successful lives. This was where they wanted to spend their golden years and the lifestyle wasn’t cheap. As Jerry drove the cart through the community toward the twelfth tee, he waved at a few people who were tending their flower gardens or out for an early morning walk.

  “Good morning, Jerry,” one of the owners said when he went by.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ferguson,” Jerry said with a wave and a smile. Even though he knew the man’s first name was Ray, the staff were instructed to always address the members formally by their last names.

  When Jerry arrived at the twelfth tee, he loaded the new sand and seed bottles into the holder, picked up the empty ones, and placed them in his cart to take back to the pro shop. He waved to the guy cutting the twelfth green. The grounds crew had arrived at the course earlier than Jerry, many starting their day before the sun was even up.

  As he took the shortcut along the trees toward the third tee, Jerry was impressed once again by the beauty of the property. In this part, the golf course dropped down toward the river valley and it bordered on environmentally protected areas that were home to numerous rare trees and flowers. There were trails through the woods that were used by members of the Riverview community for early morning or late evening walks. That’s when you were most likely to encounter deer or other protected wildlife.

  As Jerry followed the path behind the second green, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of something red in the forest. Probably just some leaves. He’d check it out on his way back.

  When he reached the t
hird tee, he placed the new sand and seed bottles in the holder and picked up the empties. As he headed back, he slowed down looking for the red object in the forest, but nothing caught his eye. He got out of the golf cart and started walking back, veering onto a small path that led into the forest.

  There it was. He was sure it was a red jacket. Someone probably dropped it when they were out for a walk. But as he approached, he had the strange feeling that something wasn’t right. That’s when he realized that it wasn’t just a red jacket. Someone wearing a red jacket was lying on the ground, just off the edge of the trail. He raced forward and gently rolled the body over.

  “Glen,” he said, when he recognized who it was.

  There was no response.

  “Glen, are you alright?” he said as he tried to rouse him.

  Again, there was no response. He could see a red welt on the side of Glen’s face. He must have fallen and hit his head. He grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse, but didn’t feel anything. Heart attack? He started doing chest compressions, but then noticed that Glen wasn’t breathing. ABC - ABC. Airway, Breathing, Compression. Shit, I was supposed to check his breathing before doing chest compressions! He quickly tilted Glen’s head back and opened his mouth. Why wasn’t he breathing?

  Jerry could feel his own heart beating like it was about to explode. I need help! He started to run back toward the golf cart, but stopped when he remembered that he had the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

  “Help, Help. I need help!” he screamed into the two-way radio.

  There was no response. He checked to make sure it was turned on. The green light showed that it was and it was set to channel two. Why wasn’t anyone answering?

  “Help. I need help right away!” he screamed into the walkie-talkie again.

  When he didn’t get a response, he decided to race over to get help from the guy cutting the twelfth green. He had only taken a few steps when he heard the crackle of the radio.

  “Jerry, is that you?” Murray asked. “What’s the problem?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. I need help. I found Glen on a trail behind the second green. He’s unconscious.”

  It was only a few more seconds until he got another response, but it seemed like an hour.

  “Scott just called 9-1-1. Help is on the way.” There was a pause of a few seconds. “You said Glen is hurt. Glen, who?”

  Even though Jerry knew Glen’s last name, his head was spinning and he couldn’t remember it. For some reason, Glen’s bag number popped into his head. “276,” he said.

  Murray knew everyone’s bag number. “Glen Watkins?”

  “Yes,” Jerry said. “I don’t think he’s breathing. I’m going to try mouth-to-mouth.”

  Jerry dropped to his knees and tried to revive him, but he could tell it wasn’t working. It was only a few minutes later when the supervisor of the grounds crew arrived on a golf cart and took over. He had an emergency kit and a defibrillator with him and had been trained to deal with medical emergencies. But he had no luck reviving Glen either. The ambulance arrived less than five minutes later, but Jerry could see from the paramedics that there was nothing they could do.

  Jerry felt like he was going to throw up. Why didn’t I stop the first time? He’d never seen anyone die before. He never wanted to see it again.

  * * *

  The death of Glen Watkins shocked the entire community. Since Riverview was a senior’s community, they were used to losing a few people every year. But those were people who were well into their eighties or nineties, or those who were known to be battling cancer.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen to guys like Glen. He was only fifty-two. He was in great shape. He played golf at least three times a week and always walked and carried his own golf bag. “Power carts are a waste of money,” he always used to say.

  In the winter months, he played hockey. And not in some huff-and-puff league; he played with guys in their twenties and thirties and took pride that he could outskate most of them.

  The autopsy revealed that Glen had died of a brain aneurysm. There had been no warning. In fact, he’d had a complete physical about six months earlier and been told he had the body of a thirty-five year old. Glen had gone for a run early that morning, something that he did two or three times a week. His wife, Mary, was away visiting their daughter, so she didn’t even know there was a problem until she received the dreaded phone call.

  At the funeral, Jerry felt nervous as he approached her. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I wish I had found him sooner. Maybe I could have done something to save him.”

  Mary took his hand and pulled him in close to give him a hug. “It’s not your fault”, she whispered. “The doctors said he died quite quickly and there’s nothing you could have done, but I thank you for trying.”

  At the funeral, there were numerous people who spoke about Glen. Hockey buddies said he was the kind of guy who would crush you into the boards during a game, but then buy you a beer afterwards. People from the golf course talked about his hours and hours of practice on the range as he perfected his ability to work the ball both ways. Why hit the ball straight when the shot called for a draw or a slight fade to get it close to the pin? He was the captain of their Challenge Cup team and the ultimate leader.

  His son spoke about his father – how he loved to coach his hockey and soccer teams, or anything really where there was competition involved. Yet he wasn’t a person who believed in the “win at all costs” philosophy. Fairness and integrity were traits that would always be associated with his father.

  Mary was the last to speak. “Don’t feel sorry for Glen. He lived a good life. It was just too short. He said he’d always felt like luck was on his side. In business, in sports – and in love. But I think it was those of us who got to know Glen that were the lucky ones. The last few days were especially good. He got to see our son get his Master’s degree and our daughter gave birth to a grandson just three weeks ago.”

  Mary paused for a few seconds to compose herself before continuing. As she wiped the tears away, she noticed someone sitting in the fourth row of the church. She smiled at him.

  “And Glen was particularly proud that he’d finally managed to defeat Jeff in a round of golf,” she said as she pointed at him. Smiles spread throughout the church as people recalled how ecstatic Glen had been when he’d finally beaten his nemesis.

  “But let this serve as a wake-up call for all of us,” she continued. “Life is precious. It can be taken from each of us in the blink of an eye. Live your life to the fullest each and every day. I know Glen did.”

  Chapter 2: First Tee Jitters

  Max Wakelam, the head pro at Riverview, was sitting in his office going over the latest financial statements for the club when there was a soft knock on his door. He smiled when he looked up. “Darren, what brings you by?”

  Darren Fletcher was the head professional at Blackhawk Ridge, a newer high-end golf course built in the hills overlooking the city. Darren had been Max’s assistant pro at Riverview almost ten years earlier. “If you’re not too busy, I was hoping we could talk about the Challenge Cup.”

  “I’d rather talk about anything than look at a bunch of numbers,” Max said as he closed the file. “I really appreciate you allowing us to cancel the last day of the Cup this year. With Glen’s sudden passing, our members didn’t feel it was appropriate to hold the event. He was our captain, after all.”

  “Yeah, our members all agreed. We knew he was the heart and soul of your team.”

  Max shoved a box containing golf shirts off a chair to give Darren a place to sit. “Besides, you guys were so far ahead in points, you only needed to win three of the singles matches to win the Cup again anyway.”

  “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk about,” Darren said. “Some of our members think the competition’s become a bit too one-sided and were wondering if it was time to shut it down.”

  Max was stunned. “But we still raise a lot of money for charity. That’s
the most important thing, isn’t it? Who cares if your club has won it five years in a row?”

  “Seven, actually,” Darren said. “You guys won it the first two years, but we’ve won it every year since.”

  “What brought this on?” Max asked.

  Darren refused to look him in the eye. “Some of our members said they’re starting to feel guilty – feel like they’re beating up on a bunch of senior citizens. Look, the average age of our team is about thirty-five and your team is probably over sixty. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  Max could feel his blood pressure rising. His face was red and his hands were clinched tightly into fists. “I don’t want it to end like this,” he said. “I don’t want the last year of the Challenge Cup to be one where we conceded because of Glen’s death.” He took a deep breath. “Next year will be the tenth year. We’ll put together a competitive team, I promise. If we don’t, then we’ll shut it down.”

  Darren still looked nervous. “Look, I’m sorry. I know one of the reasons you started this competition in the first place was to help me get our new course up and running. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  “Don’t start feeling sorry for us,” Max said. “You’re right. We’ve probably gotten a little soft over the years, but that ends right now. So I’d suggest you get out of my office and head back to your own club and tell your members to start practicing, because they’re going to have to bring their A-game next year. We’re not going to just throw in the towel.”

  * * *

  After Darren left, Max spent a long time staring out the window. Suddenly he became aware of his own reflection in the glass. Where had the guy with the greying hair, the sun-fed wrinkles and the slight pot belly come from? But then he locked in on the eyes of the person in the reflection. They were still the same – the eyes of a competitor. The same guy who could hit a knock-down four iron into a strong headwind and then make the ten footer for birdie to close out the match.