Max wasn’t prepared for this. He knew his mother had happily doted on his father for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t imagine him taking care of himself. “What about a nursing home?”
Karen shook her head. “Haven’t you heard about some of those places? They’re dreadful. You might as well just put him in his coffin right now.”
“They’re not all like that,” Max countered. “Jerry volunteers at Shady Oaks and says it’s pretty nice.”
Karen glared at him. “And who do you think is going to pay for that? You got a secret stash I don’t know about? Mom and Dad were living on just their pensions and old age security. If they didn’t already own the house, there’s no way they’d get by.”
Karen’s raised voice caused their father to stir in the living room. After a few snorts, they heard him return to a gentle snore. Karen lowered her voice to a whisper. “Besides, do you really want to put him there?”
Max had to look away. Even he didn’t want to do it. “But we’ve got to do something.”
Karen took a deep breath. “Dad’s actually in pretty good shape. He doesn’t need a nursing home. He just needs someone to look after the basics, make him meals and make sure he takes his pills when he’s supposed to.”
“And doesn’t burn the house down,” Max added.
“You’re never going to let that go, are you,” Karen snapped. “That was just one time when he left one of the burners on the stove on. Hell, I’ve even done that myself.”
“Well, if Mom hadn’t smelled the dish towel burning and come racing into the kitchen to put it out, the whole place could have gone up in smoke.”
“Well Mom’s not here anymore, is she?”
Max heard Karen’s voice start to crack. She turned away and looked out the kitchen window while she tried to compose herself. “I can stay with him on weekends,” she said in a weak voice. “Can you sleep over here during the week?”
Max’s relationship with his father had always been a bit testy, but he knew he had to step up. “I can once the course closes for the winter.” That was about ten days away. Over the winter months, Max worked reduced hours from ten to three as there wasn’t much to do – taking inventory, preparing budgets, and ordering supplies for the coming year. “But I won’t be able to do it once golf season starts up again.”
Karen’s face showed a glimmer of hope. “Let’s not borrow our problems from the future. We’ll deal with that later. Let’s just get him through the winter.”
Chapter 9: Old Versus New
Cheech was on the driving range trying a few things to incorporate a shorter backswing without losing any distance on his drives. He wasn’t on the range at Riverview; he was afraid to go back there in case he ran into Patti Hoffman again. He felt so stupid and embarrassed about making a pass at her. Maybe all would be forgotten over the off-season.
Cheech was practicing at a range on the outskirts of town. It was a top-notch facility incorporating multiple target flags at specified distances and a separate area to practice the short game. Since it was almost the end of the golf season, there were only a few people out practicing, mostly people planning to head south for the winter.
Cheech had strengthened his grip and was trying flatten his swing to gain more power. He was really struggling with it and snap-hooked another drive. “Son of a bitch!”
“You know the game is supposed to be fun and relaxing,” a man said as he came up behind him.
Cheech turned and saw that it was Bob, the owner of the range. Bob had been the head professional at a few clubs in town over the years and had opened the range after he retired.
Cheech felt his face flush. “Sorry about the language. I didn’t realize anyone was close enough to hear.”
Bob shrugged. “I’ve said worse myself. Sometimes the game can get frustrating. Getting ready to head south?”
“No, I’m stuck here for the winter. Just trying to change my swing to get some more power.”
“Not possible,” Bob said. “You might be able to tweak it a bit, but your swing was pretty much defined after the first ten times you played the game. You’re stuck with it now.”
“But they say Tiger’s gone through three different swing changes.”
“Has he really? How’s that worked out for him?”
Cheech knew the former number one golfer in the world wasn’t even ranked in the top hundred these days. “I see your point, but I’ve got to do something. I’ve been told that I’ve lost some flexibility over the years.”
“Haven’t we all. Who told you that?”
“Patti Hoffman. She’s a pro out at Riverview.”
Bob knew who she was and raised an eyebrow. “She knows her stuff. Did she really tell you to change your swing?”
Cheech looked at the ground. “Not quite. She just told me to shorten my backswing.”
“So let me guess, that was something you didn’t want to hear.”
“I suppose not,” Cheech said.
Bob moved around in front of Cheech. “When your golf game goes off the rails, it’s usually best to go back to the basics – grip, stance and alignment. Let me see you hit a few with your normal swing, not your so-called new one.”
Cheech hit about four or five shots.
“There’s nothing wrong with your swing,” Bob said, “so there’s no reason to change it.”
“But I’m losing distance,” Cheech protested.
“Then you’ll have to adapt. Instead of hitting an 8-iron into the green, hit a seven, but don’t change your swing. Adapt, don’t change.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Cheech admitted.
“I’d give the same advice to Tiger if he was here. There’s nothing wrong with his swing. But with his back issues and knee issues, he can no longer swing as hard as he did when he was twenty. The sooner he accepts that, the quicker he’ll get back on track. Conditions change constantly, both on the golf course, and in yourself. You have to adapt to those changes or you’re doomed.”
“Thanks,” Cheech said.
He watched as Bob walked away. Then he started hitting shots with the same swing he’d had since he was a kid. It felt natural. It felt right.
Bob stopped and turned to watch him. “And remember, the game is supposed to be fun.”
* * *
Cheech stared at the huge display of clubs along the wall in the massive golf store. There were clubs from Adams, Titleist, Nike, Ping, TaylorMade and several others, all promising to hit the ball longer and straighter.
“Do you see anything you’d like to try out?” a fresh-faced kid said as he approached. It was apparent that he worked there because he wore the same bright-orange golf shirt worn by all of the staff.
“I’m just looking,” Cheech said.
“This is our most popular driver,” the kid said. “Just came out. It’s got a low CG, the latest speed-slot technology and it’s fully adjustable, so we can adjust it if you tend to hook or slice the ball.”
“Low CG?”
“Low Centre-of-Gravity. It gives you a higher launch angle and reduces the spin rate.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Cheech asked.
“Absolutely,” the kid said. “Why don’t you give it a try in our simulator in the back. It’ll tell you exactly how far you hit it. I’m sure you’ll gain at least ten yards over whatever you’ve got now. Guaranteed.”
Cheech looked at the price tag. It cost almost as much as he had paid for his last set of irons, all ten of them.
“I don’t know,” Cheech said. “It’s a little pricey.”
“Give it a try,” the kid said. “What have you got to lose? I’ll just tape up the face and meet you back at the simulator.”
Cheech watched as the kid raced off. He knew they taped up the face of the club so there wouldn’t be any marks left on the club after the “test drive”. As he scanned the wall of clubs, he noticed two other drivers from the same manufacturer, both costing significantly less than the model he was
about to try. He grabbed both of them and headed back to the simulator.
“I think I’d like to try these two as well, for comparison,” he said to the kid.
“No problem. But I’m sure you’re going to like this new one. It’s sweet.”
Cheech hit a few shots with the new club. According to the monitor, it was going a little further than his current driver, but not enough to justify spending all that money.
“Really give it a rip,” the kid said.
Cheech swung as hard as he could and his next shot did go about twenty yards farther, but it was off-line to the right by about thirty yards.
“Don’t worry about that,” the kid said. “I’ll adjust the weights to produce a draw. That’ll add even more yards to your distance.”
He took the club from Cheech and was about to move the weights on the bottom of the club, but couldn’t find the right tool. He dashed off to find it.
While he was gone, Cheech started hitting some shots with one of the less expensive drivers. They were going about the same distance.
“Is someone looking after you?” someone said from behind him.
Cheech turned to see a silver-haired sales clerk. The bright-orange shirt looked completely out of character on him. His name tag said he was Brian.
“Yeah, he went off to look for something to adjust the weights on the driver,” Cheech said.
Brian started to head off to help another customer.
“But since you’re here,” Cheech said, “can you tell me why this driver is so much cheaper than the other one?”
“It’s last year’s model. The price always drops when the new model comes out – sort of like cars.”
“Is there much difference between them?”
Brian moved in a little closer and lowered his voice. “Sometimes, but in this case, not much at all. It’s mostly marketing.”
Dave watched him hit a few shots and then moved over to look at the monitor.
“Do you normally hit a stiff shaft?”
“Yeah, I have for the last twenty years,” Cheech said. “Why?”
“With your swing speed, you should probably go back to a regular shaft.” He reached into a huge bin of clubs and pulled out the same model that Cheech was hitting and checked the label. “Here, try this one. It’s got a regular shaft.”
From the first swing, Cheech could tell that it felt right. Even with his normal swing, the ball seemed to be rocketing off the club face.
“How much is this one?” Cheech asked.
“The same price as the cheaper one you were trying, less twenty percent because it’s a demo.”
“Sold,” Cheech said.
Just then, the kid showed up with the expensive driver. “I finally found the tool to move the adjustable weights,” he said.
“Never mind. I think I’ve decided to go with this one,” Cheech said as held up the demo model.
The kid glared at Brian.
“Don’t worry,” Brian said as he started to walk away. “You’ll get credit for the sale. And you even sold him the right club for his needs this time.”
* * *
Cheech stared at the number calling on his cell phone, but it wasn’t one he recognized. Probably just a telemarketer. He decided to let it go to voice-mail. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed to let him know he had a new message.
“Hello, this is Dave Hammond calling from Hyundai Canada. Mr. Martin, we received your application and we were wondering if you’d be able to come in for an interview on Wednesday morning at ten.”
Cheech excitedly listened to the rest of the message and quickly jotted down the telephone number he was supposed to call. He had sent his modified resume to this company making it less obvious how old he was. He took a few minutes to compose himself and then called the number. Unfortunately, he only got Mr. Hammond’s assistant who simply confirmed the time and location of the meeting.
After he hung up, Cheech thought about his last day at his old company. Sales were down, expenses were up, and they had all been tasked to come up with strategies to turn things around. He had been through it all before, several times in fact, as car sales seemed to follow cycles. He had come up with a few good ideas and was looking forward to presenting them to his boss and the rest of the executives.
His boss had asked to meet with him privately half an hour before the scheduled meeting. That’s when Cheech was told his services were no longer required. The company wanted to bring in someone with younger, fresher ideas.
“But you haven’t even heard my ideas yet,” Cheech protested.
“I’m sorry,” his boss said. “It’s already been decided.”
Cheech was escorted from the building like he’d been caught stealing. They told him they would pack up his personal belongings and send them to him. He felt shock, then embarrassment, then anger.
How could they reject his ideas if they’d never even bothered to hear them? It hurt him to the core to hear that they thought he was part of the problem, that the best thing he could do to help the company turn things around was to simply go away.
He never got to say goodbye to the team of people he had worked with, many for over twenty years. A few called later to express their surprise and condolences. But not many. It was amazing how quickly some of them wanted to distance themselves from him, as if he had some kind of contagious disease.
* * *
The following Wednesday, Cheech dressed in his best suit and headed off to the interview. The receptionist showed him into one of their boardrooms and offered him coffee.
The first person to arrive was Martha Johnson, the head of the personnel department. She looked to be in her fifties, although her stylish makeup and clothes took at least ten years off her age.
“Mr. Hammond is running a little late,” she said, “but he should be joining us shortly. Did Mr. Hammond explain to you on the phone the type of interview we’ll be conducting today?”
“No,” Cheech said. “We never actually spoke – just traded messages.”
“Are you familiar with behavioural interviews?”
Cheech was not a big fan of them. They had started using them at his old company, but back then, he was the one asking the questions, not answering them. “Yes, I’m familiar with them.”
“Good,” she said. “They seem to throw some people off if they’re not used to them.”
Just then, the boardroom door opened and Mr. Hammond came through holding a stack of files in his hand. Cheech was surprised to see that Mr. Hammond was dressed quite casually in an open-collared shirt and looked to be in his early thirties. He quickly looked down at the resume he was holding and seemed confused, as if he had picked up the wrong file.
“Are you Ian Martin?” he asked.
“Yes,” Cheech said as he rose to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The interview started off with them asking him to briefly walk them through his work history.
“Very impressive,” Mrs. Johnson said. “You’ve run a lot of successful marketing campaigns over the years.”
“Yes, I think we did a case study on one of them back when I was in university,” added Mr. Hammond. “It says you graduated from Western. What year was that?”
“1979,” Cheech replied.
He saw Mr. Hammond’s eyes grow large. Yes, that’s right. Probably before you were born.
“I completed my MBA in eighty-one,” Cheech added.
“Yeah, I never bothered with that,” Mr. Hammond said. “Business has changed a lot since the eighties.”
Cheech felt the sting of the put-down, but put on a brave face and just smiled.
“Maybe we should move on to the second part of the interview,” Mrs. Johnson said.
She asked him a series of behavioural-type questions, questions asking him to describe times he was part of a team, times he led campaigns, and times he had overcome obstacles. He answered the questions flawlessly and he could tell Mrs. Johnson was impressed. But being in sales fo
r his whole career, Cheech knew how to read the room. He had won over Mrs. Johnson, but she wasn’t the decision maker. Mr. Hammond was, and he was barely paying attention.
Afraid I’m more qualified than you and going to take your job?
When the interview was over, everyone smiled and shook hands. Mrs. Johnson promised they’d get back to him with a decision within a couple of weeks. But Cheech already knew what the decision would be. Thanks, but no thanks, and best of luck in your future endeavours.
Chapter 10: Trying New Ways
Ray and Candice watched their grandkids, Tyler and Elizabeth, splashing in the water at the indoor waterpark. Everyone was having such a good time. Their daughter, Amanda, was holding hands with her husband, Doug, and they were both hovering close to their kids to make sure they were safe.
“It’s nice to see everyone so happy,” Candice said. “I’m glad you had a talk with Doug. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” Ray said. “I told you I wasn’t going to meddle. They’ve got to work things out themselves.”
“But I thought you went out for a beer with him last week. What did you talk about?”
“The Jays and whether they’re going to win the pennant this year.”
Candice did not look happy with his answer. But Ray ignored her glare and headed out towards the water.
“We should probably leave in about twenty minutes,” he shouted to Amanda, Doug and the kids. “It’s almost supper time.”
Amanda waved. “Okay, Dad.”
It was just at that moment that another kid accidently bumped into Tyler sending him backwards into the water. He was only submerged for a few seconds before Elizabeth pulled him back up, but Ray could see the panic on his face. Tyler started to scream and thrash in the water. Doug raced over to try to calm him down, but Tyler continued screaming and fighting him off.
The lifeguards blew their whistles and everyone stopped to watch what was going on. Tyler continued to shriek. It was Elizabeth who finally managed to get him to calm down.
The Back Nine: A Novel About Life After Fifty Page 5
