The Back Nine: A Novel About Life After Fifty

by E. A. Briginshaw

  His hero was about to fall. The torch was being passed from father to son, the natural evolution. The problem was, Josh wasn’t sure he wanted it just yet.

  He remembered watching the 2009 British Open on TV with his father. That was the year 59-year-old Tom Watson, who had already won the Open five times in his career, was faced with an eight-foot putt on the last hole to win it again. It didn’t seem to matter that his last major championship victory had come twenty-six years earlier. Golf is one of the few sports where an old guy can legitimately compete against much younger competitors, provided he can find the magic once again. Josh knew his father wanted Watson to make that putt. Even Josh wanted him to him to make it. Hell, the whole world wanted to see him roll it in. But it wasn’t to be.

  Josh watched his father look at his lie in the rough. He had only missed the green by a few yards, but it was a pretty ugly lie. He needed to chip it in the hole to have any chance of winning. Josh had seen him do it many times before to beat him. He found himself hoping he would do it again. A victory lap. He deserved it.

  Bruce took a few practice swings with his lob wedge, the face laid wide open. He took an aggressive swing, but the ball barely moved a foot.

  Bruce smiled, removed his cap, and extended his hand. “Congratulations, son. You played a great match. I’m so proud of you.”

  The match was over. Bruce had conceded.

  Josh felt numb as he shook his father’s hand. Now he knew how Stewart Cink must have felt when he won the 2009 Open Championship, the one that everyone, possibly including Cink himself, was hoping Tom Watson would win.

  To the fans watching from around the green, it must have looked confusing. Bruce was beaming with pride at his son’s accomplishment. Josh looked completely drained of energy and in shock.

  “What was that you kept mumbling to yourself?” Bruce asked his son as they walked off the green.

  “Ernie Els”, Josh said. “It’s just something to help me keep my tempo. The pro suggested it when he gave me the putting lesson. I’d forgotten all about it until you gave me the golf bag. Whenever I had a pressure shot, I’d just say Ern-ie Els to myself to keep the tempo. Someone once told me golf is all about tempo and timing.”

  “Sounds like someone gave you some good advice.”

  “You sure did, Dad.”

  * * *

  Cheech was approaching the sixteenth green in his match against Stryker. They had both heard the cheers of the crowd on the holes ahead of them, but they had no idea what that meant. Had the Challenge Cup already been decided?

  Cheech knew he had to block those thoughts from his mind and concentrate on his own match. He was two down to Stryker, with three holes to play. Not an enviable situation to be in.

  Cheech thought back to what Maggie had said. “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”

  Both Cheech and Stryker were facing birdie putts of about fifteen feet. Stryker went first, but his putt came up short. It wasn’t like him to leave a birdie putt short. Maybe he was feeling the pressure as well.

  When Cheech hit his putt, he felt like he pushed it a bit, but it broke a little more than he expected and curled into the hole. In this case, two wrongs had resulted in a right. He was now only one down to Stryker.

  As they were walking off the green, Max came racing over in his golf cart.

  “How are you doing?” Max said.

  “I got lucky there,” Cheech said, “so I’m only one down.”

  “Well, it’s all up to you now. Ray won his match, but Bruce lost to his son, so we’re all tied up in points.”

  Cheech looked back up the hill to the darkening sky. “I’m not sure it will matter anyway. It’s getting too dark to see anything.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Max said. “We’ve got that covered.” He patted his father on the shoulder. “Thanks to Dad.”

  Cheech and Stryker walked down the darkened pathway toward the seventeenth tee. When they got there, they were surprised to see several cars surrounding the green with their headlights on. The green was lit up like it was high noon.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,” Stryker said, “but I think it might work.”

  Both players hit good tee shots onto the green. However, putting was more of a challenge than they thought it would be. When Stryker bent down to line up his putt, he found himself staring directly into the headlights of one of the cars. It threw him off and he missed his putt by a good foot.

  Cheech was a little more fortunate. Because this was his home course, he knew his putt was straight uphill. He put a good stroke on it and the putt rolled into the hole.

  Match all square, one hole to play.

  “It’s one thing to light up a green on a par three,” Stryker said as they climbed the hill to the eighteenth tee, “but I’m not sure how they’re going to light up an entire par four.”

  When they crested the hill, there must have been thirty cars lining both sides of the fairway. Scott had asked everyone still in the clubhouse to get into their vehicles and drive out to light up the way home. He’d even called a few of the condo owners to help out. The fairway and green were now lit up like a football stadium.

  Unfortunately, the tee was almost in complete darkness. Cheech put his tee in the ground and prepared to hit.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can barely see my ball. Is there any way to get some light on the tee?”

  Max had been worried about lighting up the fairway and the green so they could see where the ball landed. He hadn’t positioned any cars around the tee.

  “I got this,” Maggie said.

  She went running back down the hill toward the seventeenth hole. A few seconds later they heard the roar of the little red sports car as it came racing back up the hill. Everyone groaned when they heard the grinding sound when she tried to shift into second gear. And everyone jumped out of the way when she crested the hill and came flying over the back of the tee. She jammed on the brakes, leaving a huge skid mark on the tee.

  “Sorry about that,” she said as she jumped out of the car. “Let’s not tell the greens-keeper who did this, okay?”

  The crowd chuckled.

  “And Cheech, sorry about your transmission. Shifting into second always seems to give me trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cheech said. “I’m planning to trade it in anyway.”

  They now had enough light on the tee so they could see the ball. Cheech hit a good tee shot and found the fairway.

  Stryker seemed a little flustered. He was a firm believer of having a set routine before hitting a golf shot and being in complete control of the situation. But the situation was now almost complete chaos and he pulled his tee shot into the left bunker. He took a few deep breaths to regain his composure and hit his second onto the green, leaving a long birdie putt.

  When Cheech reached his tee shot, he found himself waffling between hitting a hard eight iron or an easy seven. He tried not to, but his thoughts drifted back to his shank on the fifteenth hole. God, please don’t let me shank this one.

  He stood over the ball, then backed away, then stepped back in. He decided his target was the light on the top of the clubhouse. Just hit it toward the light.

  He felt like he made good contact and the ball shot off the clubface. It started off on line, but then he lost sight of it as it rose above the lights of the cars surrounding the green.

  Where the hell was it? Was it ever going to come down?

  Cheech never did see it land, but the roar of the crowd told him it must have landed on the green. He wondered how long a putt he would have. When they walked toward the green, Cheech finally located his ball and saw he had about a twenty footer left.

  Stryker’s putt was a little farther away, but it was probably an easier putt because it was straight up hill. Cheech fully expected him to make it and couldn’t bear to watch. Even though the green was now completely surrounded by spectators, the place had gone eerily quiet. It even seemed like th
e wind that always blew on the course had decided to stop for the next few minutes to watch the outcome of the match.

  Cheech heard the sound of the putter making contact. He heard the murmuring of the crowd grow as the ball got closer to the hole and then their groans when it slid by the edge.

  Cheech now had a putt to win the match. He heard Bruce yell from the crowd, “Come on Cheech, you can make it!”

  Cheech’s ball was about twenty feet from the hole, but it was a tricky putt to read. It looked like it should break about a foot and a half to the right in the first part of the putt, but then straighten out when it got closer to the hole. He walked around the green several times, surveying the line from every angle. Although the car headlights lit up the green, they also seemed to distort everything. He was getting a different read each time he looked at it.

  He closed his eyes trying to visualize the putt. See it, feel it, trust it. When he opened his eyes again, it was like the line of the putt had been magically drawn in bright lights on the green, like a pilot suddenly seeing the runway lights as he emerged from the clouds during a landing.

  Cheech took a deep breath and stepped up to the ball. He made a good stroke and saw the ball follow the imaginary line he had in his head. Had he hit it hard enough? When it took the break and rolled back down toward the hole, he suddenly thought he might have hit it too hard. It was picking up more speed the closer it got to the hole. Oh, No. He had hit it too hard! When it hit the back of the hole, the ball popped up in the air, seemingly defying the laws of gravity for a split second before it fell back down into the hole.

  Cheech just stood there, speechless. He didn’t hear the roar of the crowd around the green. He didn’t see Max throw his arms in the air as if he had just scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. His eyes were still glazed over when Stryker removed his cap and shook his hand.

  Suddenly he was sent flying as Maggie tackled him. “You did it, you did it!” she shouted as she landed on top of him. “See, I told you it wasn’t over ‘til it’s over.”

  Chapter 27: The Back Nine

  A few days later, Jerry was standing at his starter’s podium looking at the tee sheet. It was a perfect autumn day which meant the tee sheet was almost completely filled. He was scrambling to find a spot for a walk-on. He saw Cheech, Bruce and Ray on the putting green and headed over to talk to them.

  “I’ve got a new member looking for a game,” Jerry said. “He just bought one of the condos over by the eleventh hole. Is it okay if I put him in your group?”

  The three of them looked over Jerry’s shoulder at the guy standing near the clubhouse. He had his back to them, so they couldn’t get a clear look at him until he turned around.

  “Stryker!” they all said in unison.

  Stryker smiled. “Yeah, I’m back. I heard your club had a bunch of old farts playing here and was looking to add some fresh, young talent.”

  “Young?” Bruce questioned. “If you just bought a condo in here, it means you’re at least fifty.”

  “Not until next month,” Stryker said, “but they said they’d waive the restriction for the time being.”

  “What about your membership at Blackhawk Ridge?” Ray asked. “Did your new firm finally realize what a pain in the ass you are and can you?”

  Stryker didn’t seemed fazed at all by the insult. “No, I seem to be fitting in quite nicely at HMT and I still use the corporate membership to take clients out for a round at Blackhawk Ridge, but I missed golfing with my friends back here.”

  “Friends,” Bruce said. “You have friends?”

  Stryker had missed the constant chirping. They all started walking toward the first tee.

  “Welcome to the club,” Cheech said. “Let me tell you what you’re in for.”

  “I’ve played here before,” Stryker said. “I know all about the course.”

  “Not the golf course, stupid, the over-fifty club. We’ll help you with everything you need to know. First off, when’s the last time you had those eyebrows trimmed? They’re starting to look a little bushy.”

  “I’ll introduce you to my physiotherapist,” Bruce added. “It’s just matter of time until you’ve got him on speed-dial.”

  “When’s the last time you had your prostate checked?” Ray asked with a grin.

  Stryker stopped. “This may have been a mistake.”

  * * *

  After they’d finished their round, all four of them headed toward the parking lot.

  “New car?” Bruce asked Cheech.

  “Yeah, I traded the sports car in for this RAV4. I love it. It’s much more practical and I can fit more than one set of clubs in the back.”

  “My brother has one,” Ray said. “He loves his, too. You guys up for another round tomorrow at ten?”

  Bruce and Stryker both nodded their agreement.

  “I can’t,” Cheech said. “I’m moving.”

  “Moving where?” Bruce asked.

  Cheech felt his face flush a little. “Back in with Maggie. We’re going to give it another shot.”

  “Good for you,” Bruce said.

  * * *

  The next day, Bruce was standing on the first tee with Ray and Stryker when he heard the trunk of a car slam shut. Bruce smiled when he saw who it was.

  “I hope you guys don’t mind, but I asked my son Josh to join us today. I knew we’d have a spot open with Cheech moving today.”

  “No problem,” Ray said.

  Josh came racing over to the tee. “Sorry I’m late.” He tipped his cap to Ray and Stryker. “So what’s the game today?”

  “How about you and Stryker take on me and Ray?” Bruce said.

  “Sounds good,” Josh said.

  “But you guys have to give us two shots each,” Bruce added.

  “What?” Josh asked. “Why should we give you two shots?”

  “Because you’re both younger than we are. You can’t expect us old fogies to beat you guys straight up. I think two shots sounds about right.”

  “I think we’re getting sandbagged,” Stryker said. “How about one shot each?”

  Bruce and Ray nodded to each other.

  “Done,” Bruce said as he pulled out his driver. He grinned at Josh. “It’ll be like taking candy from a baby.”

  Josh grinned back. “Bring it on, old man.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Jerry ambled back into the pro shop. After a busy morning, things had finally started to slow down. Most of the remaining bookings were for husbands and wives looking to head out for a quick nine together before supper.

  Jerry was hoping to sneak in nine holes himself. People who worked at the club were allowed to play for free once a week, but only after three in the afternoon. Jerry could have asked to play with one of the couples about to tee off, but he didn’t want to impose.

  “Any chance I could sneak out on the back nine?” Jerry asked Scott.

  Scott looked at the bookings to see who was about to make the turn at the ninth hole.

  “The group that just finished the ninth hole aren’t playing eighteen,” Scott said, “and I think the ladies coming up to the green are only going to play nine as well. You should be good to go.”

  Jerry headed to his car to grab his clubs. He purchased a sandwich at the snack bar and headed to the tenth tee. Sandwiches had become his standard supper of late. It didn’t seem worth it to cook a meal just for himself.

  He had just teed off on the tenth hole when a golf cart pulled up. It was Anne-Marie Tremblay.

  “Sorry,” Jerry said. “I didn’t mean to cut in. I thought your group was only going to play nine. You can go ahead and play through.”

  “No problem,” Anne-Marie said. “The rest of my group quit after nine, but I wanted to keep going. I’ve got a good score going.”

  Anne-Marie hit her tee shot.

  “Why don’t we play together?” she asked. “There’s some really treacherous holes on the back nine. No one should have to face them al
one.”

  Jerry nodded his agreement. Truer words were never spoken.

  Other Books By

  E.A. Briginshaw

  Goliath

  Henry Shaw leads a relatively quiet life trying to balance his work at a growing law firm with his family life, including supporting his teenage son who has a promising soccer career ahead of him. But all of that changes when Henry’s bipolar brother, in one of his manic states, tells him that Goliath didn’t really die as told in the biblical story – and that he is Goliath.

  When his brother disappears along with a media magnate, the FBI and the local police believe they may have been part of a secret international network and that Goliath was his brother’s code name. The solution to this puzzle may reside in his brother’s laptop computer, which mysteriously disappears during a break-in at his house.

  Is his brother dead or just hiding from forces trying to destroy the network? Henry tries to solve the puzzle along with an intriguing woman he encounters at an airport bar.

  Goliath is available for purchase on the Amazon.com website.

  Book (ISBN 978-0-9921390-0-1)

  eBook (ISBN 978-0-9921390-1-8)

  The Second Shooter

  It has been widely speculated that the FBI, CIA and Secret Service have been hiding the existence of critical evidence as to those involved in the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The JFK Records Act requires that all records related to the assassination be released to the public by October 26, 2017, unless the President deems their release would cause grave harm to the nation. When some of these potentially dangerous records are accidentally released, forces within the government attempt to recover them using whatever means necessary, including the elimination of anyone who may have seen them.

  In the sequel to “Goliath”, David and Robert Shaw head off to university and find themselves drawn into the world of shadow governments and secret societies. Despite the work of an investigative journalist to uncover the truth, and the efforts of their father to protect them, they find themselves squarely in the crosshairs of “The Second Shooter”.