The Golfer's Carol

by Robert Bailey

I was gazing across my desk at the portrait of the thirteenth hole of Augusta.

  “What do I want?” I repeated, speaking louder and hoping that Bobby Jones or Ben Hogan or Arnold Palmer or maybe even Johnnie would fire an answer back to me through the painting.

  But the office was dead quiet.

  I rose to my feet and walked around my desk to the portrait. I ran my index finger over the edges of the painted bunkers and, behind them, the azaleas. “What do I want?” I asked again for the third time.

  I wasn’t exactly sure, but I thought I knew the answer to another question. I knew what I didn’t want.

  I don’t want to jump.

  After thinking the words, I spoke them out loud. “I don’t want to jump.”

  I took a tentative step back from the painting and sat on the edge of the desk. My hand felt something rough and I turned to see the crumpled-up note with Ellie Timberlake’s request for lunch next week. I carefully straightened out the paper and placed it next to the telephone. I let out a deep breath and again peered at the painting across the room.

  “What now, Darb?” Bobby Jones had taught self-control. Hogan had stood for resilience. And Arnold Palmer had shown with his words and actions the wisdom of believing in yourself and going after what you want.

  But according to my dead friend, I still had one visit left. Four rounds . . . four heroes . . .

  Could it be Jack? I wondered, grabbing my briefcase and walking out of the office. And if so, what would the Golden Bear have to tell me that the other three legends hadn’t shared?

  I smiled as I stepped outside and felt the sunshine on my face. For the first time in I couldn’t remember when, I was excited about something.

  Final Round

  31

  That night, we decided to go to Terry’s Pizza as a family. Mary Alice was feeling better and wanted to eat something greasy, so we all split a large pepperoni, and Mary Alice and I both had draft Miller Lites while Davis washed her pizza down with a Dr Pepper. After taking my first bite of pie, I peered across the table at my daughter. “How’d the tourney go today, champ?” Davis hadn’t said anything on the way to the restaurant, so I suspected she was disappointed in her play.

  “Awful,” she said, shaking her head as she chewed her food. “Shot eighty-nine and had thirty-seven putts. Couldn’t make anything on the greens and quadruple-bogeyed the second hole.”

  I grimaced. “That one’s a dogleg-right par five that goes up a hill and then down to the green, right?” I paused as she nodded. “The layup shot is tricky. Got to hug the left side and avoid going right.”

  Davis snorted. “Guess where I went?”

  I took a sip of beer and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. I should have gone over the round with you beforehand like normal.” I paused. “Won’t happen again, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, eyeing me warily. “But the quad on two wasn’t your fault. I was trying to go left with my layup and hit a cold shank.” She made a swift left-to-right motion with her hand and sighed. “Not my best effort.” Then she managed to laugh at herself.

  I gripped her shoulder and chuckled in solidarity. The conversation turned to jokes about Bee Bee’s cooking and discussion about the Masters, where Jack had fired a third-round sixty-nine and was now within four shots of the lead.

  The leader at six under par was Greg Norman from Australia, whose linebacker build and flowing whitish-blond hair had earned him the nickname “the Great White Shark.” Norman struck an intimidating figure on the course, and his aggressive style of play had made him one of the most popular players on tour. One shot behind the Shark at five under were Seve Ballesteros of Spain and Bernhard Langer from Germany, both former champions. Nick Price of South Africa was also five under, after tying the course record with a sixty-three. Two shots behind them were Tommy Nakajima of Japan and American stalwarts Tom Watson and Tom Kite.

  Jack was two under, which put him within striking distance, but it was hard to imagine him coming from behind to beat the likes of Norman, Ballesteros, and Langer.

  “At least he’s got a chance,” Davis said, sucking down some of her soda. “I’m betting he makes a charge.”

  I shook my head and winked at my wife, whose return smile wasn’t as radiant as on our wedding day or by the water fountain in high school, but there was still some life in it. When was the last time we had gone out for pizza as a family?

  I hadn’t asked her about her day because I didn’t want her to have to recall the trip to the cemetery. For her part, she hadn’t asked me what I had done all day.

  I chuckled to myself, wondering how I would even begin to describe what had happened at my office, and felt my wife’s hand on top of mine. I looked across the table, which was covered with a checkerboard tablecloth, and her eyebrows were raised. “What are you laughing about?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  I glanced at Davis, who was also looking at me. “Spit it out, Dad.”

  “I’m still tickled by your mother’s meat loaf.”

  “No, you’re not,” Mary Alice snapped. “I know you, Randy Clark, and something else is on your mind.”

  For a moment, I felt my stomach tighten. What in the world was I going to say? Then my litigation skills kicked in, and I talked myself out of the jam. “I went to the office, and I had a note to call Ellie Timberlake. She wants to have lunch and didn’t say what it was about.”

  “Think she’s going to offer you a job again?” Mary Alice asked. Her tone was noncommittal.

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. I suspect it has something to do with the circuit court judge spot that’s opening up, but who knows?”

  My wife nodded, but then she surprised me. Looking into her half-drunk beer mug, she spoke in a quiet voice. “If she does mention a partnership, you might want to consider it.”

  “I considered it last time, remember?”

  She nodded, still gazing at the golden liquid in her glass. “Well . . . maybe the answer will be different this go-round.” She glanced up from her glass with a tiny grin.

  “Maybe,” I said, smiling back at her.

  32

  I woke up the next morning at six o’clock feeling refreshed. I hadn’t slept a full eight hours in years. Mercifully, there were no crazy dreams or nightmares.

  I slipped on some tennis shoes, sweatpants, and a gray pullover and decided to go for a run while Mary Alice and Davis were still snoozing. The morning air was cool, but the sun was rising, bringing warmth.

  My joints were stiff at first, but after a few blocks they began to loosen up. I hadn’t been running in months, and the air felt good in my lungs. After a half a mile, I could sense the release of endorphins in my body and mind.

  The euphoria was short-lived. My knees began to ache and I developed a stitch in my side that required me to slow my pace to a brisk walk. That was fine, though, because I had reached my destination.

  * * *

  —

  Maple Hill Cemetery is a one-hundred-acre expanse of land at the intersection of California Drive and McClung Avenue. Once inside the gates, I walked at a steady pace toward my son’s marker.

  I wasn’t sure why I needed to see him this morning, but I did. When I reached the Clark plot, I walked past the concrete slabs marking the graves of my grandfather and grandmother and my uncle Jack. Then I came to two markers side by side, shaded by a maple tree.

  Robert Graham Clark. January 31, 1917—March 1, 1984

  Robert Graham Clark II. February 14, 1978—March 3, 1983

  My father . . . my son . . .

  I leaned a hand against the maple. For a long time, I just stood there, focusing my eyes on my son’s marker. Then I cleared my throat.

  “We had a good time last night at Terry’s, Graham. You would have loved it.” I squatted down and ran my f
ingers over the letters of his name. “Your grandmother tried to kill your momma with her cooking again.” I chuckled but felt the tears begin to slide down my cheeks. “Look, I . . . just wanted to say . . . that even though I don’t come out here as much as your momma does, I really . . .” My words were choked out by a sob, and I let my knees fall to the ground. The grass was moist from the night’s dew, and I felt the moisture soaking through my sweatpants.

  I’m not sure how long I knelt by my son’s grave and cried. I didn’t think about the time. All I thought about was my boy and how much I loved and missed him. I cried for him and the unfairness of this cruel world. Finally, I gazed at the marker and finished what I had to say. “I love you, son, and I miss you so much. I thought that if I killed myself, it would make things better for everyone. That if I took my life, your sister could go to college and your momma could pay off our debts and hopefully find happiness with another man. A better man.” I blinked back the tears. “And then the craziest thing happened.” I smiled and looked up at the sky. “My friend Darby died.” I let out a ragged laugh and shook my head. “And his ghost visited me. He told me I would be receiving a great gift and that I’d get to play a round of golf with four of my heroes.” I snorted and rubbed my hand over my son’s grave. “I told you it was crazy. I’ve played East Lake with Bobby Jones and learned about self-control. I’ve watched Ben Hogan hit perfect golf shots and learned about the incredible resilience he showed to get past his father’s suicide and the bus crash that nearly crippled him. And I saw Arnold Palmer drive the green to win the 1960 U.S. Open. Arnold’s lesson was to believe in yourself and go for what you want.”

  I stood up and brushed the wet grass off my pants. “And so now I’m not sure what I should do.” I let out a deep breath and peered up at the sky. “But I’m not going to take my own life.”

  I peered down at the grave. “So, since my grand scheme to jump off the Tennessee River Bridge is out, I’ve got to figure out what to do and what I want.”

  I sighed and felt my lip beginning to tremble. When I spoke again, my voice was shaky. “I’m scared, son. For so long, I’ve felt stuck and overwhelmed. I think I want to move forward now, I really do.” I closed my eyes. “I’m just not sure how.”

  I again knelt by the grave. “I love you, son. I wish it were me in there and you out here, but that’s not the hand we were dealt. I hope I can make you proud of me. I hope . . .” Again, my voice shook. “We won’t ever forget you, son, but I hope we can move forward with life. I know that’s what we must do. I just . . . don’t know how.”

  I kissed my hand and planted it over my son’s name. Then I rose to my feet. For a long moment, I peered at the marker next to my son’s, trying to speak without crying. “Take care of him up there, Dad.” I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t find the words.

  33

  I walked most of the way back home. I was tired from both the run and the emotions spent at the cemetery, but it was that good kind of fatigue that sets in after physical exertion. I knew I would feel better after a shower and some breakfast.

  When I arrived at the house, Mary Alice’s station wagon was gone. She’d left a note on the kitchen table. Went to church with Davis. Love you.

  I felt the familiar pangs of remorse as I poured myself a glass of water and thought of my wife and daughter at church without me there. Before Graham’s death, we had been regular attendees, but after burying our son, I had not had it in me to go back. Mary Alice and Davis had resumed going a few weeks after the funeral, but I had always found an excuse not to join them. Work, sickness, whatever. Finally, my wife had stopped asking me to come.

  I sighed and drank the water in one long swig. I tried not to dwell on the guilt. Instead, I forced my legs to move toward the bathroom, where I started the shower running. As the hot water sprayed over my face and chest, I figured there was only one logical thing for me to do.

  34

  Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Twickenham Country Club. As expected, my car was one of only a handful in the lot. Most of the golf crowd, even the scoundrels on the Big Team like Bland Simpson, were in church right now. The course ought to be wide open.

  There was one lesson left to go, and I wanted to get on with it.

  I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Will I know what to do after this one? Will I know how to move on?

  I set my bag on the driving range and walked down the hill to the pro shop. On the way, I didn’t see a soul. Though a light crowd was common for Sunday, the emptiness of the place seemed odd. There had been a few cars in the lot, so there had to be some folks here. Where are they?

  I opened the door to the pro shop, but there was no one behind the desk. I rang the bell on the counter and waited. Nothing. The lights in the back were off and there was no sign of life. It’s happening, I knew, feeling goose bumps come over my body. The fourth and final round . . .

  I stepped back outside and saw no one on the course or on the path back to the range. However, as I walked up the hill, I saw a figure putting on the practice green. “Well, I’ll be dipped in horse manure,” I said out loud, laughing and picking up my pace. When I reached the green, I stopped and folded my arms across my chest.

  “Nice putt,” I said, as the other man rolled a ten-footer right into the heart of the hole.

  “I make everything now,” Darby said, rubbing his bushy beard. “Just like Ty Webb in Caddyshack.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t my hero.”

  “I’m not,” Darby said, stroking another putt, this time from twenty feet. When it curled into the side of the hole, he winked at me and shook his head.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To say good-bye,” Darby said, approaching me with his confident swagger. “And to wish you good luck.”

  “Why will I need luck?”

  “Because the final lesson is the hardest, but also the most important.” He sighed. “It’s the one that I never learned.”

  “If you’re not going to teach it, then who is?” I asked.

  “Your real hero,” Darby said.

  “Jack?”

  Darby smiled. “No. Jack Nicklaus is the greatest golfer that ever lived and a fine man.” He paused. “But there is someone you look up to even more than Jack.” Darby turned to the parking lot and pointed.

  I squinted into the sun and saw a figure approaching. He was carrying a golf bag over his shoulder, and he looked to be in his late forties. When he got within ten feet of the practice green, I recognized him.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  35

  He looked the way I remembered him best. Salt-and-pepper hair cut high and tight. Stocky build with massive, Popeye-like forearms. As he approached, he gave me a smile that showed the chipped front tooth he’d never gotten fixed. “Up for nine holes?” he asked, in the firm voice that, when it had been raised in anger, was the most terrifying sound in the world to me as a small boy.

  I glanced to my left and saw that Darby was still standing beside me. “My dad?”

  Darby nodded. “He won’t recognize you unless you allow him to.”

  “How will I do that?” I asked.

  But then Darby vanished as if he’d never been there at all. I blinked twice and looked again. Still gone. “Darb?”

  “Hey.” It was my father’s voice.

  I looked back toward him, and he was placing his bag by the first tee. “Did you hear me? Would you like to play nine?”

  “S-S-Sure,” I managed. I grabbed my bag and walked cautiously toward the first tee box. He had already set his bag on the ground and was taking out a few golf balls and tees from the front pouch.

  I propped my bag up on its stand a few feet away from him.

  He straightened himself and extended his hand. “My name is Robert Clark.”

  I shook my father’s ha
nd, and like when I was a kid, it felt like a brick that had been rubbed down with sandpaper. “R-R-Randy,” I stuttered.

  “That’s my son’s name.”

  “R-R-Really?”

  “Yeah. Want me to toss a tee for the honors?”

  “Okay.”

  He dug in his pocket and flung a white tee up in the air. When it landed, the tip was pointed more toward me than him. “You’re up,” he said, patting my back. Then he walked a few paces away and took two clubs out of his bag. He held them together and began to swing them; that was how he had always warmed up when we had played together.

  “Want to hit a few on the range?” I asked, knowing what the response would be.

  He chuckled. “And risk hitting a few good ones that I could’ve used on the course? I’ll pass.”

  I laughed. That was exactly what he always said.

  I snatched my driver out of the bag along with a ball and tee. Is he going to recognize my swing?

  Darby’s words drifted back to me. He won’t recognize you unless you allow him to . . .

  I shook off the thoughts as I stuck my tee in the ground and took a few practice swings. The first hole at Twickenham Country Club was a straightaway par four with a generous fairway. A nice, simple opening hole.

  I addressed the ball and took my stance. Then, feeling oddly loose, I struck the ball pure. It launched off the tee down the left side of the fairway and then leaked toward the middle. It was the fade that I’d hit virtually my whole golf career.

  “Nice one,” my dad said, as he walked around me and teed up his own ball. I stood on the cart path and watched him take a quick peek at the fairway, address the ball, and then hit it with a short and choppy motion. The ball went fifty yards left of the fairway and then sliced back into the middle.

  “That’ll work,” I said, smiling as I remembered that Dad had always just played his banana slice. He had never taken any golf lessons but managed to finagle the ball around the course and produce a decent score.