Par for the Course

by Ray Blackston

  On the far left side of my golf range, where I preferred to teach in privacy and away from the crowd, I examined her grip and fielded her questions.

  “No, unfortunately I didn’t win. But right now let’s concentrate on your grip.”

  Molly also needed to learn to stop lifting her arms as she struck a golf ball, which resulted in a topped shot, the ball dribbling hopelessly in front of the hitting mat and lacking any notion of power or control.

  She seemed to enjoy my helping her with her grip, and when she finally wrapped her fingers properly around the club, I decided to give myself permission to get personal. I asked her what she did for a living.

  She hit a ball and watched it sail fifty yards in the air. “Go ahead—guess.”

  “Pharmaceutical sales?” I asked and rolled another ball into position.

  “Guess again.” She hit a second and a third shot, both pulled left of the target.

  “Software sales? Something that requires personality?”

  She hit one more. “Not even close. I work in the midst of chaos and try to decipher a phenomenon known as spin.”

  Her clues were as confusing as her golf swing. “Golf ball sales? They spin a lot, ya know.”

  She hit another ball and followed its flight—as far right as the previous one had flown left. “I meant human spin, Chris. I analyze spin. How certain people distort facts and play with the truth.”

  “Oh no,” I said with mock disdain, “you’re in politics.”

  She smiled, hit three more balls off-line. “I’m a political analyst and correspondent, studying demographics and voting patterns in the Deep South. I’m asked to be on TV now and then. I’ll be in Charleston for two more weeks.”

  My questions came fast, as did her answers. Between swings she told me she was a Purdue graduate and a communications major, now living in D.C. After Charleston, she would head to Alabama for a week of work before hurrying back to D.C. to cover a round of debates.

  I was disappointed to know that she wasn’t a local. And yet, the temporal nature of her visit heightened my sense of urgency to make an impression, to show her a bit of my world. The only thing I could think of, as she finished her lesson and brushed a few grass clippings from her yellow skirt, was to offer her a tour of my facility.

  She accepted, and we left her golf bag leaning against the pro shop and walked around behind the hitting mats, where some twenty customers flailed away. The after-work crowd had drifted in—range rats in obligatory golf duds, corporate folk in business casual, teenagers in whatever. Near the end of the range a young father instructed his toddler how to grip the club, and I felt a tinge of envy, what with my unfulfilled desire to have a son of my own.

  “Do you give teenagers a discount?” Molly asked, watching youthful golfers swing youthfully.

  “Um, not very often . . . but that’s a great idea.” My attempt to be agreeable.

  Though she had little talent for the game, Molly seemed a degree more polished than my other female students. I couldn’t help but notice her quick wit, perfect posture, and TV-babe haircut. We strolled toward the setting sun, and squinting I explained to her how I’d begun with just ten mats, adding more as the business grew, until now I was maxed out at thirty-six mats while still leaving a natural grass area for tournament players and low-handicappers.

  “A little something for everyone?” she asked in midstride. “Sounds like some congressmen I know.”

  Past the last mat on the right—I had noted that 27 of the 36 were occupied, always a good percentage—I showed her the Groundskeeper Café. Then, behind Cack’s table, the maintenance shed. Its automatic garage door was open, and Molly surprised me by pointing inside. “Can we take a look?”

  I had no idea why this classy woman wanted to see the maintenance shed, but I strolled in with her and promptly discovered the object of her curiosity—she’d spotted Cack’s customized golf cart, with the metal cage shaped like a top hat.

  “What exactly is that thing?” she asked, pointing at the steel mesh rising over the seat and steering wheel.

  “It’s our Taunt-mobile. My groundskeeper, whom you met in the pro shop, drives it around on Wednesday nights and incites the customers through a bullhorn. People get all worked up and try to hit him. It’s great for business.”

  Molly put a finger to her lips. She appeared deep in thought. “He incites them? How does he do that?”

  I propped one foot on the cart’s front bumper. “Mostly he drives around in figure eights and tells people they stink at golf. He’s got some pretty good one-liners.”

  She motioned to the driver’s door and raised an eyebrow. “May I?”

  “Sit in it?”

  She nodded. “Just for a minute.”

  Not questioning her motives, I opened the caged door and helped her inside. She sat behind the wheel and ran her hands across the steering wheel. Then she looked on the seat beside her and noted the bullhorn that Cack had left there. Through half-inch mesh she looked up at me. “Chris, have you ever thought about having your buddy shout political insults through this caged thingamajig?”

  “Um, no. Never entered my mind.”

  Molly pulled the caged door till it clanked shut. “Then perhaps it’s time to experiment, mister.” Still on the outside looking in, I was hoping she would not do what she did.

  She turned the key and started the cart.

  “You really shouldn’t,” I said, one hand holding the steel cage. “You might not get the response you’re hoping for.”

  She picked up the bullhorn, pointed it at me, and put her lips to the mouthpiece. Then, in the voice of a carnival barker, “I guess ya never know till you try.”

  She pressed the gas and took off out of the maintenance shed and drove into the middle of my range. Stunned at her boldness and initiative, I scrambled out of the shed and up a small rise before pausing behind the last mat to watch my customers react.

  At first nothing happened. Customers continued with their practice and in general acted like Molly was just out there to pick up golf balls.

  But then, in the midst of a long turn away from the sun, she pulled the bullhorn to her lips and uttered words that made me cringe. “Okay, all you Carolina hackers, I’m pro-Democrat, pro-choice, anti-Bush, and antiwar! And if you don’t like it . . . just try to hit me!”

  Then she blazed across the Bermuda, turning in circles around the 100-yard and 150-yard markers.

  Golf balls flew at her as if shot from Gatling guns.

  Two businessmen stripped off their ties and swung with the kind of ferocity that only testosterone can yield. Women muttered, “The audacity of her!” and fired away.

  One redneckish range rat shouted, “Them’s fightin’ words,” teed up three balls in a row, and hit them as fast as he could swing.

  This was not the playful mock anger directed at Cack on Wednesday nights; this was deep-seated and personal. And perhaps very good for business.

  When Molly repeated her charge, adding a line about, “Conservatives swing like uncoordinated Bible-thumpers,” customers sprinted to the pro shop to buy more buckets of balls.

  “Who is that nutcase out there?” a guy asked as he passed me with two buckets.

  I could only shrug. I was tempted to chase her out across the range, though fear of being struck by a multitude of golf balls kept me planted. Plus she drove like a crazy woman.

  Cack, in something resembling a jealous fit, came running out of the pro shop in his overalls. He hurried behind the hitting mats, on a beeline for his boss.

  “Who took my job?” he demanded. He breathed heavily and pointed at Molly. “I’m the only one who gets to antagonize the customers.”

  I watched her circle the range, white pellets bouncing around the cart. “She’s just experimenting a bit, Cack. She’s in politics . . . and came up with a new idea.”

  Neither his posture nor his tone could hide his jealousy. “But we only do this on Wednesday nights. Six forty-four, remember? I h
ave flyers posted all over.”

  “I know, buddy. But her idea just might—”

  She had the bullhorn to her lips again.

  We watched this free spirit incite the crowd, provoking strenuous swings and mass determination; everyone on the range was firing away at her. Then Molly shouted, “Warmongers make terrrrrible golfers.”

  My groundskeeper looked on in astonishment. “Wish I’d thought of that one,” he muttered. “Does this mean I’m demoted?”

  “No, but I think the two of you should have a powwow and come up with more ways to milk the polarization of the country.”

  Cack frowned. “Here you go with those big words again.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, something like, “ ‘Do I get to drive the cart more than she does?” but instead he turned and hurried back to the pro shop to sell buckets of golf balls to our right-leaning customers.

  Ten minutes later Molly returned to the maintenance shed, no dents evident in either the cart or herself. “The experiment worked,” she said and wiped the sweat from her eyes. I opened the caged door and helped her out, thinking that I should have been mad. But somehow that emotion was unavailable—she had a kind of mischievous glow about her.

  No golf student had ever pulled a stunt like that, and I was at a loss what to say to her, caught as I was between attraction and surprise. All I managed at first was, “Are you really so anticonservative?”

  She brushed some grass clippings from her shorts and shook her head. “No, not at all. And I’m not pro-choice either. I just figured since this is South Carolina, I’d try to stir some people up and help you sell golf balls.”

  Behind us I heard customers shouting, “Bring her out again!”

  “Should I go back out?” Molly inquired, peeking out the door of the maintenance shed. “They really seem to hate me.”

  I peeked around her. “Yes . . . they do.”

  She did not give an encore—I wouldn’t let her—but instead asked to see the rest of the equipment we used to maintain the business. I concurred, well aware that, if interested, a female will show curiosity about a man’s vocation.

  After I showed her the tumbler—a machine which washed thousands of dirty golf balls each night—we left the shed and strolled back uphill toward the pro shop. My customers too had returned to normalcy; they looked almost bored now, firing away at stationary targets.

  Molly retrieved her golf bag from the bag stand, and we backed up into the shade of an awning that protruded from the rear of my pro shop. “Chris,” she said, motioning to the golf range, “I know a candidate who’s looking for unique ways to interact with the public. How would you feel if I encouraged him to stop by here and hit golf balls at a caricature of his opponent?”

  “Namely Cack?”

  “Could be great for business during the political season.”

  Dollar signs and enraged hackers competed for brain space. “Would this mean free advertising?”

  “Without a doubt.” She pulled a club from her bag and practiced her grip.

  “That candidate isn’t named Lin, is she?”

  “No, his name is Bill.”

  I twitched my lip left and right, wondering what I might be getting into. “But I want my golf range to be an inclusive kind of place, not associated with one political stance or another.”

  She smiled and nodded as if expecting my answer. “What if you offered something like a Friday night special for conservatives, followed by a Saturday night special for liberals? That would brand you as both a fun and inclusive kind of entrepreneur.”

  Election year advertising slogans orbited in my head. Whack the Democrat? Followed up the next night with Whack the Republican?

  The daze that enveloped me continued until she poked my rib with her 5-iron. “Chris, it was just a thought . . . but this could have awesome possibilities.”

  I thought of Cack and his love of riling the customers. “You’ll share your insults with my groundskeeper?”

  “Glad to. Just tell Cack to have his bullhorn ready.”

  I wanted to ask Molly if she wanted to go grab some dinner, but I glanced at my watch and saw 7:43. I had never reneged on a bet in my life, and I cringed at the realization that tonight was a Tuesday.

  With her golf bag over her shoulder, Molly pulled open the back door to my pro shop and moved toward the front exit.

  I hurried past her and opened the front door for her. “Can I get your cell number?” I asked. “Maybe call you one day soon?”

  She stopped in the pea gravel, smiled with a hint of embarrassment, and wrote her number on the back of a business card.

  She handed me the card, and then with one brief wave she was gone.

  This new Eve intrigued me; she seemed quite witty, a bit sassy, and goofily spontaneous. But then there was that other one, the one who called herself The Great Eve, and I had to go listen to another of her man-blaming manifestos.

  5

  LESSON FOR TODAY

  When leading a match (or debating an issue), an overconfident opponent will often relax and make a critical error in judgment. The intelligent player will then seize this opportunity and play aggressively.

  In Conference Room #4 at the Hyatt, I sat in the back row again, wearing the T-shirt that Mrs. Dupree had left hanging atop the chain-link fence. The words screen-printed on the front of my shirt were red and bold and vivid and, at least within my present company, controversial. Rush Limbaugh Rocks!

  I felt silly in the shirt, since I rarely listened to talk radio. Still, it was the best way I knew to get back at the women who had poured hand soap on my golf grips, moved the tee markers forward, and taunted me during my backswing.

  “Ladies, there is one thing about man that we know to be true.” From the stage Lin scanned the gathering, most of whom nodded in agreement with her every word. “Who can finish this sentence? Manhood is in a state of . . . ?”

  A third row yes-woman raised her hand. “A state of denial?”

  “Close, but not quite.”

  Cecelia stood and said, “I know the answer. Manhood is in a state of confusion!”

  Lin thrust a fist into the air. “Bingo,” she gushed. “And can you tell us why?”

  Cecilia turned to face the rows behind her. “Yep, I know manhood is in a state of confusion ’cause my ex-boyfriend was just that—very, very confused. He was confused over whether he should keep a job, confused if he was allowed to date other women after he asked me to go steady, and confused why I broke us up.”

  Howls of laughter.

  Lin looked quite pleased. “Manhood has been in a state of confusion for thousands of years,” she said, “all because Adam did not learn from Eve as she asserted her great power and independence.”

  Applause, whoops, whistles.

  I shook my head, wanting to bolt but aware that I had lost a bet. At least technically.

  Lin then reached inside her podium and drew out a thick stack of white computer paper. “Ladies, in order to bond with each other, I think we should share the experiences we’ve endured with uncommunicative and misguided members of the opposite sex.” She handed the blank paper to a woman in the front row and asked her to give everyone four sheets.

  Lin then returned to her mic and grasped it with both hands. “This is an in-class assignment: to write a paper on how the opposite sex has disappointed you. You do this, too, Chris,” she said. “It’ll be good for you . . . and also for that hate-monger you’re advertising on your T-shirt.”

  Her instructions lingered over the eight rows of occupied chairs and did so with a kind of oratorical stench. Discrimination has a distinct odor.

  I did not want to write about disappointment. I wanted to write about hope. But since there was currently one female who had definitely disappointed me—Lin herself—I decided to include her in my paper, a paper centered in my favorite sport.

  And so I wrote. For the entire fifty minutes we had left in class, I never stopped moving my black ink pen across the p
age. The story came drifting in out of the ether, in clumps of bold vision it drifted—and my only goal was for the words to keep up with the film scrolling inside my head.

  The Day That Money Ruined Golf

  (but gained me a wife)

  by Christopher Hackett

  It began, of course, on eBay. Someone listed for sale a golf club (a 47” driver), boasting that it was “sliceless, hookless, and powered a golf ball 400 yards, dead straight, every time, no matter who swung the club.”

  The club was called a Super Blaster, and the ad turned out to be true.

  Within a month, the seller sold four million Super Blasters at a cost of eight hundred dollars each. Of course, this being eBay, someone bought a dozen, relisted them as Super-Duper Blasters, and sold them for a thousand dollars each. But that is just a capitalistic footnote to the story.

  Golfers all across America loved their Super Blasters. Some loved them so much they bought specially designed golf luggage to protect their expensive club en route to a golf course. But course owners around the world were not pleased at all over the arrival of Super Blasters, including owners in Scotland, long considered the home of golf.

  “Bring back the dignity of the grand game!” they shouted in deep Scottish brogues.

  In the United States, golf course owners from Winged Foot to Pebble Beach to Augusta National complained that their once mighty courses were now a pushover for any grandma or kindergartener who wielded a Super Blaster. The owners talked among themselves, criticizing the manufacturer of the Super Blaster and wondering how to once again make their courses longer and more challenging. They needed more land. But real estate—oh, the skyrocketing prices!—prevented the owners from buying more. This was because it was now common knowledge among neighbors that the golf courses were a pushover and that management needed to acquire more property in order to lengthen the courses. So, no one would sell. The price of a 3,000 square foot home behind the fifth tee at Winged Foot went from 4 million dollars to 14 million overnight. Prices at Pebble Beach were three times that.