Smith's Monthly #15

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  Dear Fred,

  Simply walk up to the ghosts and ask them.

  And while you’re at it, ask Harry if his last name is Vardon.

  And if it is, see if you can get me some lessons.

  Slicing is part of life,

  Bill

  Dear Bill,

  Damn it, I’m serious. This is a real mess down here.

  Now a forth golfing ghost has joined the group. At this rate, they’re going to be holding tournaments. So be serious, would you?

  I need help.

  I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to try your suggestion about finding out their names, since they do seem to talk a lot between themselves and they do ask everyone very politely if they can play through, even though no one has ever seen them finish a complete hole.

  I told Hector, the assistant pro, your idea about talking to the ghosts, but I didn’t mention the names. He thought it might work and agreed to play a few rounds with me to see if we could spot the invisible foursome.

  They found us on the seventh tee. Gus, plus three carry bags, all floating three feet in the air as if slung over invisible shoulders.

  “Mind if we play through?” a voice said from the direction of Gus.

  “Not at all,” I stammered out after a moment of shock.

  And let me tell you, seeing those four empty bags and hearing the normal sounds of four golfers on a tee box, is a shocking thing.

  “Wondering if you’d answer a question or two?” I said after a moment of swallowing hard to get the courage.

  “Sure thing,” Gus said. “Harry, you’re up.”

  “Is that the Harry Vardon?” I asked.

  “Sure is,” a voice laughed from between the tee markers.

  “Harry’s reputation always did beat him to a course,” another voice said from near one of the carry bags laying on the ground.

  I waited for the laughter from the four invisible men to subside slightly before I asked my next question.

  “Is Horton Smith also here?”

  “Sure am,” a high voice said.

  “Who’s your fourth?” I asked.

  “Well, you know me,” the voice said from beside my trick pull cart. “So I guess you must mean Bobby.”

  “Bobby?” I asked.

  “Not Bobby Jones?” Hector blurted out.

  “That’s right, son,” another voice said. “Now can we stop all this gabbing and let Harry get on with his shot. We don’t have all day, you know.”

  Hector and I stood there in silence and listened to the sounds of four men laughing and hitting shots.

  “Thanks again,” the voice said from beside my trick cart after they had all hit. And with that, all four bags started off the tee box and down the fairway. They vanished about a hundred yards off the tee.

  They had played through three other groups that we know of by the time we got into the clubhouse.

  Bill, the course just can’t take much more of this. People are afraid of going out to play. Men’s league has been canceled this week. And sooner or later, someone at some newspaper is going to start believing all this and then where will we be? I’ll be without any place to play, that’s where. And that means staying home with Alice all day and you know how I’d feel about that.

  I don’t see how knowing they are the ghosts of three great golfers does any damn good at all. We sure can’t stand around and watch them. But send any ideas you might have. It was your idea that started all this mess.

  Besides, no one here can seem to come up with anything other than shooting at the bags. And so far, calmer heads have held those trigger happy fools off. Luckily, very few really staunch Catholics have seen the foursome so far. Otherwise, we’d have priests doing exorcisms on the putting green.

  Damn. Why do I ever listen to your fool ideas?

  Although, I must admit, the accident idea worked out real well.

  Waiting impatiently,

  Fred

  TELEGRAM

  Fred STOP Tournament brilliant idea STOP Will solve your problem and make us rich STOP Flying in tomorrow at ten STOP Please pick me up STOP Bill

  Article from the local Monday newspaper.

  MODERNS WIN BIG IN MATCH OF THE CENTURY

  For years, golf historians have asked the question, “Who was better? The great players from the past or today’s superstars?”

  Yesterday, in one of the most bizarre golf matches ever played, that question might or might not have been answered by the resounding victory of Nickalas, Travino, and Palmer over the supposed ghosts of Bobby Jones, Harry Vardon, and Horton Smith in the controversial tournament billed as “The Match of the Century.”

  “Thrilled,” Nickalas said, when asked how he felt after the match. “How else could I feel?”

  Travino and Palmer seemed equally excited to be taking part.

  When asked if he thought the entire match was serious, Travino replied, “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

  But to many, the question of the day was, “Is this all a giant hoax?” Three of today’s great players didn’t act like it was. All three dropped commitments to the Greater Sunshine Open and put on an exhibition of golf at its finest.

  Consequently, “The Match of the Century” between the modern day greats and history’s finest was never even close.

  Travino led the elite field with a superb eight under 64. Nickalas followed with a brilliant 66 and Palmer with a 69. Harry Vardon led the “Ghost Team” with a 72, followed by Smith with a 74 and Jones with a 75.

  When asked by reporters near the last hole why they were having troubles, Harry Vardon answered, “The courses are tougher today. I haven’t been back long enough to get the feel of them. Back in my day,” he said, “the greens were like postage stamps and hard as rocks. Different kind of golf.”

  Horton Smith, said to be the best putter ever in the game, had trouble even getting to the greens. “The holes are a lot longer. And there’s a bunch more sand,” he said. “Makes it more interesting, that’s for sure.”

  Horton Smith found sand traps an even dozen times in the eighteen-hole match.

  The match, the brainchild of Fred Henning and Bill Addison, was set up on the Shadow Acres Country Club after the sudden unexplained appearance of the three golfing greats. Or, more accurately put, the appearance of their bags and voices.

  Hundreds of unanswered questions surround yesterday’s match, such as why the bags appeared, but not the clubs or the men. Or how could the ghosts hit visible new balls with invisible old clubs? When asked just exactly what they were playing for, and why, all six contestants stuck to “No Comment.”

  And all six just laughed when asked if this would become an annual event.

  However, they had no trouble talking about everything else, so the gallery and the viewers at home were treated to an eighteen-hole history lesson on the early days of golf.

  It seems that most of the questions will never be answered. It doesn’t seem to matter. “The Match of the Century” now joins the three ghosts as part of history.

  But one thing is for certain, regardless of whether you believe in ghosts or think somehow the entire day was a setup, “The Match of the Century” at Shadow Acres Country Club was a day the game of golf will not soon forget.

  Dear Bill,

  Thought you might be interested in the enclosed article. It came out in the morning paper the day you left. Didn’t know if you saw it or not, as busy as you were.

  You know, over the last few weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. And the more I think about it, the more amazed I become. The best way to describe what we pulled off was a miracle.

  No, a serious of miracles.

  For example, in all the craziness those three weeks before the match, I never did ask you just how you got Lee Travino to fly in and meet the ghostly foursome.

  But somehow you did. Amazing.

  And the way you talked the club into putting up perpetual memberships and complete playing right-of-way as prizes for
the ghosts is beyond me. Who else but you would realize that the one thing the ghosts would enjoy more than anything was never having to ask to go through another group again.

  And then talking the ghosts of three of the top players in history into wagering that prize versus finding a new place to play in a match against the three best players of modern times.

  Brilliant.

  Nothing short.

  But we forgot one thing. Gus. He was seen yesterday down on sixteen again. He’s still got my bag and cart and now he seems to not be real happy. He even yelled at one woman to get the hell out of his way so he could play a decent round of golf.

  Did you talk to him while you were here? I sure didn’t. Hell, I still don’t know who he is. Or was. I’m going to go down and try to talk to him. But I don’t know exactly how that’s going to work.

  Any ideas this time?

  Let me know if the movie deal goes. Always can use more money. Alice is happy about what we got from television rights and stuff, but she’s still clamping down hard on every penny. I suppose someday I will thank her for that.

  Someday.

  At least the match keeps us from thinking about another accident for a few more years.

  Your friend in the money,

  Fred

  Dear Fred,

  Just got back and opened your letter. The movie deal looks like it’s a for sure. We’ll make another bundle on that when it happens. And there’s talk about a book. Not bad, huh?

  Sorry I didn’t tell you about Gus. I feel sort of bad about this, since I forgot all about Gus. There were just so many details that had to be looked after. Sorry.

  I did get a quick chance right at the beginning to talk to Gus. Remember that first day after I arrived when we walked down seventeen fairway with them. You were talking to Horton about the match and I was talking to Gus. I found out his real name was Lawrence Meadows. He used to own the old white house down off sixteen that you stored the cart and bag in. In fact, his body is buried in the fruit cellar.

  And he was the one who brought back Smith, Jones, and Vardon. He said he just wanted someone to play a few rounds with.

  I did promise him a few things, but now I think it might be too late. You had better get down there and talk to him if you can.

  Again, sorry I forgot.

  Happy digging,

  Bill

  Dear Bill,

  Not damn funny.

  Not by a long sight.

  Me and the sheriff found the skeleton in the mud and clay in the old fruit cellar. Right exactly where you said it would be.

  I told the sheriff you told me where the body was, and he now wants to know if you would please tell him exactly who killed the poor guy and buried him there sixty years ago. There was a bullet hole in the skull.

  Leaving that fun little “chore” up to me would have made me real mad at you if not for the fact that in the same mail as your letter I got a very, very large check.

  Alice likes you more every day.

  Maybe next week she might even let me phone you instead of write.

  However, I still got Gus, or whatever his name is, to contend with. The members are not real happy he’s still around and some of them are starting to blame me. I finally caught up with him down on number three yesterday and he said I was supposed to play with him and had gone back on my side of the deal.

  Just what the hell is he talking about? I’m not going to go around playing golf with any damn ghost. No way. Even if the entire PGA tour does it.

  And if you told him I would, you get your ass down here right now and play with him yourself.

  Waiting with muddy shoes,

  Fred

  Dear Fred,

  Glad you found the body.

  Gus, or I guess his name was Lawrence, never told me he had been killed. But you could always ask him who done it next time you play with him. You see, that really was the deal.

  Sorry I forgot to ask you, but you’re supposed to play golf with Gus every Monday morning or he’s going to bring a bunch more golfers back. He said he’d just stick his invisible old clubs in your bag so no one has to know he’s there.

  I feel really bad about mentioning this before, but you know how busy it was. Besides, what could be wrong with playing golf with Gus? He told me he was a pretty good player in his day. He just might give you a run for your money.

  Just be careful with what you bet.

  Money from the movie deal should be heading your way this next week.

  Have fun,

  Bill

  Dear Bill,

  Go to hell.

  There’s no damn way I’m going to play golf every Monday with a ghost. You better think of something fast. If I get booted out of this club because of you, I just might think about telling a few certain people about your little “vacation” last year.

  You remember the one, don’t you?

  Think quick,

  Fred

  Dear Fred,

  I don’t understand why you are so upset. You play golf all the time, anyway. I sure didn’t think anything would be wrong with playing just one round a week with Gus.

  Give it a try. You might like it.

  And it certainly will solve your problem with the club.

  By the way, I got the money for the movie deal. Your half is enclosed. Now, wasn’t that worth it?

  Wishing you luck,

  Bill

  Dear Bill,

  Boy was I mad when I sent you that last letter.

  Wow.

  In fact, I was so mad, I came up with an idea all my own.

  I went marching down to the club and spent the entire afternoon looking for Gus. Finally spotted him on ten tee, getting ready to go out on the back nine. I told him my idea and he liked it. So now I have played twice with Gus.

  And you know what, you were right. Gus is a pretty good golfer.

  Today I got your letter and the check. Made Alice real happy. We even went out for dinner tonight. I don’t know if my heart can take many more shocks like that one.

  She even suggested it. Thanks.

  That much money means we don’t ever have to think about another accident. I like that.

  I still haven’t been able to talk Gus into telling me who killed him. He said it just doesn’t matter anymore. It was a long time ago. For some reason, the sheriff still thinks it matters. He’s going to send someone to talk to you next week.

  You know, that money you sent calmed me down some. I’m not anywhere near as mad at you as I was.

  And that brings up a problem I suppose I should tell you about. Maybe you, since you got me into this mess, can help me with it. You see, I think Gus cheats.

  That’s right, I think a ghost cheats at golf.

  Think about it. With an invisible ball, it’s damn hard to tell exactly what his score is on any given hole. I’m not always close enough to hear every shot. And who the hell knows if he’s improving his lies. He might even be kicking the ball. I tried to get him to use some of my balls, like you had them do for the match, but he says he doesn’t want to take the chance anyone will see them and discover he’s still around. He says that’s part of the deal I made with him.

  He’s right.

  It is part of the deal. And it’s got the Country Club off my back. You see, for me to play with him, I figured it had to be worth my while.

  So I made him a little side bet. You know, just like all golfers do. Just like you had them do in the Match.

  What are we playing for? Good question. Remember now, I was really mad at you when I made this deal.

  I feel bad about this, especially after all the money you made us. But after all, you did tell Gus I would play with him without asking me first. So I feel bad, but not too bad.

  If I win, it’s simple. Gus tells me where some buried treasure is. He says there’s lots of it around the area. In fact, he hinted he even knew where the Lost Dutchman Mine is. He said ghosts just know those sorts of things.

  What
am I giving him if he wins? He made me promise I wouldn’t tell you. Just trust me that it is very important to you that I win.

  Very, very important.

  Remember, I was really mad at you when I came up with this idea. And I’m sure I would win, too.

  If Gus wouldn’t cheat.

  You’d better think fast.

  Losing, but smiling, your friend,

  Fred

  Mary did her best in her small restaurant to keep everything just perfect. She swept and cleaned constantly and didn’t much like crude behavior near her.

  And everyone knew of her bad stomach.

  But now even a handful of Tums couldn’t help Mary do what she needed to do to move forward.

  THE LAST BURP OF A VERY GOOD WOMAN

  Mary, the owner and only cook at Mary’s Cafe on the old highway, was a prude, plain and simple. No one in Idaho City, the closest town to the north, would ever think of swearing or saying anything crude at all in Mary’s. No one who actually knew Mary was sure just how often she cleaned the place, but bets were that it was at least three times a day. She always wore a plaid dress, proper shoes, and a towel tucked into her white apron. Mary seemed to constantly be wiping her hands on that towel.

  People in the valley liked Mary’s place, and liked Mary, but in the backwoods Idaho valley there just weren’t that many people. Not anywhere near enough to support a restaurant. Yet somehow Mary kept open Mary’s Cafe, selling a sandwich or soup to the occasional tourist who stopped there thinking that the pristine little place with wooden booths, table cloths, and the ancient cash register were all just part of some “local mountain charm.”