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Hank made sure our potential client was safely seated before he withdrew. The man was not frail, but he was short and thin, and his snowy hair showed that he met our criterion for age.
“How may I help you, Mr. … ?”
“Woods, Jack Woods. What do you know about golf, Mr. Tuff?”
It was an unusual question. “Not much. It’s played with a small white ball and clubs and it’s been called ‘ a pleasant walk spoiled’ and ‘the humbling game.’”
“My request is unusual, so I’ll explain. Growing up, I had a neighbour just my age and we became rivals in everything: tennis, track and field, chess, public speaking, and, if you’ll forgive my lack of modesty, I usually won. This Saturday, Arnold and I–his name is Arnold Nicklaus–are to play a round of golf.”
“At the local course?”
“Yes.” The local course is Blandsville’s Tee-Par-Tee Golf and Country Club. Just before it opened, there was a contest to name it. My entry, Play-a-Round Golf Course, did not win. Like so many things in Blandsville, this golf course is unusual. Because of a lack of space, it has only seven holes, so to play the regulation nine, it is necessary to replay holes one and two. To play eighteen, golfers could do this twice or play two sevens, then repeat holes one to four. On busy days, the first two holes are as crowded as a ticket agency before a Rolling Stones concert. Needless to say, the Club has never hosted a major tournament. Or a minor one. “We are to play nine holes, but this competition is different: we have made a side bet of five hundred dollars.”
“Why do you need me, Mr. Woods?”
“I don’t entirely trust Arnold. I want you to see that he doesn’t cheat. I thought you could serve as my caddy.”
I was tempted to pun that caddying is not my bag, but I refrained; instead, business being slow–well, static–I agreed to accept the job.
At eight Saturday morning, I pulled into the Tee-Par-Tee parking lot to find Jack waiting along with Nicklaus and his caddy, who looked like a professional wrestler. Arnold was small, like Jack, but he stood out for his outfit: a bright orange sports shirt and matching socks and green-and-orange plaid plus-fours. He must use the late Payne Stewart’s haberdasher, I thought.
Jack and Arnold seldom spoke to each other; instead, they communicated by talking to their caddies, mostly to exchange insults.
“They call him Jack the Bogeyman.”
“Arnold spends more time in the sand than a camel in the Sahara Desert.”
Jack teed off first. On television, drives soar like a hawk, high and far down the fairway. Jack’s drive looked more like a fledgling’s first flight. He didn’t need to yell “Fore!” because there was no one immediately ahead of us; besides, his ball travelled less than a hundred yards before hiding itself in the long grass on the right. Arnold was still snickering as he drove his ball the same distance, but to the left. Both golfers used their second shots to get back to the fairway.
And so it went. Shots ricocheted off tree trunks, left traps in explosions of sand, or plopped into water. All the while the scores mounted like Canada’s national debt.
