“Like Taking Candy From A Baby”-The Trials And Tribulations Of Golfer Sand-bagger Johnson 

 

 

As Sand-bagger Johnson headed to the dreaded first tee at Fresh Pond Golf Course on a brisk Sunday morning in mid-March he noticed that he had once again forgotten Big Emma his trusty number one wood (some call that monstrous seven-headed weapon a driver but he preferred the old-time way of describing woods when they actually were made of wood not the new-fangled woods made of unearthly metals just as he preferred to call his irons names like mashie and mashie niblick rather that sterile modern numbering system from three to nine which had always confused him). One of his playing partners, a burly Frenchman, Lucky Pierre or something like that, not a Frenchman from France but from up in Quebec whose forebears had come down from across the Saint Lawrence River in Canada to America looking for work in the then bustling mills along the Merrimac River in upstate Massachusetts with some idea of the dream of fame and fortune too, asked him if needed a text reminder to not forget Big Emma for the next battle between them. Sand-bagger burned with resentment that this Lucky Pierre thought him some kind of senile old duffer in need of every modern communications service to get him through the day.

Worse the other member of the golfing contingent he had been lashed up with a wily Chinese guy, Chou something, oops Zhou something, like the old-time Foreign Minister under Mao, not a Chinese guy from China but from the leafy suburbs of Boston out in Lexington, you know one of the towns where they had a big dust-up with the Brits a couple of hundred years ago, snickered, snickered if one can believe that, in agreement with this tactic by Lucky Pierre. It was from that moment on that day that he was determined that he would take both these young toughs down a peg or two. Make them cry “Uncle” at the end of the nine-hole round and hold his hand out to greedily accept the homage due the victor in the only way that counts on the golf course-the coin of the realm, kale, dough, you know moola.    

Sand-bagger, as they reached the first tee box, casually asked his fellow golfers whether they would care to wager a few bob on the outcome of the game, a match for say five dollars. Lucky Pierre and Chou, oops Zhou, readily agreed smirking, smirking if you can believe that, probably believing that the old duffer was having another one of his senior moments. Sand-bagger snapped them back a bit when he announced, pretty please announced, that he needed two strokes from each of them if he were to play a fair match against such fierce-looking competitors. Moaning and groaning, at least that was their public affect who knows what they were really thinking they agreed to his outrageous demand. Sand-bagger then as was one of the strange customs of the game tossed a perfectly good tee in the air to determine the order of play for the first hole of the match (that order would change as the game progressed for another strange custom called “honors” which went according to who won the hole and would continue onward until someone else won a hole. He never really understood the purpose of this “honor” business since he had come to the game in an age when “ready” golf ruled the roost).              

Sand-bagger was not sure whether he wanted to give the reader a blow by blow description of each match and the outcome of each hole or just proceed to the ninth hole and the pay-out-whose hand was greedily stretched out to receive the filthy lucre, you know, dough. He decided just in case his respective burly and wiry opponents read this screed, or denied reality, that he would at least give a summary of each hole and its outcome-maybe more if some note-worthy event occurred.

Sand-bagger who hit second (as a result of that odd tee-throwing custom already mentioned) placed his number three wood in good position, hit a number five wood (remember where he says wood that really means metal wood, alright)to about one hundred yards and put  a wedge to about fifteen feet of the pin. Unfortunately he booted the putter well pass the pin and three putted resulting in a six on the hole. Fortunately he had had the good sense to three-putt on a hole when he had a stroke from the fellows. Result Sand-bagger and Zhou tie. One up on Pierre. The second hole was a nightmare once he got into the front left trap, played pin-pong across the green and the rest is unworthy of further waste of cyber-ink. Zhou one up. Pierre-even.           

Sand-bagger hit a great arcing shot on the par three third hole with a number five wood about twenty-five feet from the pin. Two-putted. Zhou booted the putter as did the Frenchman. Zhou even. One up on Pierre. The fourth hole another booted hole by Sand-bagger with an uninspired seven. Fortunately he dodged a bullet against Pierre with his second handicap stroke. Zhou one up. One up on Pierre. The fifth hole an average par five garnered an average bogey six. Zhou one up. Pierre who was beginning to unravel two down. The long par three sixth hole began Sand-bagger’s patented late charge he knew he was capable of once he got through the fifth hole. After a good chip he drained a fifteen-footer for par. Even. Pierre, who exploded a sand shot into the nether-world and picked up, was three down and done, toasted, finished. See Pierre was three down with three holes to go which meant he could not win because of another strange golf custom about tie-breakers (he had lost the number one handicap fourth hole so done, toasted, finished).             

With the sullen Lucky Pierre totally vanquished Sand-bagger was able to concentrate his steely eyes on the wiry Zhou. It was on the seventh hole he noticed that Zhou was putting on one of his classic ruses rubbing his right shoulder like he was injured. Sand-bagger had expected that little “psych game” on Zhou’s part although for the life of him he could not fathom how hitting a driver (Zhou’s name for the number one wood) of about two pounds could wreak such havoc. So Sand-bagger ignored that silly little game. He won the hole. One up. On the part three eighth hole Sand-bagger hit his now patented number five wood shot into the water and then the ball skipped out setting up a tight second shot. This and that happened to both men as they unceremoniously tied the hole. He was one up going into the par five ninth hole. A hole he had to at least tie to win the match since that strange custom business about ties mean Zhou, having won the fourth hole, had the advantage on tie-breakers. Sand-bagger could see that Zhou was wilting under the pressure as he continued that shoulder game although he himself was concerned when he dipsy-doodled one into the drink off the tee box and had to hit three from the drop area some yards ahead of the tee box.      

Sand-bagger booted the ball down to the green and was on in the horrible number of six and fully expected to lose the hole since Zhou had hit the green and rolled over in three. Then Zhou did a classic boot the ball missing the first chip, then the second and three putted-eight. Sand-bagger two putted-eight. Victory and a greedy hand out for ten big ones, or really two Abes, you know fives. And a sparkling 49 which could have been a 48, maybe 47 or 46 it was that kind of day.   

As he walked up the hill to the clubhouse with a little fake limp to start his “psych” game for next outing Sand-bagger thought back to something he had written after a sparkling 48 on the opening day of the season about how this year “it would be like taking candy from a baby” in the matches against the wiry Chinese guy not from China but the leafy suburbs and burly Frenchman, a French man not from France but from Quebec across the Saint Lawrence. Wondered too about a lanky Japanese guy too, not a guy from Japan but from the ivied walls of Cambridge. Wondered about whether he would “forget” Big Emma next time too.