OMG

by

Jim O’Donnell

“To surrender dreams—this may be madness.”  Cervantes

  "Need I remind you gentlemen that golf is still the only sport to be played on the moon?”

  At the front of the tee box, Corky made a point of turning completely around and facing his companions to deliver this utterance, as if to lend it gravitas. He bowed awkwardly, his ample stomach threatening his balance.  A small, white towel hooked to a belt loop of his trousers appeared to wave surrender.  In every direction, green vegetation watered by showers in the first week of May greeted the four Portland golfers, gray hair sticking out from the sides of their feed caps, their overall garb looking like it did double duty in urban pea patches.  Amid the verdant surroundings, the moon reference loomed oddly out of place.  The other men stood at a safe distance behind Corky as he prepared to tee off on Eastmoreland’s first hole.  All were of retirement age. Two were accustomed to these occasional stilted pronouncements from their playing partner, who once on the course quickly switched speech patterns to a decidedly saltier variety.  Corky could swear a blue streak after a muffed chip, a sudden shank, or a yipped putt, all those firmly established in his golf repertoire.  Louis, the newest addition to the group, hadn’t witnessed all of those yet, but he did know that Corky took a lot of flak from his best “frenemy.”

  “Hit the damn ball, will ya, please?” rasped Mac, rumored to be a distant cousin of Corky’s, though Mac did his darndest to dispel such talk.  They had grown up in the same small town and advanced unremarkably in the same school class. But little physical resemblance existed, Mac lanky and raw boned, Corky short and stout.  “Hell,” Mac had once said to their buddy Birdie, “everyone in Boring is probably related if you want to dig back a few hundred years.  Maybe Corky and I share an abominable ancestor.  I’m happy to say no one has been able to pin down that woeful creature.”

  Mac had loosened up his torso swinging a pair of clubs vigorously back and forth over his right shoulder a few times. He resembled a power-hitting ballplayer in the on-deck circle, ready to belt a ball out of the park.  No trace of a smile.  He was raring to go.  He disdained taking even a few practice putts on the adjacent putting green.  The morning was wasting away.  At any moment the sun might disappear in the increasingly lowering sky.  Mac’s golf swing was considerably smoother and more predictable than Corky’s, though his penchant to swing for the fences on par-fives had earned him the nickname “MacTrouble.” He could hit balls into distant godforsaken areas to both the left and the right when he decided to “let out shaft.”  Sure, he might have a birdie or two on most of his scorecards, but those big numbers showed up often, too.  This had been the case ever since the two began playing on the “homemade” courses around Boring, especially Top o’Scott, now gone, but once renowned for its bucolic beauty and the trickiness of its greens.  Small-stakes gambling got into their blood there.  When they graduated from high school and sought jobs and more excitement—yes, their town lived up to its name—they headed to nearby Portland.  Corky worked in a warehouse, often evenings, while Mac started his own printing business.  They lived only a few blocks apart on the city’s east side.

      Birdie, the remaining member of the group, had run into Corky and Mac years earlier when they began frequenting his diner, the E-Z Duz It, in Moreland, only a short distance from the golf course.  He overheard them razzing each other about the round they had just endured one spring day on sodden turf.  As much to keep the peace as out of any true interest, he interjected with the old one-liner about “golf” being “flog” spelled backward. Corky and Mac recognized a fellow sufferer right away, and before Birdie knew what had happened, he had agreed to join them a few days later at Eastmoreland for what turned out to be the first of many such shared rounds over the past two decades.  They didn’t have a regular fourth, few people having the patience to deal with Corky’s apoplectic outbursts, Mac’s ceaseless teasing of Corky, or maybe the combination.  Birdie stolidly continued his role of peacemaker, and the stories he would later recount back at the diner became a welcome staple for other customers.  He decided Corky and Mac were actually good for business.

      Though supposedly retired, Birdie still showed up at the restaurant most days. His son, Bogey, ran it now, catering to a younger crowd at night. Birdie helped out by opening some mornings and mixing up his special recipe for the diner’s signature ribs. Happily, he had more time for golf.  So did Corky and Mac, who ditched the working life before they even reached sixty-five.  They could play as much golf as they wanted.  Only the weather and their various aches and maladies capped the rounds at two or three a week.  Eastmoreland was not their only haunt.  In fact, it was at another city course, Rose City, several miles to the north, where they had just a week earlier made the acquaintance of Louis, a recent émigré from Spokane, added to the group at the last minute by the course starter.  Louis, a quiet but affable fellow, ended up breaking 80 on a course he never played before, so despite finding the dynamics of the three locals rather odd, he agreed to meet them at Eastmoreland for another round.  Who knew?  Maybe they had brought him good luck.  Plus, he didn’t yet have regular partners in Portland, and they were all close in age, late 60s.  He appreciated Birdie’s offer of another round together.

        They had flipped tees for partners, deciding on a best-ball game, quarter a hole with bonus quarters for birdies. 

       “We also compete for closest-to-the-pin on par-threes,” Birdie told Louis. “Getting down from a bunker in two or less strokes is a bonus, too.”

       “Yeah, we played sandies in Spokane.   A little extra motivation.”

        Even with carry-overs for tied holes, the amount won or lost wouldn’t break the bank.  The two old friends cum adversaries made up one team, with Corky getting two strokes a side, and Birdie one.  Louis’s game was still relatively unknown to the others, but they had concluded from the first round that Mac and Louis were close in skill.

        “We have honors, Cork, not ownership of the tee,” Mac snapped.  “We’ll finish in darkness at this rate.” 

        Corky finally swung, a somewhat outside-in lunge at the ball, which resulted in a soft blooper down the left center of the fairway with a slice arc bringing it close to the middle, about 170 yards off the tee.  He didn’t wince, seemingly content with the effort.  Mac grumbled a bit as he gently prodded Corky with the business end of his driver.  “No need to admire it.  I’m sure the blimp got a good photo.”

      Grinning idiotically at the others, Corky made way for Mac.  “Don’t be jealous, pard.  I bet you can find the fairway, too, if you pay heed to the Master.”

      Mac snorted and took a few quick practice swings before hitting a towering shot, hooking before landing in the shallow rough on the left side, just past a carefully trimmed row of Western red cedars.  No roll there, but he would probably have a clear shot, just a pitching wedge to the green.

      Louis glanced at the scorecard as Birdie took a nonchalant practice swing.  Only 292 yards from the white tees the card stated, an easy opening hole.  Louis could see that the fairway was suitably wide for the first 200 yards, a bunker lying on the right side beyond that point.  A few yards further on stood a mature Oregon Ash, with long branches that reached out over the right side of the fairway, a possible obstruction.  Maybe a drive to the left center would be best, he calculated, just beyond the point Birdie had landed his shot in the interim.

        “Down the middle again, eh, Birdie,” Corky growled.  “Don’t you ever get bored?”

        “Neither here nor in the kitchen,” Birdie replied.

        Louis knew this chatter would continue throughout the round, but the others were silent as he drew back his driver just past the three-quarters mark and delivered a solid blow straight down the middle.  Not as hard, though, as he usually swung.  This was a hole that didn’t need his best, just something leaving a gap wedge to the green.  The ball landed almost exactly where he intended, a bit shy of 250 yards.

        “The pro from Spokane, or is it Dover?” Birdie chirped, something he picked up from a M*A*S*H TV episode.

        “You won’t think that if we play much together,” Louis replied as he lifted his tee out of the ground. “My A-game can disappear in a blink.”

         Following the others with his three-wheeled pushcart, the choice of all four golfers, Louis took time to take in the other features of the hole.  He was glad he hadn’t pushed the ball into the grove of mid-size trees on the right, a mix of Cedar of Lebanon, Port Orford Cedar, and Norway Spruce, varieties known to him and his wife from the plant nursery they had operated in Spokane. He took pleasure in noting varieties on golf courses.  To the right was a tall chain-link fence and beyond that, light-rail tracks sitting high on an overlooking embankment that ran parallel to the hole.  In Scotland, this would be known as a railroad hole, but the quiet movement of the MAX trains belied that identity.  A pleasant prospect for riders, Louis thought, weekday commuters wishing they, too, could spend an idle day on a golf course.  However, for a golfer teeing off, going right was totally undesirable.  No way to hit the green, he saw, had he gone into the grove, despite it being pruned of dead limbs and swept clean.  On the left side of the fairway, past the narrow strip of tamed rough, ranged the hedge of cedars separating the hole from what looked like a practice range, though now empty.  Just as bad as the right side, Louis recognized, silently patting himself on the back for his conservative play.  Now he had a good birdie chance.

       He stopped to watch Corky pull his second shot sharply left and short of the green, possibly into a bunker, one hidden from the tee.  Birdie wasted no time hitting his second, catching a little too much turf, leaving his ball just short of the green.  Maybe a bit damp there in front from that morning’s watering by the sprinklers.  Louis made a mental note to land his ball on the green, no pitch and run across the apron.  Mac, though about equidistant from the tee with Louis, was away because of the angle.  Swinging quickly, he lofted the ball slightly to the right, and after plopping down on the green, it rolled off the right side out of view.  None of the three were on the green.

      Though only 50 yards remained, Louis couldn’t clearly see the green’s contours.  He hesitated and thought about walking up to take a peek, but he didn’t want to come across as a prima donna.  Quick play was a virtue he appreciated.

       “Should we tell him?” Mac asked in the background.

       “Nah,” Corky replied flatly. 

        Louis heard them, but he had this under control.  He took aim at the pin placement in the center of the green, and with a choked-up grip on his wedge, flighted the ball high and soft, landing about ten feet short of the hole and rolling slowly forward.  Was it going in?  He flinched as the ball trickled past the hole.  So close.  But wait—what was happening?  The ball continued to roll, very slowly at first, picking up speed as it moved downhill and right.  It hadn’t held the green.

        As he walked his cart to the right of the green, he passed Mac’s ball lying on the fringe.  His own ball was several feet off the back in a patchy area of the apron. His next shot would be either a chip or a putt going sharply uphill and breaking left.  He watched as Corky’s bunker shot skittered past him, stopping five yards over the green.  Corky was sputtering obscenities aplenty now.   Birdie chipped on, but obviously cautioned by the speed of the surface, hit the ball too softly, leaving a tricky, side-hill fifteen-footer for par.   Corky, only a bit cooled down, ran his chip past the hole some twenty feet.  Mac showed a better touch and chipped to six inches short, within gimme range.  That left Louis to see if he could match or better Mac.  How hard to hit the putt?  A bit of moisture on the surface, he realized too late, as he proceeded to leave the putt six feet short.  Both Corky and Birdie two putted, leaving Louis to make a treacherous uphill, left breaking putt.  He stroked it confidently, not too hard he thought.  It spun out of the hole at the right edge.  Not even a par after that perfectly placed drive.

      He said nothing as he bent down to retrieve his ball.  When he straightened up, there stood Birdie to give him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder.   “You’ve been initiated, my friend.  Welcome to the shortest par-five in Oregon.”

Louis knew how the first hole could affect their attitude in a round.  Par that hole or, even better, birdie it, and you feel that you can get something going.  Maybe a long string of good holes, a chance for a season-best score.  The second fairway always looks wider.  While bogeying the first hole is not always a disaster, doing that with extra short shots around the green, the outcome is downright galling and can ruin the mood of all but the most unflappable golfers.

     Despite his team winning the hole, Corky let his mood drop deeper than the others.  A double-bogey stung on such a short hole.  He didn’t say anything, but temporarily distracted himself with a blind reach into the bottom pocket of his golf bag to change balls, and thereby, presumably, his luck.  The others said nothing.  On the tee, with a quick glance back at his partner, Mac whistled a few bars of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly theme. Another quick swing by him produced a repeat high hook down the left side.  He stepped aside for his partner. Corky silently sent a low liner that almost stayed in the fairway on the right side, less than 200 yards off the tee. Birdie and Louis hit respectable drives down the middle, but only Louis had a realistic shot at the green in two shots on this long, flat par-four, another railroad hole. 

       As he hoped, Louis got his par, and everyone else, a bogey.  The mood of the group picked up through holes three and four, Corky having settled down.  Birdie confided in his partner on strategies for the two holes, both doglegs left par-fours, suggesting a three-metal for the third tee.

        “If you draw the ball well, you can shorten this hole considerably. Hitting a driver right, though, a longer hitter like you risks going out of bounds.”

        Everyone skirted the tall trees on the left, but the green that dipped below the fairway left Louis guessing on where to land his second shot.  Bouncing the ball forward off the front apron, he saw it roll twenty feet past the hole.  He felt fortunate to escape with a par, matching Mac.

        At first, the view from the fourth tee at suggested a similar strategy.  Birdie let Louis know, however, that a straight ball was the play.

        “There’s room to hit driver here, but I strongly suggest avoiding the left.  Going into those trees usually means having to chip out, not worth the risk.  I think you will find this green more receptive than the last, though.”

        Louis did hit the green in two after a straight drive but ended up three-putting.  Mac had one of those chip-outs from the trees on the left, so he bogeyed like everyone else did.  These were tricky holes, Louis noted.  Position off the tree was crucial.  The flatness of these first few holes did not fool him; he knew how courses in the Northwest could suddenly change terrains.  The doglegs presented some adjustments in his approach, but he could draw the ball fairly effectively when needed.  While he waited his turn, he again admired all the tall cedars and massive sequoias separating the holes, with smaller deciduous trees in the mix, many of them flowering.  In Spokane, ponderosa pines were the dominant species, along with larch and aspen, all trees that could withstand a drought.  Here, on the west side of the Cascades, trees grew tall and thick with the plentiful moisture outside the summer months.

        Each of the first four greens sported distinctive features, maybe the main defense of the course, Louis speculated.  Subtle breaks challenged even experienced golfers. Many greens bore a slant to one side.  The smooth putting surfaces, a pleasant surprise for early May, reflected a savvy and diligent head greenskeeper, Louis thought.

       “My compliments to the super.  He knows what he’s doing with these greens.”

       “Actually, ‘he’ is a ‘she,’” replied Birdie.  “Yessir, she’s a good one.”

        “Could she get the money to put in a tram for old guys like us?” Louis asked, the four of them huffing and puffing on the long, steep path, replete with a switchback, up to the fifth tee.  He was right about the mix of terrain.

        Mac laughed.  “No way that’s happening.  A tram would cut into the power cart rentals.  The front nine is more or less flat except for the up and down here.”

         When he stepped onto the tee, Louis surveyed the steep drop-off to the green below.  “The hole looks inviting enough,” he remarked to Birdie.  “Maybe one less club, huh, because it’s downhill.  And this green looks relatively level.”

       “I like your confidence, Louis.  Hope it’s contagious.  Yes, this green is less puzzling than the ones we’ve played, but wait until the next hole.”

        An even split between pars and bogeys ensued on the par-three.  The teams stayed tied.  A par-five dogleg right awaited them, with a border of birches and alders running all along the left side and a grove of tall evergreens at the corner on the right.  A big push to the right and the ball risked going out of bounds and with a hard bounce on the street up onto a neighboring lawn.

       “In the summer any drive up the middle might eventually run down into the trees on the left,” Birdie noted.  “If you can cut the ball, this is the time.  Otherwise, aim to the right side and hope the ground isn’t just hardpan if you miss your spot.”

       All but Mac found the fairway.  Again, he had a draw on the ball that didn’t play well and rolled down into the trees.  “I think you jinxed me, Birdie,” he said facetiously.

       “Time for an adjustment, don’t you think?”  Corky said, his sarcasm emerging. “You’ve hooked every drive so far—further left than Bernie Sanders.”

        Looking down the fairway, Louis could see that the remaining two hundred fifty yards covered terrain slanting hard right to left.  He figured a hybrid two was the right play to have a reasonably short third shot.  His second shot, low and straight, followed that plan.

        “Wow, the right side of the green is considerably higher than the left,” he said to Birdie as they reached the ball, everyone else already lying three. 

         “You ain’t kidding. Definitely you want to aim high right here and expect a big break to the left.  If you go in hot, there’s little chance of holding the green.”

         After leaving his ball some twenty feet below the hole with a curling pitch, Louis two-putted for a par on the treacherous hill.  Max and Birdie two-putted as well.  Corky sized up his second putt from three feet above the hole.  The sharp break would get anyone’s knees knocking.  With Corky getting a stroke on the par-five, he and Mac could win the hole. The putt went high and rolled several feet by.  It was not an easy putt coming back, but Corky made it. He kept his cursing low as he fished his ball out of the cup, taking three putts from a starting point of fifteen feet.  He glanced at Mac, expecting a snide comment, but Mac just smiled mysteriously.

         “I know what you’re thinking.  Don’t give me the fuckin’ silent treatment, Slim.” 

       But that’s just what Mac did.  

       Everyone bogeyed the seventh hole, a lengthy par-four with a green that sat down below the fairway, with a decided tilt left.  Hard for Louis to figure out the approach from a distance, but Birdie suggested landing the ball a little short of the green on the right side.  Louis tried that, but the ball still ran left, rolled past the hole, and just off the green.  A difficult par became an easy bogey.

        “Whoever designed these greens had a devilish sense of humor,” Louis remarked.

         “Chandler Egan was the man,” Birdie answered.  “He designed quite a few courses on the West Coast, and even renovated Pebble Beach.”

        “Eastmoreland’s a little cheaper to play,” Mac added, knowing the others were aware of the half-grand greens fees at the California course. “The views here aren’t as spectacular as Pebble Beach’s, unless you count seeing Corky St. Helens blow his top.”

        “I wondered when you would get back to me, pal,” Corky groused.  “If you could find the fairway once in a while, maybe we’d have a chance to win another hole.”

        The long par-three eighth proved just as challenging as the seventh, though the hole was a flat one.  No pars, with Corky carding a five after taking two shots from a greenside bunker.  More faint growls, a temper moving toward the boiling point.

         “Maybe,” Mac said loudly to Louis, “we can change partners after nine.  My shoulders are getting tired.”

         “As are we all of your bitching,” Corky rejoined.  “Mind your own game.”

         The par-five ninth would lead them back toward their starting point for the day.  Once again, a controlled draw down the right side was the play for the four right-handers, and all four ended up OK, though Louis had to play from short rough on the right for his second.  Greenside bunkers guarded the front of the narrow, two-tiered green.  Some errant shots around the green cost everyone except Louis.  He parred the hole to finish the nine at six-over par.  Not good, but this was a tricky course to read.  His side had won only one more hole, yet all the carry-overs after the second hole paid off handsomely.

         “No need to adjust,” Louis observed.  “We’re pretty evenly matched.”

          Mac frowned.  “That’s easy for you to say.  At least Birdie can make three-foot putts.”

          In a low voice, Birdie confided with Louis, “Sometimes, it’s better when they’re not paired as a team.  Less vitriol.”

        “I can see that might be better.  Let’s hope they settle down with a new nine.”

         The back nine began in front of the shingle-sided, low-profile clubhouse, but to reach it the golfers used the tunnel under SW28th, a busy thoroughfare, just as they did in the other direction when starting out.  No one needed to get a snack from the clubhouse, so they immediately hit their drives on #10, the only shots on the course that anyone sitting on the narrow veranda could oversee if interested.  Louis knew from the round at Rose City that Corky likely carried lukewarm beer in his bag that he would pull out later.  “Tempo in a can,” he explained to Louis when he popped one out of the bag on that first occasion.

          No beverage cart on the course, as far as Louis knew.  Since Eastmoreland was a municipal course, alcohol was surely a no-no.  He remembered a cool, windy day a few years back when he shared a pint of whiskey on the wild Carne course in Belmullet, a remote stop on a tour of courses in Ireland.  The whiskey had given off some immediate warmth but proved to be of little help to the golfers’ swings.  Today, the mild temps and calm wind made for easier playing conditions.  He had dressed in layers at the start and had doffed one layer already.  The sun peeked wanly through the clouds, promising some additional warmth for the second nine.

     All four of them bogeyed the tenth.  Louis had to negotiate a long chip shot up the slope of the large, elevated green to the second level, running the ball ten feet past the hole.  He didn’t have a good sense of the surface speed.  That’s OK, he thought to himself.  He’d file the information away for the next time.  He followed the others thirty yards left of the green, over to the slightly elevated 11th tee.

      “Sharp dogleg right, a par-five,” Birdie told him.  “Cut off as much of the penalty area to the right as you dare.  You might hit the green in two if you succeed.  Or hit something straight ahead and play the hole in three shots.”

      Louis could see that the penalty area was unforgiving, looking suspiciously like a bayou, with tall reeds and brackish looking water, a tall sycamore tree hanging branches out over the water from the far side.  Should he risk it?  He decided to hit a three-metal more or less straight ahead.  Again, he needed to know more about the hole to be aggressive.  No one else took the risk either, but everyone carded a par except Corky, who left a four-foot putt short.  

       Mac shook his head.  “We could have won that hole with your stroke there, partner.  Got anything left?”  

       Corky looked somewhat dejected, but he didn’t say anything.

       Screened initially from view by a row of flowering plums, the next tee lay only a few yards to the right of the 11th green.  The par-three hole bordered a small lake, the southern tip of which needing to be cleared to reach the green safely.  From that day’s tee markers, it figured to be about 160 yards to the flag, but to judge from the look of the tee, the hole could be lengthened to about 200 yards. What Louis saw directly left on the other side of the small lake made a stronger impression.  Rhododendrons--white, lavender, pink, and red—were all in bloom, and people were strolling slowly along a path.

         “It looks like a park over there,” he said aloud.

         “Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden,” Birdie told him.  “Quite a sight this time of year.  A creek that runs down through Reed College across the roadway feeds the lake. The lake borders this par-three and another, the 17th.  Supposedly, there are salmon in the creek and lake some of the time.  This course stays wet all of winter and in early spring.  You can see why now.”

       “That I can. My wife would love this place.  She probably already knows about the garden, but I’ll be sure to tell her about the blooms.”

      Birdie gazed again across the lake.  “My Helen loved the blooms this time of year, too.  I’m a widower now, but I think of her whenever I see those blooms.”

       “Sorry to hear about your loss,” Louis said.  “That’s a great way to remember her.”

       Birdie tried to smile.  He managed a nod, looking down at his feet.

       Mallard ducks and their recent brood floated by in little armadas on the calm surface.  It would be easy to forget about playing the hole.  Corky popped his first beer of the round, apparently confident he wouldn’t be seen by a course ranger.  He offered Louis a can, but Louis demurred.  He could wait for the 19th and maybe get a chilled IPA draft.

       “We’re playing ready golf, right?” Mac called from the teeing grounds, club in hand.  “I don’t mean to steal honors, but let’s keep moving.”  

       Without pausing, he teed up and hit a six-iron up into the green’s center.

       “Don’t worry,” Birdie said quietly to Louis.  “The course circles around the garden.  You’ll get some more views.”

        No one else hit the large green.  Louis and Birdie ended up just off the fringe in the back while Corky’s ball rammed into the big tree fronting the green on the right.  Luckily, it stayed put upon landing and didn’t roll back into the lake.  The front-to-back slope of the green was steeper than Louis had guessed from the tee, but he was helped by being on the high side where the hole lay. He chipped close enough to get his par, matching Mac.  Both Birdie and Corky finished with fours. 

       “Now the next one is semi-famous,” Birdie said to Louis as they approached the 13th tee.  “It seems Walter Hagen, back in the Stone Age, mentioned it as one of the best par-fives he had ever played.”

       In this day and age, the hole as a par-five would be too short for the pros.  From the middle trees, it ran uphill and slightly left some 220 yards to a wide ravine, the fairway sloping down on the left side.  A quick hook would run down into a penalty area abutting the lake.  Along the right ran a chain-link fence that fronted SW28th, but the distance was shorter to that fence than to the plateau that sat in front of the ravine. 

      “If you push or slice a drive here,” Birdie warned,” you’ll likely be against the fence or out on the road.  Either way, not good.  Stick to the right center if you can, with something less than a driver.  Corky can hit a driver here, but we can’t.”

        Louis tried to follow that advice, but the ball did not draw as he had hoped and appeared to skitter a bit toward the fence.  While still in bounds, he might not have a clear shot to risk going over the ravine.  Everyone else hit the fairway. Corky decided to lay up short of the ravine, while Mac and Birdie landed second shots safely onto the fairway on the other side.  Louis had to chip his ball away from the fence but gauge the distance well to avoid rolling into the ravine.  His ball and Corky’s lay only a few feet apart.

        “Show me the way, Corky,” Louis said with a smile.  Corky took a big swing with a fairway wood and popped the ball high in the air about forty yards at the most, clearing the deep ravine by a scant few feet.  He ducked his head to avoid locking eyes with the others. No reason to acknowledge his luck.

        “You probably want a little more yardage than that, Louis,” Mac quipped. 

        About two hundred yards remaining to the uphill green, Louis opted for the two-hybrid again, thinking he could hit it fairly straight.  The ball took a great line all the way, hopping up onto the green with a healthy bounce.

        “Great shot!” Birdie exclaimed.  “That’s your money club for sure.”

        Louis followed the others down to the right on a gravel roadway along the inside of the fence, emerging on the other side of the briar-filled ravine.   He watched patiently as the others advanced to the green, none too expertly, as it turned out.  Another severe dip in the fairway and a sharp rise to the green proved testing.  Mac, at least, left his approach seemingly hole-high on the right apron.  The others took an extra shot to get up onto the same level as the green, no one yet having a view of the results.

        Cresting the hill a full five minutes after hitting his third shot, Louis finally could see how the last bounce ended up.  His ball sat only a few inches from the flag.  A tap-in for a birdie.

       “Good thing I didn’t know anything about the hole,” Louis laughed.  Mac and Corky didn’t react.  They had both messed this hole up.  Louis looked back appreciatively at the terrain covered.  The others putted out and moved off the green back to their carts.  Louis looked around.  The course appeared to end suddenly.

        “Where to now?”

        Birdie smiled.  The team had won another hole. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder while pushing his cart over toward an opening in the fence that bordered the hole.  Exiting the course to the left, they were immediately on a sidewalk along SW 28th and heading north.  Birdie stopped and waited for Louis.  “Imagine you’re an early explorer and have reached the end of a waterway in your canoe.  Time for a portage.”

        Louis realized they were passing a parking lot, a wooden sign indicating the entrance to the rhododendron garden.  He checked the traffic behind him to make sure there were no cars approaching to turn into the lot, then followed Birdie down the sidewalk. He spotted a large sign across the street marking an entrance to Reed College.  Another fifty yards down the sidewalk Louis saw the golf course reappearing on the left and finally an opening in the chain-link fence leading to the 14th tee.  Mac and Corky arrived a few seconds behind them, neither looking at the other.

        “A tempting entrance for the students, I would think,” Louis observed.

        “Oh, yeah,” said Corky, breaking his silence.  “Tell him that story about the stoned Reedies, Birdie.”

         Birdie chuckled.  He told this one often.

         “Over the years students have snuck on the course just before dusk to play a hole or two.  Some time back in the 70s, a few days before graduation three seniors decided it was time to try that stunt again.   They had done so as freshmen, imbibing a quart or two of beer each.  That had been fun, but now they wanted to try it with marijuana.  So, after they shared a few joints, they grabbed a single bag of clubs, crossed the road, and teed up golf balls.  Two of the fellas rarely played, but the other had some skill. Despite being stoned, he split the fairway with a three-wood and then laughed at the pathetic attempts of his buddies, who took several shots apiece to draw even with him.  The light evidently was fading, but the 150-yard stick in the fairway gave him a fair idea of the yardage to the green.  Barely able to stand straight, he swung at the ball with blind faith. He caught sight of it taking off, heading toward the green.  Not enough light to see where the ball landed, but when the others gave up with both their golf balls going into that creek running across the hole, this fella, determined to finish, stumbled on.  He got to the green, looked around, but no ball.  He still had his golfer’s instincts working.  He decided to check the hole, and there was the ball.  He had eagled the hole while stoned out of his mind.”

      “That must have seemed surreal,” Louis said.  “Did they play on?”

      “Too dark.  Plus, the story goes that they all had serious cases of the munchies and were eager to get back to campus.  The lucky fella tried to keep a lid on the happenings seeing that they could all get in trouble if college authorities found out.  I heard the story from a customer in the diner and passed it on to these guys.  Supposedly, the customer was in the same class at Reed.”

      “And didn’t the lucky son-of-a-gun become a federal judge?” Corky offered up for confirmation.

       “I can’t say for sure.  But isn’t this so true about golf?  The game can frustrate you virtually every round, sometimes multiple times. But then it gives back when you least expect it with a moment and memory like that.”

       “That’s for sure,” Louis nodded.  “I once scored an ace after carding a nine on the previous hole.  Hardly the likely time to do that. Steam was still coming out of my ears when I swung with a “who cares?” attitude on the tee. We watched the ball go into the hole on the fly.  My partners laughed harder than I did.”

       “What didja shoot the next hole?” Corky asked.

       “I can’t remember.  Nothing remarkable, good or bad, I guess.”

        “Still your honor after that birdie, Louis,” Mac called out, an unsubtle cue to pick up the pace.

        Louis nodded, and remembering Birdie’s story, chose a three-wood to tee off.  Could magic happen twice on the 14th?  He swung smoothly, he thought, but he transferred his weight on the downswing a tad too quickly.  The ball popped weakly forward and rolled a few yards ahead, no more than forty yards off the tee.  He laughed, mostly in surprise.  One thing golf taught you over sixty years: Don’t get ahead of yourself.  Stay humble.

       “Atta way to keep the charge going, Arnie,” Corky heckled.

       Louis joined the others in laughter.  No hiding his imperfect game.  It looked like he had been initiated a second time today.



      The IPA hit the spot.  Just the right amount of fresh hops and faint hint of citrus that Louis trusted would pleasantly quench his thirst now the round was over.  The final holes had not lacked drama.  Time to relax, to recover.  The four men sat at a small rectangular table on the clubhouse veranda looking every bit their age.  The 10th tee and fairway lay out unoccupied before them.  Corky had returned from the locker room after briefly cleaning up from his trying day. Putting the lost opportunities on the course behind them, the four basked in the early afternoon warmth.  Nice to be sitting outside again after the winter hiatus, Louis thought.  He had carded an 84, not bad on an unfamiliar and tricky golf course.  He had finished the last five holes several strokes over par, with a double-bogey on the dogleg 16th. The hole required a layup because of a bayou-like penalty area along its right side.  He had hit his four-iron too close to the reeds and tall grass fringing the water and had to pitch out to the fairway.  The green lay tilted to the right, mostly hidden from view, but his ignorance may not have mattered.  He missed the green to the left and took three more strokes to hole out.  It was his only double-bogey of the round.  No one else scored better over the five finishing holes.  Maybe fatigue had set in.  OMG – Old Man Golf.

       Without much additional grousing, Corky now stood on the tee of the par-three 17th.  The setting seemed placid enough.  Looking out over the lake, Lewis noticed again the flowering rhododendrons.  He suspected that Birdie, bearing a wistful expression, was thinking of Helen.  The hole was playing 160 yards, but the tee shot required a full carry over the westernmost corner of Crystal Springs Lake.  The only bailout area was long right.  Left was definitely a dunking, too, and the safe area directly behind the green was only a yard or two before becoming terra incognita.  Birdie’s ball landed just off to the right, while Louis and Mac had safely found the green.  Corky’s ball fell short, and he mumbled a curse.

        “Damn, that’s an expensive ball.”

        Not that unusual, Louis thought. Like so many unskilled golfers, Corky preferred to use top-of-the-line balls like the professionals do, even though they didn’t suit his game. Louis knew that his own game had deteriorated enough that he was better off with less expensive ones.

      For the first time in the round, Mac relented, “Use the forward tee as a drop area, pal. Save yourself more grief.”

      That was a generous suggestion, the remaining carry being only about 90 yards from that tee.  Given Corky’s penalty stroke, the offer was fine with Birdie and Louis.  Corky, though, wanted to slay the dragon.  Still sputtering, he re-teed and in his eagerness to finish the swing hit the ground a full inch behind the ball.  While his first shot fell into the lake just short of the green, this one made it only halfway.  Another splash.  Louis hadn’t heard a concatenation of swear words that long in years.  He didn’t mean to smile, but Corky’s creativity was impressive.  Face beet red, Corky stormed up to the front tee.  Louis held his breath, hoping that this third shot, by score Corky’s fifth stroke, actually would stay dry.  Remarkably, it did, barely catching the front of the green. Likely it would be a seven if Corky two-putted, but he wasn’t quite ready to try.

       “Gimme a hand, Mac,” he shouted when he located at last what he thought was his first ball sitting at the base of the wall facing the green, some ten feet below the surface.  Mac clearly knew the drill.  When Corky had pulled his aluminum ball retriever from his bag and extended it to its full length, he lowered it into the water with his right arm while holding his left arm behind him for Mac to grab and establish a secure anchorage.  Leaning forward, Corky was at Mac’s mercy, but all might have been fine except that Corky’s rear foot slipped, throwing both Corky and Mac off balance.  Down they went, Mac only to his knees, but Corky plunged headfirst into the cold lake.  Mac had grabbed hold of Corky’s legs as they fell, and with Louis’s help hauled his partner back up to land.  Corky hadn’t hurt himself, but he was winded and soaked to the waist.  He had lost the ball retriever in the process of trying to save himself from the water. Amazingly, he had saved his cap, though that and the little white towel were drenched, too. He sat up gingerly on the grass embankment while the others tried to keep from laughing too hard.

      “You never could dive worth a damn,” Mac chortled.

      Corky was still too shaken to make a rejoinder.  He was shivering.  Louis handed him a clean towel he had stored in his golf bag.  Everything had happened in a flash.  Louis had wanted to tell Corky to let the ball go, that the effort to retrieve it wasn’t worth the trouble.  It was a risky maneuver for older guys.  But his newness to the group, despite the earlier initiations, had held him back.  Why was that?  These guys were no longer strangers. The rounds they had played together, albeit just two, had knitted them.  Just walking together those several miles explained some of it, but even more so the shared frustrations of the game, inevitable athletic failings of golfers of any age, temporarily fell away before an unvoiced determination not to give up.  

         Funny, Louis thought, how guys his age and older remained as optimistic as kids that the next venture onto a course would bring with it an especially memorable pleasure.  Weren’t his earlier birdie and the stoned Reedie’s eagle solid evidence?  Come another mild morning, preferably a few degrees warmer, a new round with friends would start out a dauntless, shining act of derring-do, boldly to take on the world and triumph.  Much like Don Quixote or Sancho Panza.

       “Damn, I lost the ball retriever, too,” Corky lamented.  “I was just getting the knack of using that thing.  My biggest regret, though, is that I didn’t pull my partner in with me.  He probably hasn’t had a bath in a few weeks.”

       “You can forget about the ball,” Birdie said, “but let the fellas in the shop know about the retriever.  You could get it back the next time they hire a diver to gather golf balls from the drink. It’s required by some law – state, EPA, or something – to have the lake cleaned up on a regular basis.”

         “I think that’s right,” Mac added.  “Who knows?  Maybe, if you’re lucky, there will be a good-size salmon biting onto one end when they haul the contraption out.  You’ll get dinner, too.”

        Corky just shook his head.  He trudged over to the last tee, saying nothing.  He played his final shots joylessly and poorly, still shivering from his plunge.

        “I sure hope I have another shirt in the back of my truck,” he grumbled to Birdie as they approached the green.  

         “I’ll make this quick,” Birdie said, as he stood over his third shot from the apron.  He kept his word, knocking the chip straight into the flagstick and down into the hole.  Louis and he had won the back nine and carded a birdie each.  



        They softened the blow by picking up the tab at the 19th.  Sitting on veranda drinking their IPAs, they watched fellow golfers swing on the 10th tee. Directly across the table, Corky sat sulking wearing  a loud Hawaiian-print shirt he had found in his truck.  Louis decided to stick his neck out and say something.    

“Corky, I’ll make you an offer.  If we ever play this course together again—and I hope we do—I will hand you a brand new ball of my own to use on the 17th.  And I won’t want you to return it later, nor will I accept a replacement.  All I ask is that you don’t try to retrieve it if it goes into the drink.”

      Mac interjected before Corky could reply.  “How many balls did you say you’d hand him? The guy never says ‘die,’ you know.”

      “That’s quite an offer, Corky,” Birdie said when the laughter subsided. Mustering up a scintilla of acceptance, Corky displayed a wry grin.  

       No big deal for Louis to make the ball offer, though he kept the reason to himself.  He finally had a way to make use of all the economy-priced golf balls his kids had given him on Father’s Day over the years, the ones that sold in packs of eighteen, one for each hole, perhaps, in some round in the future.  Hard as rocks, they were.  That round had never come.  Louis chose to buy balls in the medium-price range, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t play a fancier ball if he found one or his wife bought them for him, knowing he still had golf dreams.

      “Louis, you haven’t obviously thought this through,” Mac said.  “Have you figured out how much that offer could cost you a year if Corky insists Eastmoreland will be his home course?”

      “Will be?” Corky echoed.  “I proudly proclaim that this is my home course, gentlemen.  Just try to keep me out of that lake.  I just may have to play the hole in a wetsuit from now on.”

       After a shared laugh, they fell silent.  Birdie knew he had another daffy Corky & Mac story to share with his customers, the older ones anyhow.  Mac, no doubt, would be regaling his wife at dinner with his own version.   Louis laughed to himself. We’re a dying breed.  Wasn’t municipal golf a losing proposition? Political pressure was growing for the Portland Parks Department to explore other land use options for its public courses.  Was the game sustainable?  The century was two decades old; the most frequent users of the courses were all about seven decades old.  Younger adults didn’t want to take the time for a round or maybe shell out for greens fees, memberships, or equipment costs.  Yet, oddly, when Louis did see younger folk playing, so often they were riding in carts, adding to those costs.  The walk and the talk, that’s what Louis would miss most about the game when he quit playing, assuming he didn’t die first.  Now, that was a pleasant thought.  Images flashed by of some golfing companions gone before him.  Some skilled, many not, but all hooked on the game. Pursuing a dream. 

       Momentarily, he had forgotten where he was.  Shifting back in his chair, he refocused on the smiling, grizzled faces around the table, two pale and one darker, his newfound band of brothers. He blinked, then inserted himself back into their midst.

     “Who’s up for another round?” 

     “Here?” Birdie asked, holding up his empty glass. “Or out there?”  He swept his free arm out toward the broad, green swaths of tee box, short rough, and fairway stretching toward a distant mound where a lone flag gently waved.  And yet, not all that far away, Louis realized.  He shrugged.

        “Were I younger, I’d say ‘both.’”

 

With thanks to Kathy Hauff, course superintendent, for help identifying trees.