It was hot that July Saturday when I topped the rise of the highway. The dash indicator said 105. But that wasn’t the temperature outside; it was how fast we were going. I saw the familiar sight of Little Rock’s skyline, with its few tall buildings. Then I saw the state trooper.
We were playing in the Rosswood 4-Ball, at the old pine-lined traditional course built by and for International Paper, whose large, smelly plant sat five miles to the east. Depending on the wind, people within a hundred miles knew the scent well.
But Rosswood’s days were numbered. You could tell by the condition of the clubhouse. Rotting wood and peeling paint said there had been better days. But the course itself was still a fine test, as what money was left from the steadily decreasing membership was used for fairways and greens.
My partner complained of an upset stomach. Looking back, we should have paid closer attention to the warning. I told him before we left that it wouldn’t kill me to not play, but he felt obligated, so I picked him up for the hour’s ride south.
When we arrived, the pot-holed parking lot was full of cars and golfers, who were unloading massive bags and smoking cigars. My partner asked if I could get his clubs for him because he needed to visit the bathroom. I said sure, thinking he looked a little green.
I got us a cart then went inside for lunch, which I decided to pass on after seeing it was Bratwurst and sauerkraut. I headed to the driving range instead, with still no sign of my partner.
We were in the first flight, with our qualifying score of 74 counting toward the three-day total. We both were pretty decent in those days; formidable, I thought. I putted a while and then went to look for my partner, who I found coming out of a bathroom. “Have you been there the whole time?” I asked.
“Yeah, it must have been something I ate last night.”
“Then you don’t want to see what they have for lunch.”
We teed off and he got weaker on every hole. The guys we were playing were pretty good, too, but I soon lost interest in the golf as I watched my partner struggle. On the fourth green, he putted and went down on his knees while the rest of us finished. I walked over to him and he pitifully told me he had to get out of there.
I told the other team we were dropping out because my partner was too sick to go on and we headed back to my car. Looking back, I could have driven the few miles to the Jefferson County Hospital, but neither of us knew what was going on, so we headed back to Little Rock. Things went downhill fast. About half way home, he was having trouble talking and I was pretty scared. We got his wife on his cell and I told her to meet us at the Baptist ER.
My wife’s new Honda Accord, barely broken in, was about to be tested. At last, after what seemed like a drive from the Gulf of Mexico, I saw Little Rock’s skyline – and the cop. I pulled over and jumped out, telling him I thought my friend was dying. He told me to slow down.
“How about an escort?” He said no, and that I was almost there. I got out of his sight and punched the little car again.
We made it to Baptist, where he would spend two days for what they thought was food poisoning and dehydration. As for me, well, I always wanted a chance to be Batman.