It had been nearly a decade since I had stepped onto the grounds of what had been my home course during the last five years of the 20th century. Fred and I had played a lot of golf there together and I had been eagerly anticipating a return.
We’d reserved a 9:45 tee time and Fred said they would probably pair us with another twosome, because it was another busy Saturday morning. Not good, I thought, remembering other pairings we had endured there in the past.
Like the time one Fayetteville attorney joined us and slaughtered a big snake at the edge of No. 9 fairway with what looked to be a seven iron. Fred and I thought it was a bit much – a nine would have been plenty – but the way he was swinging that club, we kept our mouths shut.
\Then there was the guy who kept getting calls on his cell phone. It rang constantly and he kept answering it, to our growing annoyance. Fred finally asked him why he didn’t turn it off and enjoy the round. He looked back at us like we were asking him to donate one of his organs. (I might have enjoyed that more. Isn’t the tongue considered an organ?) Anyway, we lost him at the turn when he went in the pro shop to take some more calls.
But most days it was just Fred and me.
We walked up to the first tee box and I saw there was a starter there who was holding a clipboard. Where was I – Sandestin? Wasn’t this the same course where I had once played 54 holes in about seven hours? And now they needed a starter?
I took my receipt from my pocket just in case, while Fred was realizing he couldn’t find his. Just then one of the guys from the pro shop came driving up in a golf cart (right onto the tee box).
He asked the starter how many guys had just teed off.
“Four,” said the starter.
“Well, only one of them paid,” Pro shop guy said. “It’s the Hurley group.” Then he turned his cart around and drove it back over the tee box, apparently not wanting any part of the Hurley group.
Fred, meanwhile, had located his receipt and we showed them to the starter, an elderly man who still looked confused by the news of the Hurley group.
He told us that the course was playing at a “foursome pace,” and that the twosome in front of us, who were ready to tee off, said we were welcome to join them. Remembering snakes and cell phones I said they could go on.
We watched them hit, one topping his ball just past the ladies tee, the other smoking a beautiful drive to the fairway below. A few minutes later it was our turn.
I stood on the tee, awash with memories about this course where I had spent so much time. It was going to be a great day. Even the weather was working out unexpectedly, with cloud cover and temps in the low 80’s.
I pushed my tee into the soft earth, placed a new Titleist on it and stepped back, trying to picture a great drive, and remembering when they seemed easy. I stepped back toward the ball, carefree and ready, fully expecting to shoot in the 70’s. Then I heard the words:
“Here’s a single that would like to join you guys.”
I turned around and saw a young guy sitting behind the wheel in his cart. But it was what I saw next that chilled me to the bone. Between him and myself was walking a little boy, about seven or eight, who was, horror of horrors, carrying a ball and a three-foot driver.
They all waited for one of the obligatory responses: “Sure, that’d be great,” or “You and your little boy are welcome.” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. They looked at me and I looked back, trying to come up with anything that might keep them from joining us –
“OK with me. The doctors says this strain of swine flu isn’t even contagious.” Or –
“Sorry, we’re with the FBI and about to take down the Hurley Gang - they probably won’t come peacefully.”
Or even –
“Ever been in a Turkish prison?”
But I had nothing.
Fred just stared at the ground.
Then I looked down to see the boy grinning up at me, and I remembered even farther back, to hot days long ago and the smell of freshly cut grass.
“Let’s play some golf, little buddy.”