Idlebones

Par Wars

I’d forgotten how lovely these sunny mornings of golf
were. I used to love the feel of crisp grass underfoot as the frost
tries to take hold but evaporates under the bright gaze of a September
sun, still dominant and holding court in the weeks before the clocks
go back. The way footprints of earlier golfers lay clear and obvious,
darker pressed oblongs on the tee as we set up our golf balls and
swing our clubs in arcs about our shoulders in practice like one armed
windmills. Dad swings his club over his head in mirror image to mine,
he being a left handed golfer, his grey resemblance of my hairline
bowed to the apex of his swing. I swing with the stinging arms of one
who hasn’t used these muscles for some time, my own greying swathes of
hair over my ears sticking to my head in the rising morning heat.

I wait for politely for a couplet ahead of us to pass the
hillock before the first green before I address my ball, not wanting
it to connect with a head as I line up my first, thunderous drive. I
try to remember all the advice I’ve been given in the past: Take it
slow, drag it back, keep your left arm straight, let the club do the
work. As I am assembling all these cues in my head, drawing my club
back, Dads’ voice whispers in my ear “nice and slow” just at the
crucial moment. I lose my train of thought and hurtle my club
downward, contacting the ball with a feroucious thump.
       Now in golf, a thump is not the signature sound your looking for.
More of a ping and a whizz. A thump means only one thing; This ball
can go anywhere. And anywhere it decides to go, besides the fairway.
It rose and curled gracefully to the right, hung for a moment as it’s
momentum began to slow then eventually lose interest, dropping my ball
into the marshy ground that surrounded a tin greenkeepers hut on the
adjacent fareway. A plop, and a disinterested spray of water
announcing its arrival. I can’t be bothered looking for it.
“Try another one” says dad, helpfully. “you have a good natural
swing, but have a lot to learn, young fella. Keep your swing calm and
let the club do the work. Feel the club do it’s work!”. I’m just
waiting for him to add: “My young apprentice” with a hiss.

And so it went for the next three holes. Whissh, thump,
plop. Until the fourth tee. There I finally found my golf legs again.
A clean, crisp drive from the tee gave hope to my resurgent interest
in the sport. The ball left my club head and curled elegantly over the
rise of the fairway, before skipping off a small mound and rolling to
a halt, just over the raised plateau of the green.
“I’m there in one” I announce to my Dad calmly, as I concede the Tee
to him, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He,
nonchalantly, wordlessly, launches a ball that dissects the fairway
and lands with a comfortable skip, just short of the green and drops
into a bunker. I am determined, destined, to win this hole.

      We walk to the green, I in my own dreaming Walter Mitty style,
lapping up the gallery’s cheers and encouragements, Dad heading
towards the bunker, cap under one armpit and head bent in concentration as he busies himself totting up the previous holes’ score on his score card. As I approach
the green I notice a figure appear over the hill behind it from the next fairway. The short figure, male, I think, judging by its gait, is searching the long grass on the hill that backs the green, a black gloved hand swinging a golf club to and fro like a scythe in lazy swipes. He stops momentarily, something catching his eye at the bottom
of the hill, then, descends the mound to where my ball is resting out of my sight behind the raised flat of the green. Reaching the bottom, he regards something at his feet in the dip for a moment, then, to my surprise, picks up a golf ball, pockets it and then disappears back over the hill
without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

         I’m so surprised that I don’t react. I keep strolling down to the green, my pace quickening slightly perhaps, but still not quite believing that someone could have so blatantly stolen my ball. As I cross the green I’m assuring myself that the figures ball must have landed by mine, and that it was this that it has picked up. Sure enough, I think, as I arrive at my balls’ destination, my ball must be here. But it’s not. The little git has nicked my ball. I pause for a moment, dumbfounded, staring at the bare patch of grass where my ball should be. Incredulously, I climb the rise to see him take his place by his golf bag some 50 metres away and call after him, just before
realising it’s not very little at all. In fact, he’s big.

           I’ve heard about situations like this. Irrational arguments spinning into handbags at dawn and eventually fisticuffs. It dosen’t help that both of us are carrying clubs. I have a quick premonition of a camera phone video playing on ‘Youtube’ entitled “golf Wars. When golfers go bad”. Two grainy figures tumbling around a green punching spots off each other. I just wanted a quiet game of golf, for goodness sake.
“Did you just pick up my ball?” I call, in a neutral tone, trying not to let my indignation show. It was, after all, most probably a stupid mistake. How neutral an accusation can sound, I’m not sure, but I did my best not to let the feeling of anger get the better of me.The man is standing by his golf bag, choosing a club as his friend, all clad in a white tracksuit, nudges him and nods in my direction. He’s not short either, I notice. The man looks up at me, and takes a few steps towards my position on the high ground. I feel emboldened by my lofty position, as if I’m the general with the tactical upperhand.
I’m also aware of the way I’m carrying my 9 iron; tightly gripped and lifted at an angle like a hurling stick. I let it dip to the ground to lessen its antagonistic look, suddenly remembering an incident with a bus driver who had been making stops outside my ex-girlfriends house despite our many complaints to his company. The last time the bus
stopped outside the house, giving it’s passengers yet another eyeful of her front room, I was busy buttering bread for a sausage and tomato ketchup sandwich in the kitchen. I was so incensed at his obvious disregard for our privacy that I ran out to the road and berated him from the bottom of the steps of the bus as his passengers disembarked around me. It was only after he had apologised profusely and, slightly
ashen faced, slammed the door shut and roared of into the distance, leaving me mildly surprised at his quick submission, that I realised I was still holding the bread knife. He was watching me in horror in his wing mirror as I suddenly became aware of the blade, as I absent mindedly cleaned it with a finger stroke, placing the ketchup covered
digit into my mouth. I spent the rest of the evening cowering on the couch waiting for the Gardai to arrive with a tactical response unit to kick in the front door.
“What kind of ball was it?” the approaching man responds slowly, somewhat defensively. We’re sizing each other up. I’m shorter then him by at least 3 inches, but broader than his skinny frame. I can see he is carrying at least two days worth of stubble, and his black shirt is hanging out over his black slacks. I’m standing in the long grass, paint splattered white shorts and a thin baize exercise shirt. My
white legs must have shone with pale sweat in the bright sunshine.
“A Titlest 2″
“No, it was a Nike. I was using a Nike I was” he says, drawing his words in a deep, resonating voice for emphasis.

Too late I remember I had swapped my ball at the last hole, blaming the Titlest for a poor shot, and had replaced it with a Nike. I can’t change my mind now though. Its become a battle of wills. I just want a quiet game of golf, I think to myself again. And here we are carrying clubs like light sabres in the middle of a field.
But he knows he has stolen my ball and I don’t want to give in.
“I did have one of those in my bag”, I attempt, raising my shoulders
briefly, a bad attempt to correct my mistake. I let my silver sabre
stroke the long grass. “Yours must be in here somewhere”
“Mine flew over this direction. I didn’t see anyone. So I thought it
must have been mine”, he says. He speaks in a low, calm, almost
hypnotic voice. He points his own weapon slowly in the direction of
the green, a glint of sunlight flashing an orange glow at the head of
the club.
“Good god”, I think, as my mind wanders as it does. “I’m playing golf
on the Death Star”. Trying to place a white dept charge into the 4
inch diameter exhaust pipe of a hole in this planet shaped ship. I
wonder if he’s asthmatic? I couldn’t help thinking.
“Why’d you pick it up then?” I countered. “It wasn’t on the green!?, I
reasoned. “You could have taken your shot”
“Didn’t want to get in the way”. His eyes are clenched, Clint Eastwood
style against the sun, but I can sense his resistance has lowered a
semitone. The force in his voice diminishing.
“But you didn’t see anybody”. Its argumentative, and I regret it as
soon as I’ve said it. I have a bag full of balls. I could easily drop
a new one, forget it and continue. But he’s not admitted the
possibility of his mistake yet, so I say nothing. It’s at this point
that I know one of us has to back down. Dad has parked his
Caddy on the other side of the green and is busy taking
practice swings, oblivious to the conversation.
“I saw mine fall just there” I point to the dip before the green, “and
saw you walk down the hill and pick it up. Now my ball isn’t there”
“We could have been playing with the same type of ball”. It’s a half
hearted response.
I pause, making a show of scanning the light rough as if my ball might
suddenly reappear.
“Sod it. I’ll drop a new ball. No big deal”.

I can’t be bothered arguing over a golf ball. Having argued quite enough already, and my mind wandering as far as I was prepared to let it without actually succumbing to an all out battle reinactment. He mutters something, shrugs, and wanders back down the rise to his mate, his white clad stormtrooper, who has been standing over his own
ball all the time impatiently checking his watch.
Golf Wars averted, I drop my ball and line up my next shot, still a tad grumpy over the incident. I give my shoulders a little shake to relax them and address my new ball.
I gauge my range and distance to the hole (Stay on Target……)
Curve my my club over my shoulders (Stay on Target….)
Swing, (Stay on Target……)
And connect with the blade of the club, sending my ball a good 50 yards the other side of the green in a ridiculously high arc.
“Jaysus!” says Dad, mocking a furtive ducking motion. “What the feck was that?”
“My first pass” I reply seriously, reaching into my bag, eyeing the exhaust pipe and dropping a new golf ball shaped depth charge at my feet.

This game is more fun then I remembered.