Sticks - A Golfer's Tale - W. Sautter (e books free to read txt) 📗

of the other three.
“Three and fifty yards!” someone from crowd yelled.
“Maybe three seventy!” came another cry.
“I think maybe it hit the green!” came get a third, incredulous voice.
As the morning turned to early afternoon, he had parlayed one stunning shot upon another, amidst the gasps and cheers of the myriad of fans lining the course. Finally, he walked down the eighteenth fairway to the shouts of, “Andrews! Andrews! Andrews!” No longer were the names of the others even audible from the throng. The rest of the course was all but deserted. The teeming multitude of pushing, shoving fans, now surrounded only the eighteenth, hoping to get a glimpse of golf history and its new hero.
Finally, came his last putt. The cheers of the crowd filled the air incessantly, as he rolled in a thirty footer and left the green.
Joey raced towards him, hugged him, and whispered in his ear among the screams and shouts.
“Fifty-four! Fifty-four, the best eighteen ever played!”
They pushed their way through the crowds to the clubhouse. When the cards were tallied, he shot a fifty-four, five better than anyone had ever played. Ten consecutive birdies, another record and two eagles for good measure! Bob couldn’t believe it himself.
By the time the tournament finally ended, all players, past and present, had faded into obscurity by comparison. He shot fifty-four, fifty-six, fifty-seven and a fifty-three in the final round for a total of two hundred and twenty, a full thirty-seven strokes better than the previous record anywhere. The scorecard showed thirty-one birdies and five eagles over the four days.
In one fell swoop he’d toppled almost every record ever written. He emerged from the locker room that final day into a deluge of reporters, floodlights and television cameras, all crying out for the slightest acknowledgment. The barrage of questions shot nonstop from the assembly and he fielded them one after the other like an all-star third baseman during a batting practice. The entire time he stood, clutching his putter tightly in his hand as he answered.
“Bob! Bob, when did you start playing golf? We’d never heard of you before this week!”
“Is this your first tournament play ever?”
“What was your amateur record?”
“When will you play your next tournament?”
Question upon question ricocheted back and forth across the room. His responses remained truthful throughout - that is - as truthful as possible, without actually disclosing the incredible secret of his spectacular play. Who would have believed him anyway?
After almost an hour, he finally succeeded in satisfying their endless stream of interrogations. Then, much to his relief, the press conference came to an end.
He left Hawaii the next morning, still uncertain in some respects, as to what actually happened. He sat on the plane with his mind rambling. He couldn’t be sure if it was all real or some strange, beautiful delusion. At times, he questioned his own sanity, and each time he doubted, he pulled the one hundred and fifty thousand dollar check from his pocket to reassure himself that it was all true.
He arrived at home that afternoon to find his house in full, festive array. Balloons flew from the lampposts; multicolored streamers covered the windows and huge red white banner over the door read “Welcome Home Super Champ.” The place was alive with people, some familiar and some not so familiar. It seemed as if everyone he knew, and everyone he could ever know, was there. He pulled into the driveway and cheers filled the air. It was as if he had single-handedly won the Super Bowl.
He scanned the crowd as he opened the car door. His eyes immediately fell upon Harrington. Who was that standing next to him but Harper, with a smile plastered from ear to ear. Upon seeing him, Bob’s stomach heaved a bit, but in spite of it all, he managed a smile.
He emerged from the car. Maryanne burst towards him from the crowd. She threw her arms around him and held on tightly. Bob held his trophy high with his right hand and waved the winners check with his left.
“Oh, you’re wonderful,” she cried as she rocked him to and fro in her embracing grip.
Harrington approached him and slapped him soundly on the shoulder.
“That was some great performance, Bob. They’ve already got you picked to win the Open and the Masters,” he shouted over the noisy crowd as it engulfed the three them.
After a moment or two, Bob gently pushed them back and addressed everyone there, thanking them and especially Maryanne and Harrington for their loyalty.
With his speech completed, he began to make his way through the crowd, shaking hands accepting their good wishes. Within a few minutes, he found himself face-to-face with Harper.
“Bob! Listen! I want talk to you about your job,” he began sheepishly. “You know, I really couldn’t do anything about it. We just had to make some cuts and, God knows, I tried my best to save you, but I just couldn’t.
It really wasn’t my fault. There wasn’t anything I could do,” he whined.
Bob looked him straight in the eye. Harper quickly cast his gaze downward. There was a short silence.
“I understand,” Bob replied in a disinterested tone.
Harper instantly looked up with pleasant surprise.
“Well, listen then,” he began a rapid, nervous voice, “We do have a spot open for a public relations representative and we would like you to consider it.”
“I’ll let you know, Elliot,” he replied with obvious disinterest. Then, he turned and walked away with Harrington following.
“Bob, I’ve got calls about your playing again in two weeks in a celebrity tournament in California. It’s for charity and there will be a few bucks in it but even more important, it will be great exposure for you,” he said. “All expenses will be paid, of course. All you have to do is show up and ‘wow’ them again.”
Bob stopped and turned to him.
“That sounds great and if you think I should do it, then count me in. So far you’ve set me straight at every turn, that’s for sure,” Bob replied appreciably with a smile and a long, firm handshake.
“Okay then, I’ll call them in the morning,” said Harrington.
He and Harrington continued to make their way through the mob of people towards the food table set up in the backyard, stopping every five feet or so to accept the deluge of accolades and good wishes from the crowd. Bob smiled a thousand smiles, kissed a thousand kisses and shook a thousand hands as he walked.
Throughout the following week, the telephone rang constantly. The calls came for shopping mall appearances, for talk show engagements, for product endorsements, for charitable contributions, from financial consultants, and countless fans seeking advice on everything from putting to interpersonal relationships. After six days of torment, he got an unlisted number.
He went to Rock Brook each day and played an obligatory practice round. He knew that practice really had little to do with his success, but he enjoyed playing now more than ever and besides they made him an honorary member of the club, dues free! He reveled in the excitement and enthusiasm of the small crowd of faithful fans that followed him around the course each day, his own private cheering section.
Two weeks passed quickly and Bob readied himself for the trip to California. Maryanne planned to come along this time. Her boss had insisted that she go, especially since Bob had accepted his invitation to play a round with him when he returned. Maryanne was eager. She had been patiently counting every day until their scheduled departure. Bruce Willis was going to be there and so was Kevin Costner. Both of her favorites were playing as celebrity guests in the tournament, along with Bob.
Then, the very night before they were to leave, the phone rang. Barbara was Maryanne’s sister. Barbara had been the epitome of the feminist movement, that is, up to about three years ago. She was thirty-seven then, thirty-seven and counting. She was counting the time she had left to ‘fulfill her biological purpose’, as she put it, and have a baby.
All of a sudden, her VP job at Chase wasn’t that important and she began a long, arduous trip towards pregnancy. After two years and several thousand dollars it was done. Nine months later and it was time and the time was now.
Maryanne had to be there. No excuse, not even Bruce Willis and Kevin Costner would ever suffice. She had made a promise to Barbara and to herself, one that she could never break. She would be there, not only for Barbara, but also to help bring their deceased mother’s spirit to the birth.
Bob left for Palm Springs next morning, alone. Joey was there to meet him. She had been in Atlanta with her ailing mother ever since they’d come back from Hawaii. Her mother had never fully accepted her father’s death and she had been in a state of depression for three solid years. Now, although things were not good, they were improving and that made Joey a bit more cheerful.
They met at the hotel as they had planned. Again, as before, they went to the course and began pacing off every step, taking page after page of notes and measurements. Again, her attention to every detail amazed him. They walked down the eighteenth just as the sun was beginning to set. The dark, elongated shadows made the task increasingly more difficult as they finished.
With all the information collected, they went back to the hotel to discuss the strategy for that coming Thursday. They entered Bob’s room together. Bob slumped into the chair at the foot of the bed and kicked off his shoes. The trip along with the four-hour tour of the course with Joey had taken its toll. He was tired and hungry. He leaned back and put his feet up on the bed. He reached for the phone and dialed room service.
“Bob Andrews in three eleven. Send two BLTs.”
“Okay with you, Joey?” he said with the phone still held against his ear.
She nodded.
“Oh yeah, and two bottles of the beer with that, Okay?” he spoke as he looked at her.
She nodded again.
“Yeah, Bud’s alright,” he said and hung up the phone.
“About ten minutes,” he told her.
Joey also removed her shoes, propped up the pillows against the headboard of the bed and sat stretched out on the bed. They began to review the notes, hole by hole.
As they spoke, Bob suddenly felt her foot beginning to rub against his. He slowly looked up from his papers on the clipboard in his lap. She was looking straight into his eyes. He gazed back, into her deep, green eyes and in an instant, he could feel his pulse beginning to race and his breathing become heavier. A warm nervousness spread over him and the dryness in his throat caused him to swallow hard.
“Joey,” he stammered and she spontaneously leaned forward towards him.
“Yes,” she replied with amorous anticipation in her voice.
He remained silent but rose from his chair, moved to the bed and sat next to her. He reached for her hand, held it and gently caressed it with his other hand. She ran her fingers softly down his cheek.
“Bob, I