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

impact immediately announced the precision of the shot.
“Two good ones in a row,” shouted Mike as he walked towards the tee with his driver in hand.
He twisted his short stocky body sharply from left to right again and again as he prepared for his shot. He then quickly stepped up to the ball and struck the it soundly.
“Not as good as you guys. Straight OK, but a little short! I’ll get you in the short game though. I always do,” he remarked confidently.
Now was Bob’s turn. He felt his heart speed up a little as he took his place at the tee. He pulled a brand-new Pinnacle from his pocket and placed it on the tee. Then, he eagerly whipped the driver to and fro in long graceful arcs as he readied himself for a shot. He stood motionless for a moment and then carefully drew the club back from the ball. The sunlight reflected from its shaft as it moved back over his shoulder. He reached the top of his swing and the club flexed hard with the energy of a crushing impact straining to be released.
Down it came in perfect symmetry with the back swing, again catching and reflecting the sun’s flashing rays. A millisecond later the head came slamming into the waiting ball.
An instant later, Bob looked up to see the ball rocketing forward from the tee towards the distant fairway. He watched it climb higher and higher in its flight. Then ever so slowly, it began to move towards the right a little, then a little more and then sharply right. Down it came. It struck the ground and catapulted towards the bushes adjacent to the fairway.
Bob felt a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he helplessly watched it disappear under a clump of shrubs.
“Long but wrong.”
“Those slices will kill you every time,” sympathized Frank as they all started to walk down the fairway.
Bob began to walk too, but a bit behind the others. He’d hit many slices before but how could it have happened this time? With these clubs? Was all the testing, the engineering, the precision craftsmanship; the space age materials still no match for his slice? How could this be possible?
He arrived at the point where his ball had vanished beneath the bushes and began to probe the vegetation with his three iron hoping to locate it. He jammed the club in and out attempting to avoid the long, sharp thorns that protruded everywhere. In spite of his best efforts, he felt their sting each time he thrust. After repeated probes it finally appeared deep within the heavy growth.
“Looks like a drop Bobby. Can’t hit out of that,” advised Pete who had been helping him look for the ball. By this time the other two had taken their second shots. Mike made good his promise of a good short game and had expertly lofted his ball onto the green about two yards from the pin.
Frank was on the far edge of the green and Pete had a lie a in the left fringe, closer to the cup than Frank but still just off the green.
Bob finished fishing the ball from the undergrowth, picked it up, held it over the drop area and released it. It fell lightly into a shortcut, grassy section of the rough. A perfect lie!
He looked towards the green.
“One fifty,” he thought. “Looks like a seven.”
He drew the shiny new seven iron from his bag. Then, he purposefully aligned his shot, drew back and fired. The ball arose high as a perfect projectile, higher and higher towards the green and then began its descent. Bob watched its flight with every muscle straining as if to influence its path. Down it came landing amidst a gusher of sand spraying into the air.
“The God damn trap,” he said to himself out loud in disgust. He jammed the club back into the bag and stamped off in the direction of the bunker at the left side of the green. When he reached the trap, he could barely see the ball, which had embedded itself deep into the sand. Only the number four and the “Pin” on the ball peered visibly from beneath the mound, which had swallowed it.
He stared down at it for a long moment with his hands on his hips. Then, he reached into the bag and ripped the sand wedge from it. He firmly positioned his feet in the sand, drew the club back and came down squarely on the ball driving it still deeper into the bunker.
An audible groan arose, almost in unison, from all of them on the green. Bob looked up. He could feel the flush in his face and the muscles in his neck tighten. He repositioned himself over the submerged ball and again hacked at it. This time he successfully dislodged it from the sand and pitched it onto the green. It landed by the pin and rolled twenty feet beyond.
By now, his stomach had begun to grind and he could feel a fiery heat moving up into his chest. Disappointment was quickly turning into anger.
Each member of the foursome began to putt. Mike, again true to his prediction of good short play, lagged his ball to within inches of the cup and then proceeded to par the hole.
Pete putted from the far fringe just a little too hard and followed with two additional putts for a five.
Frank rolled his ball to within a foot of the cup and parred the hole.
Bob carefully looked over the putting terrain noting the subtle bends and weaves of its surface while trying to anticipate every jog and turn that the ball might follow on its path to the cup. Then, he stepped up to his ball, checked its alignment several times and carefully tapped it on its way with the putter.
The ball moved forward curving to the right then to the left just as he had thought but as it reached the cup it rolled again to the right missing the lip. It continued to roll and stopped five feet beyond.
Bob again moved up to the ball this time muttering to himself as he walked. Again, he aligned his shot with tortuous precision. Again, he gently touched the ball with his putter. It rolled to the cup, struck the left edge, rolled around the lip, tilted sideways and finally fell into the cup.
“Four! Par!” proclaimed Mike as he reached for the scorecard.
“Likewise,” responded Frank.
“Five!” shouted Pete with somewhat less enthusiasm than the other two.
Mike recorded the scores as they were announced. Then he paused and looked at Bob.
Bob looked back and replied to his questioning stare with a faint “Seven.”
The group walked towards the second tee. Bob dutifully trudged along trying to appear interested in their conversation. He feigned attention, while thoughts of the previous hole churned over and over in his head.
“How could I have played all those shots so poorly?” he asked himself.
He always played at least a six and most often better on that hole, and now, a seven? Maybe it was just a streak of back-to-back bad luck shots.
“Even great players have a bad hole now and then,” he thought.
In spite of his attempts at rationalization, he felt the burning heat of anger begin to well up in him.
“Calm down,” he thought. “Don’t let yourself get upset and blow the next hole too. Remember, it’s only a little bad luck. Things will change. Probably on the next hole, if you just relax,” he told himself again. He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds and exhaled fully. There, now he felt a bit better.
The other three continued their discussion with Mike and Frank recounting the details of their play on the previous hole, each boasting more than the other. Pete chimed in now and then about how close he had come to also paring the hole.
Bob said little.
When they reached the next tee the sign read, “Three hundred and sixty yards – par four.”
It was picture perfect, a lush fairway, tended by two large traps on the left, trees on the right and a small pond behind the green in the distance.
“Pars are up first,” announced Mike with an air of pride in his voice.
“I’ll go first,” he added and stepped eagerly up to the tee.
He aimed carefully and swung. The ball was propelled upwards, straight and long.
“Nice shot!” yelled Frank as he stepped up next.
He took several practice wings and moved to the ball. He struck it cleanly with a long smooth stroke.
“Not real long and right. A little slice! It’s in the right rough but it’s O.K.,” remarked Mike.
Then Pete moved into position at the tee. He hovered over the ball for a second, drew his club back and pounded it solidly.
“Down the middle but too high and short. It’s only about one seventy,” he commented to himself out loud.
He lightly thumped the club head on the ground as he left the tee, less than satisfied with his performance.
It was Bob’s turn next. He teed up the ball and methodically executed several practice wings. Then he moved to the ball, stood over it, hesitated momentarily, pulled the club back and fired. Down it came with full impact just cutting under the ball and driving a large divot skyward.
The ball shot straight up from the tee, rising almost vertically. Up and up it went. Finally, it stopped and fell to the dead center of the fairway.
“A three hundred yard shot,” scoffed Frank. “A hundred up, a hundred down and a hundred out,” he mocked.
Bob’s heart sank. “Son of a bitch,” he yelled and slammed the club head sharply into the ground.
“Give the guy break,” quipped Mike. “He’s having a bad day,” he added sympathetically.
Bob could feel his temples throbbing and his heart starting to pound harder. He could feel his anger mounting, rising up from the recesses of his gut and exploding into his head. He clenched his jaw and tightened his fists. He threw the driver into the bag so hard as to make all the other clubs vibrate together with a loud, resounding, shuttering noise.
He grabbed the bag and stormed off in the direction of his ball, unappreciative of Frank’s humor and without a word. He walked in silence with head down, never glancing up from the ground. When he reached the ball, he yanked the three wood from his bag. He immediately squared his stance up to the ball and without hesitation savagely swung at it. He topped the ball and it dribbled about fifty yards down the fairway where it again awaited his arrival.
He followed with the three wood in hand, marching in a numb cadence toward its location.
Upon reaching it, he stopped and drew several slow, deep breaths vainly trying to regain his composure.
“It’s still your shot,” shouted Pete from his forward position by his own ball.
“I think I know that!” Bob snapped back.
He took his stance over the ball. Again, he sucked in several more deep breaths. This time it seemed to help, at least a little. He waggled the club