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

I could tell by the look on his face when I told the story, he thought I was over the edge.
Well, anyway, he said he would take them to give them a try. I suppose he said it to humor me, because he was supposed to pick them up the next day but never did.
After that, I thought, what the hell if my own nephew doesn’t believe me and thinks I’m crazy, then who else would? So after that, I just decided not saying anything to anybody again and I didn’t, not until now anyway.”
“Why now? Why me?” asked Bob.
“I kinda figured that you’re my last chance. I can’t just throw magic like this in the garbage can and ride away.
When you told me your story about how much you ached to really play well, I thought to myself, here’s a guy who deserves a break. You’ve got a sincere look about you too. You’ve got the look of someone who will give an old man’s dream a chance and when you give my dream a chance, you will give yourself the chance of a lifetime. Trust me, I’m telling you the truth.”
Then, he looked straight into Bob’s eyes and gripped his hand firmly.
“Am I right young man? Do you trust me? Do you believe me?” he asked sternly.
Bob mustered all the sincerity that he could and responded unfalteringly.
“I believe you, Merle. I promise to help take care of the clubs and I’ll do the best that I can do by you. I’ll let you know how I do.”
“If you’re telling the truth son, you won’t have to let me know. I’ll read about you in the newspapers,” remarked the old man soberly.
How could he destroy the old man’s fantasy? What purpose would be served by that kind of cruelty? What would it cost him to take the clubs home and put them in the garage with all the other assorted house sale trash that Maryanne picked up weekly? Merle would be pleased and he’d feel better for not having crushed the last dying hope out of an old man.
Just at that moment, Maryanne appeared on the porch, carrying a picture and a large brass lamp.
“How much for these?” she asked.
“Marked right on the bottom there. Mrs. Alom said that she marked everything on the bottom.
She’s my neighbor across the street. She’s helped me for the past ten years. Without her I would have quit a long time ago.”
“What’s it say?” he asked as he bent over looking at the tag on the back of the picture that Maryanne was holding.
“Oh, there it is. Eight for the picture and.” She turned the lamp over and faced the bottom towards him.
“Fourteen for the lamp,” he announced.
She reached into her purse and pulled out the money.
“Twenty-two, even,” and she handed it to him.
Then, she looked up and spied the clubs against the railing, just as Bob reached for the bag. She hesitated for a moment.
“How much are those?” she asks slowly pointing to the bag.
“Nothing,” responded Merle instantly.
“Nothing! They’re something I’m giving your husband.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I won’t take a dime for them. Just promise that you’ll do with them what I couldn’t. That’s all,” he answered.
“I promise,” said Bob and he picked up the bag, swung it over his shoulder and left with Maryanne.
They put the items in the trunk of the car and got in.
“What was that all about? ” she asked inquisitively.
Bob started the car, slowly pulled from the parking place and immediately began to tell her the old man’s story. Maryanne listened and marveled at the absurdity of the tale, as he related it from start to finish.
When they arrived home, Maryanne hung the picture on the wall in the den and put the lamp in the garage with her accumulated house sale hoard. Bob put the bag in the far corner of the garage, in the exact same spot where his prized, new clubs had once stood.
He turned and began to walk away. Then, suddenly he stopped and looked back at the bag. He recalled the sincerity in the old man’s eyes as he had told his story and just for a fleeting moment, Bob wondered.
He paused, shook his head slowly, turned and walked out of the garage leaving the clubs standing in the corner.


Chapter 3
“Bob, Mr. Harper wants see you,” Jean, Harper’s secretary announced as she poked her head through the office door.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she added.
“Harper, the boss! What could he possibly want?” thought Bob nervously. He frantically shuffled through his memory searching for a reason.
“Oh maybe it’s that Jeffries case,” he speculated. He had some trouble with that one. The accounts receivable wouldn’t come out right and he couldn’t figure out exactly why. He had spoken to Harper about a week or so ago. Harper had probably found the problem.
“Sure, that’s it,” he surmised with some sense of relief. Moments later he arrived at Harper’s office and was ushered in.
It was a grand setting indeed, with a huge, oaken desk, deep walnut paneling and thickly padded Oriental carpeting throughout. Harper sat behind the desk like a king at his court.
He motioned Bob forward with a wave of his hand and a much too congenial smile.
“Bob! How are you today?” he queried cheerfully like an old friend, which he was not.
He was being greeted with enthusiasm generally reserved for a class reunion. Harper’s sudden pleasantries left Bob uneasy, to say the least.
He had spoken with him many times but always as it had related to business. The only social conversation that he could recall was at a Christmas party two years ago, and even then, the discussion quickly shifted to accounting and how LIFO was superior to FIFO, in some tax applications.
“What’s going on here?” Bob wondered almost out loud.
“Sit down, Bob” said Harper with a broad, artificial smile spread across his face. He pointed to one of the overstuffed sofas near the desk.
“I understand you’re a pretty good golfer,” he began in an inquiring voice.
“Well, I don’t know how good,” Bob, replied with uncertainty. “I haven’t played in quite a while,” he added.
“Let’s put it this way then, you’re the best we have around here from what I gather. I can’t seem to find anyone else in the office who even plays, except for Marge Fullerton,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“I need someone to round out a foursome this coming weekend. The guy who usually plays with us has back trouble and won’t be up and around for at least two weeks. The guy we usually call to sub is in L.A. for a month.
How about it? Can you help us out this weekend?” asked Harper in an expectant tone.
Bob hesitated for a moment. “Today’s Friday,” he mused out loud, “That means tomorrow.”
Before he could respond, Harper interrupted his audible thoughts.
“You sure would help me out and I never forget someone who’s there when I need them. You can help me and help yourself too, if you know what I mean,” he said emphatically.
Bob knew that the converse of Harper’s statement was equally true. Those who didn’t help Harper when he asked did himself a disfavor, of that he was sure.
“OK,” responded Bob, almost reflectively.
“Eight o’clock then. I’ll pick you up at your house. It’s twenty-seven Kensington Road, right?”
“Yes,” agreed Bob.
“Now, I want you to take the rest of the day off so you can do some of the things that you had planned for tomorrow. I don’t want you to show up with anything on your mine except good golf. I really appreciate this,” Harper concluded as they walked to the office door.
“Thanks again,” and he slapped Bob soundly on the shoulder.
Bob returned to his office still mulling over what had just transpired. He continued to think about the situation as he prepared to leave for the afternoon as Harper had suggested. He was collecting his papers neatly at the corner of his desk, when Eric appeared at the door.
“What! You’re promoted?” he asked wryly.
“Not really,” replied Bob. “Harper needs a golf partner for tomorrow and I’m it.”
“Hmm, first step to the top. Play golf with the boss, huh? I’ll get your sign made over the weekend. ‘Bob Andrews, a Vice President’,” jested Eric.
“Oh sure. Why not make it Bob Andrews, President,” Bob fired back.
“Remember one of the first rules of success is, play golf with the boss. A second rule of success with most bosses is, don’t play good golf with the boss.
What I mean is, make sure you don’t beat him. I understand he’s not what you would call a ‘good loser’,” ended Eric soberly.
“No chance of that anyway. I haven’t been on a golf course in months and the last time I was --, well, I don’t even want to go into that,” Bob replied abruptly.
Bob pulled into his driveway and pressed the garage door opener. The door slowly rose allowing a beam of sunlight through the opening. It reflected brilliantly throughout the garage. He drove the car in, clearly noticing there in the corner, barely visible amongst the clutter, Merle’s clubs with their lustrous shafts protruding from the pile.
“They’re not exactly Pings. But they’re all I got! Maybe a good spit shine and some elbow grease will get rid of the dust and grime and make them look a little better,” he thought to himself.
He stopped the car and shut off the engine. He left the car, went directly to the clubs and immediately took them to the basement for their refurbishment. He placed the bag on the floor next to the sink, took out a can of metal polish, some cleaner, a brush and a couple of soft rags.
He pulled the driver from the bag, grasped it by the grip and waggled it back and forth a little. It had strange electricity about it. Somehow, it felt different; different from any club he had ever held. It yielded an immediate presence of firmness and control. It had a feeling of confidence about it. It had a ‘just can’t miss’ sense that radiated through him. It was that sensation he had when everything was going perfectly right, when he knew he was playing his flawless best. It continuously flowed from the club as he held it. He recognized that feeling, as the same one he had that day he shot his best game ever, the eighty-one at Green Branch, four years ago.
He had that elusive sense of complete control, there in the palm of his hand. That which usually came only in brief, unpredictable spurts was now all his, that feeling of certainty and mastery he always sought. It filled him completely. He was overwhelmed by the strength of the emotion and he reveled in it.
He proceeded to remove each club from the bag. Everyone gave a similar sensation as he wrapped his hands around the grip. Carefully, he wiped and polished each. With every stroke of the cloth, he gathered increased reverence for the power the clubs seem to impart. As he worked, his imagination soared and his enthusiasm swelled.
“What if