The Perfectly Good Lie Page 4

  Buck opened the Rules of Golf booklet. “Did you read any of this yesterday?”

  Art’s head quivered. “I had a date with Gigi.”

  “Yeah, right.” Buck sighed and turned to the section on etiquette. He read aloud.

  “Prior to playing a stroke or making a practice swing, the player should ensure that no one is standing close by.” He turned to Art. “Safety first. You need to be aware of your surroundings at all times.” Buck turned the page. “This next rule is very important.”

  He read slowly. “No one should move, talk or stand close to or directly behind the ball or the hole when a player is addressing the ball or making a stroke.”

  “I can’t talk or move?”

  “Basically.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  When they arrived at the muni-course, Buck paid for two rounds, no cart. He wanted Art walking. It seemed they had the course virtually to themselves. They stood at the No. 1 tees, the pro-sized bag between them.

  “Being a caddie is not a hard job,” Buck said. “There are only a few things you need to remember.”

  “How many things?” Art asked. He had Ruthie’s old cell phone in his hand and was staring into the screen.

  “Rule number one is no electronics allowed.” Buck pressed his hand over Art’s. “Turn it off and put it away.”

  “Number two. You carry the bag.” Buck lifted the bag and dropped it closer to Art. “Never, ever let it out of your sight. Understand?”

  Art touched the bag strap tentatively.

  “Before a tournament, it’s your job to make absolutely certain there are exactly fourteen clubs in the bag.”

  Art immediately started counting the clubs.

  “When I ask for a club, you take it from the bag and hand it to me. A clean club. There shouldn’t be any grass or dirt on it.”

  “Do I use this?” Art fondled the towel clipped to the bag.

  “Yes.”

  “Who cleans the towel?” Can I do it?”

  “It’s part of your job description,” Buck said.

  Buck put on his glove and flexed his fingers.

  “Hand me the 9-iron.” He pointed to the club in the bag.

  Art tried to lift it out, but fumbled and the club fell to the ground.

  “Dude, this is the easiest part of the job.” Buck picked up the 9-iron.

  “I didn’t know it was so long,” Art said.

  “It’s the shortest one in the bag.”

  Buck swung the club at shoulder level a few times, and then took couple of practice strokes. His swing came easy. The ball flew up and landed ten yards in front of the flag.

  “Now, here’s something else you can help with.” Buck unzipped a side pouch. He pulled out a laser gun. “We use this to find the yardage. See?” Buck pointed the device at his ball on the green. He’d hit one hundred and fifty-two yards.

  Art took the gun from him. “You said I couldn’t have any electronics.”

  “We only use this in a practice round.”

  “I like this part.” Art pointed the laser at different objects, trees, a ball cleaner. “I want to hit a ball,” he said.

  “Okay, good.” Buck reached for the 8-iron. “Here, use this.”

  Art stepped to the same spot as Buck. He set a ball on a tee and then, without a practice swing, he grabbed the club in a ham-fisted grip and popped the ball up in a beautiful arc. It dropped a few feet behind the pin, closer than Buck’s ball.

  “Holy shit.” A pang of jealously stabbed Buck. Leon would have loved seeing his own son nearly ace a hole his first time out. Buck swallowed hard, pushing the envy aside as best he could.

  Art immediately dropped the club and grab the laser gun.

  “One-sixty-two.”

  “Alright, don’t get so excited.”

  Buck removed a spiral notebook from his back pocket. He opened it and flipped to a clean sheet. He quickly sketched a crude map of the hole with a pencil. Then he marked where his ball landed and wrote the yardage next to it.

  “No, it’s closer to the tree.” Art grabbed the notebook. He turned to a blank page and redrew the hole, much neater and more accurate and artistic than Buck’s attempt. Art noted on the map where both their balls landed and the yardage.

  Buck took the notebook. “Ok, let’s get the bag on you.” He held the strap as Art slipped his arm through.

  “How’s that feel?”

  “Heavy.”

  Buck adjusted the double straps. “Better?”

  Art shrugged and they walked to the green together. Buck pulled the flag. “Go ahead and hole out.”

  They both one putted. Buck showed Art how to mark the scores, the number two with a circle around it. “We each had a birdie.”

  Art lifted his head and waddled his throat. “That’s not fair. My ball went further than yours. I should have won.”

  “Every stroke counts.”

  “Counting one-hundred and sixty yards the same as two feet isn’t right,” Art said. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  “Then don’t. Carry the bag. That’s your gig now anyway.” Buck shouldn’t have been glad that Art didn’t want to play. But deep down it meant Buck kept Leon to himself. An old stupid feeling he’d thought he’d given up long ago. Leon was gone. Art was oblivious. Why couldn’t Buck let it go?

  On the next hole, Buck’s ball landed in a sand trap around the green.

  “After I hit out,” Buck said, “take this rake and smooth out the sand.”

  “Why?”

  “Courtesy for the next player.”

  “Why don’t you just stay out of the sand?” Art snickered.

  “Smart ass,” Buck said. “Which brings up another rule. When we’re in a tournament there’s no stupid bullshit like that. You are a mute, okay. A mute statue. No fidgeting.”

  “That sounds like two things.”

  “It’s one and the same, okay. And you’re going to need to wear a jock strap.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t be adjusting your junk every two seconds like you do.”

  Buck double bogeyed the second hole. He told Art to draw a box around his score, saying, “I’m down one now.”

  “Five is higher than two, so why are you down?” Golf is illogical.” Art sputtered out the last word with a spray of spit.

  By the end of the round, the notebook held detailed illustrations of each hole and where Buck’s ball landed after every stroke.

  That night, Buck sat out in the cold on the small deck. The surf was a pleasant soundtrack, repetitive and ever changing. The dark sky held stars but no moon.

  The door opened and Art stepped out. “Look what I found.”

  “What is it?”

  Art turned his phone for Buck to see the screen. “It’s a GPS golf app. Can I use it tomorrow?”

  There was a simulated perspective as though looking out at the green while on the tees. The hole layout was superimposed in the top left corner.

  Art pulled it away and started working the screen. “It lets you record your strokes and then analyzes your game. I could use this instead of your notebook.”

  “No. I need the notebook in a tournament.”

  “I could do both.” The screen illuminated Art’s face.

  “Don’t waste your time. There’s a mystery to winning that no amount of statistics can teach you. It’s in the doing, not the thinking.”

  “It’s not hurting anybody if I use it.”

  Buck shifted in the chair. “Why can’t you learn the rules instead?”

  “Haven’t you already told me all of them?”

  “Not by a long shot.” Buck turned around again, facing the sky.

  “Are we playing at the same place tomorrow?” Art asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Then you can read the rules to me again while I’m driving.”

  Art moved around in front of Buck. “We need twenty rounds to get the results. How long is that going to take?”

>   “If we hustle, we could go three rounds a day on the pitch-and-putt.”

  Art made a little hop on his toes and wandered back inside.

  Buck couldn’t complain if using the app meant Art was eager to be on the course. But, he wondered, what would happen during tournament play, when none of that shit was allowed?

  #

  After several days on the municipal course, they moved over to the championship course at the Bayview Country Club. To Buck, the thick rough and immaculate greens meant the course would challenge Art physically because the course was much longer. The atmosphere screamed money, and money meant they took their golf very seriously here. Buck wondered how Art would react if anyone went ballistic on him for not knowing the rules.

  When Buck flashed his pro card at the pro shop, the guy behind the counter grinned.

  “You won the Midvale, right?” he said. “I missed the cut.”

  Buck nodded.

  “You walking today?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  The man worked the register. “I have to charge you for the cart.”

  “I know,” Buck said.

  “We get a cart today!” Art bounced on his toes.

  Buck put his hand on Art’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “We have to pay for it, but we’re not using it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Buck glanced at the guy. “He’s in training.”

  “This course will give you a workout. It used to be the private club for Greason Oil. It’s the Raveneaux of south Houston. A firm out of Canada bought the company. The retirees purchased the club and took it semi-private.”

  “How long you been here?” Buck asked.

  “Four years,” the guy said. “I make a hell of a lot more scratch here than I’ve ever made competing.”

  Buck took a handful of tees from the open jar.

  “I try to play a couple of events a year,” the guy said, “but well, you know, shit happens.”

  “Yeah. Don’t I know that,” Buck said.

  “Oh, right.” The guy had a grin on his face. “But for the wind, who knows what would have happened?”

  Buck bristled.

  The guy handed over the receipt for the cart. “You’re starting at 9:04.”

  Buck hustled Art outside.

  “Who’s going to drive our cart?” Art asked.

  “There is no cart.” Buck slowed his pace as Art struggled with the bag.

  “Now listen. I want you to stay close to me and keep quiet. Pretend we’re in a tournament. Okay?”

  As Buck expected, they were filling in a foursome. Two guys in a cart drove around them, heading to the No. 1 tees.

  “Why do they get a cart, and not us?”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Buck said.

  “I like that other place better.”

  They arrived at the tees and the two guys sharing the cart introduced themselves. They were from Calgary and in town for a meeting. Buck judged them to be mid-forties, one scrawny, the other an out-of-shape blob.

  The third player was an older man. He shook Buck’s hand with a rigid jerk and immediately broadcasted he was the retired CFO of Greason Oil and an owner of the club.

  Buck truncated his bio to name only.

  “You walking?” the older man asked.

  “Yep.” Buck didn’t want to restart the cart debate with Art.

  The two from Calgary had high-end clubs and dressed like pros. The older guy talked on his cell phone while they waited for their starting time.

  Buck hit first because he was playing from the black tees. Art stood in the correct position and handed over the driver.

  Buck went through his setup routine and when he swung, felt the ping of a clean stroke.

  As soon as his ball was in flight, the carts jerked forward toward the next tee ground while Buck and Art followed on foot.

  The scrawny guy took honors. His first swing produced a slice that landed in a stand of pine trees. “I’m taking a provisional ball.”

  “What’s that?” Art asked quietly.

  “If you’d read the rules, you’d know,” Buck whispered.

  The blob was up next. He had a decent swing, landing forty yards behind Buck’s ball. When the retired guy’s turn came, he flat lined the ball about a hundred-twenty yards, straight into the rough. “Goddamn it.” He beat his driver on the ground and then stomped to his cart.

  Art moved closer to Buck. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

  “Yes. Exactly the kind of shit you can’t do in a tournament.”

  “Why did he get mad?”

  “Because he can’t control his emotions,” Buck said. “He’s a lousy golfer and everything he does only makes his game worse.”

  As the older man drove off, he picked up his phone again and put it to his ear.

  At the turnaround the Calgary team ordered vodka tonics, and before long they were shouting out “snowman” on just about every hole.

  “What’s a snowman?”

  Buck turned to Art. “It means he’s taking eight strokes on the hole.”

  “But he swung more than that.”

  “Ignore them. They have money but no game.”

  Truth be told, Buck wouldn’t mind having their money even if he did think they were posers. One day soon he hoped to be as rich, or richer than any of these guys. For a moment, he fantasized about living in one of the mansions lining the course. Pictured himself roaming through endless rooms and filling the garage with sports cars and everything else money could buy. He let himself feel part of it, believing he could have all this, if he just stuck to his plan.

  Golf was so much more than using a long stick to slap a small dimpled ball across pampered lawns mowed to perfection. Golf was the great equalizer, a true meritocracy where talent, skill, and tenacity counted for everything. Luck was always lurking in the shadows, but the playing field wasn’t tilted in favor of the old guard. There were legacy players sure. Yet like any sport, there was a relentless search for the new talent moving up the money list.

  Buck wanted to be the hot new talent not only for the money, but to validate that he was in control of his destiny.

  On the fifteenth hole, the retired man couldn’t hit out of the sand to save his pension. After three strokes the F-bombs started dropping and he climbed out of the bunker, cussing up a storm. He slammed his sand wedge into his bag, hopped into the cart, and peeled off. They watched him drive past the sixteenth hole.

  “Where’s he going?” Art asked.

  “Couldn’t handle it, I guess.”

  Art looked puzzled. Buck chuckled.

  “I didn’t plan this, but today has been a brilliant lesson in what not to do. Don’t fudge your score. Don’t lose your temper. Keep your head in the game and your mouth shut. Put away the phone and lay off the booze. See what happens if you don’t?”

  Art nodded.

  Buck finished at one under par for the round.

  They settled into a daily regimen: time at the driving range before a morning round on the championship course, a break for lunch, an afternoon round or two on the municipal course if the weather cooperated. Most days ended on the beach with Buck pitching whiffle balls into the waves with a sand wedge. Each day, Buck took to slicing and hooking further afield, forcing Art to race to retrieve the balls as they floated in.

  Those evenings, with the constancy of the waves, whether a soft foam lapping on the sand or an angry roar raging against the sandbars, filled Buck with confidence. In the dimming light of dusk, the view ahead was clear and bright. Buck would find his footing on the tour, giving him the money and the freedom to take care of Art.

  After a couple of weeks, Buck and Art had turned into an old married couple with little to say to each other, moving in a familiar, comfortable pattern. It was dull and lonely, yet Art was finding his footing as a caddie. Their routine didn’t vary, other than Christmas day, when they holed up at the movies for the afternoon.

  By ea
rly January, Art could make it through a round without getting tired or whiny, and had stopped questioning every little thing.

  As they left the beach one evening, Art asked, “How much money have I made?”

  “What do you mean?

  “You said I have a job. How much money are you going to pay me?”

  “Considering I’m covering all your living expenses, I’m not giving you anything, yet.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Look,” Buck said, stopping for a moment. “The truth is there’s no money to give you.”

  Art stood with a pout on his lips.

  “How about this,” Buck said. “The weather’s supposed to be rainy the next few days. Let’s take a trip to Austin. I’ll take you to the best chick magnet in town.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You want to meet some real girls, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Art smiled.

  “Then I’ll take you line dancing.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Shit, I got to teach you everything, don’t I?”

  Dogleg Left

  “Where’s that app?” Buck asked when they were on the highway to Austin. Art was behind the wheel and he pointed at the tablet charging in the center console.

  The kid had been religious about entering the data, so out of curiosity, Buck clicked on the Analytics tab. More than forty rounds were in the history. He breezed through the graphs and focused on the stats on each club. Yardage was consistent, but he was drifting to the left with his short irons. There weren’t any grand insights, only confirmation of what he already knew.

  They stopped at the post office for Buck’s mail. Three months worth of junk mail and a notice to pick up a package at the counter.

  It was a box from Big Tex Tires. Inside were eight polo shirts and several baseball caps with the Big Tex Tires logo, and an envelope containing a check for a thousand dollars.

  Buck was certain Keith had agreed to five hundred a round for the tournament. It should have been a check for two grand. He sat behind the wheel and fumed while Art paid no attention, head buried in another game.

  Had Keith just forgotten, or was he trying to chisel Buck? Then it came to him, Keith was hedging his bets. The rest of the money would come when Buck made the cut. Right then, he decided if a better offer came along, he’d take it. He’d put off the distraction of signing with an agent long enough.