Behind the #$%*& Green

By Scott Simpson

Have you ever wanted to work at a golf course or be in the golf business? This rollicking, ribald account is one insider's view. Thrice divorced, fictional Steve Hunter's comedic portrayal of the inevitable collision between career responsibilities and common domestic expectations calls to question the worthiness of golfers, his children and the opposite sex as he strives to cope with all of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Simpson
• Release date: Sep 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452483801

Scott Simpson

A degree-holder in Science and the author of this book, Scott Simpson, has spent much of his time researching the Shroud of Turin and the fantastic world of subatomic particles. He’s also well versed in history and the political fields that go with it.Associates of Applied Science, BS in Information Technology. Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society. The Dean's list.Separate education: The Studies of ancient civilization, History, Humanity, Government, and Biblical Studies.

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BEHIND THE #$%*& GREEN

Scott Simpson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2003, Revised 2010 Scott Simpson

To my wife, Majella,

who always believed,

and now doesn’t, quite.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The ability to laugh at ourselves and the things we do in life is a gift we give one another. In wrapping this present, I had a lot help. Numerous golf industry personalities and officials read early drafts and provided encouragement, both in what they advised as well as what they left unsaid. I thank them profusely.

The legal profession, which I skewer throughout the work, had considerable representation and input in the creation of the manuscript. Dating back to Shakespeare, I doubt if there is any truly original joke or insult left about lawyers. These characterizations have been revised and repeated so often both within and outside the legal fraternity, that providing proper credit to the genuine originator is thought to be impossible. Recognition and gratitude are nonetheless extended to this legion of unknown contributors.

A number of literary types who shall remain nameless in an effort to protect their reputations were also consulted. I thank them for their equal doses of encouragement and reality therapy.

But most of all, I thank the thousands of individuals who toil in relative obscurity for the development, presentation and promotion of this wonderful game we call golf. Their loved ones also make significant sacrifices. Melissa, Kyle, Jeffrey and Kaitlin understand this as well as anyone…and their father knows it, too.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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PROLOGUE

The plan for that Saturday several months ago was for me to try to put a dent in the long honey-do list that had not managed to grow shorter all by itself. The forecast of rain and sleet was betrayed by a warm, glorious Colorado morning without a cloud in the sky. As I opened the bedroom blinds to a cascade of sunshine, I tried to ignore the soft whisper of my golf clubs gently calling my name from their imprisonment in the basement.

Emerging from my shower, their pleas became louder and more insistent. My other three regular partners in crime who rounded out our weekly foursome had already been advised of my intended absence. They had carefully selected a replacement known to carry a hefty handicap and an even fatter wallet. He was also a fair weather stick. With the anticipated inclement conditions, the ambush had been carefully set with his promise that a no-show would result in the automatic forfeiture of his wager. My three buddies would be the only golfers heading to the tee box that morning lamenting the sunshine. Looking at my list of scheduled indoor chores for the day, I knew I would be, too.

But my golf clubs continued to beckon to me. The new virgin driver literally begged to be brought into battle. I was powerless to resist their unyielding, relentless call to arms. The sweatshirt and shorts that was to be my maintenance uniform for the day sat undisturbed in the drawer as I slipped on my favorite golf shirt and a pair of khakis. I tiptoed down the stairs.

Promises made to repair or replace the sundry list of items around the house could wait until tomorrow. They had waited this long. What was just one more day? My wife would understand. After all, she could have arisen with me to provide motivation and assistance. Instead, she pulled the covers up over her head to garner a few more precious moments of sleep. Now I just had to hope that the screeching of the garage door I was slated to lubricate would be interpreted as repairs underway, rather than betraying my stealthy but unpremeditated escape.

Arriving at the golf course my company manages, I instructed a loyal assistant golf pro to assure my wife when she called that a forgotten business commitment had been remembered in the nick of time. She was sure to call when she awoke and found both me and my golf clubs absent without leave and my cell phone fortuitously left at home.

With a wink and a smile, he placed me with a threesome that was about to tee off. The group consisted of an elderly man, his adult son and the son's wife. The two men were accomplished golfers, as evidenced by their fluid swings and booming drives. The wife wasn't much of a stick, but made up for it with an outstanding figure and thoroughly engaging personality. She played poorly and tried unsuccessfully to keep up. But she looked good in the effort.

Other than my first name, I didn't tell them who I was or about my role in the operation of the course. This proved wise as the old man bitched constantly about course conditions. The rough was too long, the fairways too wet. The greens were too fast or not fast enough. He felt that the design was poor. His son, though playing well, complained after each shot that he always played better than this. It's amazing how often I hear that. His pretty wife struggled, apparently satisfied with the admiring looks she received from me and others out on the adjoining holes.

On the fifth hole, a dogleg right, the men and I hit solid tee shots that cut the corner and landed on the right side of the fairway, leaving our position on the hole blind to the group playing behind us. The sweet little wife took four cracks at the ball, hitting worm burners each time as we waited patiently for her. Her cranky father-in-law addressed his ball after his son and I had hit our second shots out of turn onto the green while he moaned about his ball being in a divot and about his daughter-in-law slowing up play.

At that moment a drive from someone in the group behind us landed twenty yards back of him and rolled up right next to his ball. Without a word he stepped over the two balls, reversed his position and hit the trespassing ball back in the direction of the tee box from which it came. I was horrified.

Noting my shocked expression, the old man assured me that given the number of players new to the game, it was high time someone showed them what was what. I jumped into my golf cart to race back to the tee box to assure myself no one had been hurt and I received apologies from the innocently offending foursome. I provided them with a simple explanation of my playing companion's poor choice of responses to the misinterpreted transgression (he was an idiot). With the promise it would not be repeated, I then returned to the three family members, now all on the green putting out.

I explained to them who I was and why that sort of behavior was never acceptable under any circumstance. I spent the balance of the next eleven holes listening to the old man complain about everything he found wrong with golf and the golf industry and how easily all of it could be corrected if someone in a position of authority simply cared enough to address his issues of concern. He didn't have a clue about what he was saying. The entire time his son cajoled me to give him a job because he loved golf and wanted to do something fun. The son's wife wanted an introduction to the assistant golf pro so that they might work out an arrangement that would provide for her to score. I don't believe she was talking just about golf.

On the seventeenth hole, a par three with an elevated tee box and a green well framed by native grasses and scrub oak, the adorable little Mrs. hustled to the forward tee box to tee off. Since the fifth hole where the returning volley had been utilized, she had been making a more concerted effort to not lag behind. In her haste, she failed to see the group in front of us groping around in the scrub oak searching for what apparently had been four errant tee shots. She hit her best shot of the day, a high, lazy floater that leaked a little right, landing just ten feet off the green and about one foot from the head of the teenaged male golfer who had just emerged from the dense brush with his ball and what looked to be a seven iron in hand.

Without a moment's hesitation he pocketed his own ball, took a wild swing at hers and hit a low screamer in her direction as his playing partners all roared in approval. The shot hit her bag, knocking it over. This was witnessed by one of our course marshals. His intervention helped me stop what might have been a full scale exchange of golf shots not intended for entry on anyone's score card.

Back in the clubhouse thirty minutes and a few gray hairs later, I related the incidents to our head golf professional, golf course superintendent and the food and beverage manager.

"Maybe someone should write a light-hearted book about the golf business, the pro said. Not that it's bad, but there's a humorous side untold. Go to the bookstore. The shelves are bare on the topic. There are a hundred books on golf, but nothing from that unique perspective."

It should be enlightening as well as funny, said the food and beverage manager. There are a lot of people new to the game and the old timers don't always have an understanding of what we have to deal with, either.

I think the author would want to provide a little insight into our private lives, about how our personal relationships are often affected, agreed the superintendent.

"It could be called, So You Think You Want to be in the Golf Business or something like that?" mused the pro, eyeing me.

I don't know, I said, thinking out loud. "I think Behind the #$%*& Green might be a better title. It would offer some genuine insight into the many misperceptions about the life, the turf and the money while questioning much of the envy others often show towards those of us in golf course operations. It wouldn't generate any sympathy, not that we would want or expect any. But a comical, over-the-top sort of approach written through the jaundiced eyes of a sufficiently flawed character might be an entertaining read."

They looked at me triumphantly. The challenge had been made and accepted.

Game on.

CHAPTER ONE

Why more people don't play golf, or at least make the effort to introduce themselves to the game, is a mystery to most folks in the industry. Not to me. That's not because I'm more knowledgeable or understanding of the game or of people. I doubt if there is a shortage of folks who will line up for an opportunity to profess the contrary.

Yet I believe the answer is fairly obvious. Across the free world most youngsters get their first exposure to hitting a golf ball, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, before they reach the age of puberty. Whether participating in a family activity or as an honored guest at a friend's birthday party organized by an experienced mother who doesn't desire to spend the balance of the next day scrubbing Kool Aid out of the living room carpet, these golfers of tomorrow engage in an activity that will forever emotionally scar them.

The masochists in the bunch grow into the individuals that comprise the golf industry's primary demographic. The rest mature into adults and parents who likely repeat participation in the activity with their own children out of spite and vindictiveness. Maybe a few are forgetful. Perhaps some are incorrigible optimists. Yet absolutely nothing tests an adult's patience more: Miniature golf.

In the Hunter household this activity is known as the setting, the battleground actually, for our own version of the Hunter family feud. If everyone was getting along, THAT stops here.

The hostilities generally begin quite innocently. Rays of warm, Colorado sunshine chasing wispy clouds across an azure blue sky suggest an outdoor activity as an inviting family outing.

Or it might be the incessant bells, whistles, sirens and explosions emanating from two different television sets that make my home sound like a casino. The accompanying video games are often engaged in by my son and daughter as they kill time waiting for their return to their mother's house and their neighborhood cronies.

It may be fatherly guilt, accentuated by my part-time status in this capacity that robs me of my senses. Whatever the reason, I found myself pleading the following refrain:

It's so nice outside. I don't get to see you two very often. Let's all do something together. What would you both like to do?

Ian, forever the opportunist, struck first.

Let's go fishing. This is a throwaway and he knows it. Successful fishing expeditions are well-coordinated, planned adventures that require our departure before dawn. In our family they are almost exclusively male bonding experiences that create an excuse for Briann, his sister a little over a year his junior, to go shopping for the day with her mother.

Let's go to the mall, she countered. She knows her brother and I would rather go to the dentist. We both gave her our best don't be ridiculous looks. She shrugged in surrender.

Their eyes both narrowed as they studied the other's face, each searching for an acceptable compromise. Simultaneously a sinister pall is cast over their expressions as they mutually arrived at the same conclusion. My stomach sank and my palms began to sweat.

I know what's coming. The faint beat of war drums is heard in the distant chambers of my otherwise empty mind. Why did I ever pose the question?

Miniature golf! they both exclaimed, the competitive juices in full flow.

I don't know, I responded meekly. Remember what happened the last time and the time before that? And the ten times before that? You two never speak to each other for days after these 'carpet wars' and your mother usually gives me the same treatment out of general principle.

C'mon, Dad. It'll be different this time, we promise. I've heard this before. It is simply the prelude to battle, the call to arms, not unlike the opening bugle calling the horses to the gate before the Kentucky Derby.

As long as you remember it makes no difference who wins....

Briann was already in full flight down the stairs toward the basement where my golf bag held her version of King Arthur's sword. Ian was wide-eyed, trembling in genuine resentment.

I get to use Daddy's putter. She presented this as a statement of fact, although the volume she employed betrayed her.

Dad, that's not fair! That putter is too big for her anyway. Ian yelled, now in hot pursuit.

I cradled my head in my hands, rubbing my forehead.

Dad says I can use his putter, I hear him tell her. I guess my failing to respond to his assertion about it being too big for his sister has been interpreted as agreement. How that got extended to his being given permission to use it is anybody's guess. Briann emerged from the basement empty handed, already in tears. Ian was triumphant behind her, waving Excaliber merrily.

Victory was his.

No one is using my putter. I said firmly. We're not even in the car yet and there is already a problem. This isn't quite the start I had hoped for.

Ian wasn't ready to give up easily. That's not fair. Just because it's too big for her shouldn't mean I can't get to use it.

That's not the point, Ian, I offered diplomatically. I'm in the golf business. I wouldn't want anyone to see me going into a miniature golf establishment bringing my putter.

This wasn't far from the truth.

Whether it was you or Briann carrying it, I just wouldn't feel right about it. Besides, whichever one of you used it, you wouldn't feel like you had won fairly if you did win, would you? We'll each use the balls and putters they provide. Then no one has an advantage. Besides, it makes no difference who wins.

In unison they both asked, Then why do we keep score? Just that quickly, I had been transformed from mediator to opponent. Somehow I was reminded of their mother. I ignored this troubling revelation.

Go put the putter back, Ian. Let's head to the car.

I went into the kitchen to get a couple of Excedrin as a preemptive strike against the headache I felt coming on. I also put two more in my pocket. As I checked to make sure the front door was locked, I heard shouting coming from the garage.

Now in full battle mode, the two of them were having a heated discussion about who was going to get to ride in the front seat. We use the alternative system as a family rule. Each gets an equal turn riding shotgun. For two kids who never forget every screw up I've ever made whether it involved them or not, it never ceases to amaze me how often one or both of them can't recall who last sat in the front seat. Worse, more often than not I can't remember either, rendering me completely ineffective as an intermediary.

On these instances I will resort to that bastion of parental involvement and decision making, the coin flip. At face value this would appear to be a wholly unbiased, completely equitable resolution. It isn't. The coin flip will simply provoke an argument over who will make the call. This will be resolved by the odd or even finger flash. A brief negotiation will then be held over who gets odds or evens. But even this doesn't matter, really. Briann has the uncanny ability to win on the coin flip no matter who makes the call.

She's hitting about 95 percent over one thousand coin flips. My own son even accused me once of introducing a two-headed coin and I didn't even feel insulted over the allegation. I couldn't blame him. I've thought about producing a deck of cards to be cut but figured the boy's luck at the coin flip had to start going the other way, given the odds. It never has. I know one thing. I can't wait for my daughter to get old enough to accompany me to Las Vegas.

I pulled a quarter out of my pocket to resolve the issue of who was riding shotgun.

Upon seeing it, Ian's shoulders slumped. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

Never mind, he said dejectedly, I'll ride in the back seat.

Backing out of the garage into the driveway, I hesitated briefly. There are two miniature golf courses equidistant to my house but in opposite directions. Now each of the kids had their game faces on and with fatherly intuition, I knew this was another opportunity for the clash to continue. Both of them correctly interpreted my hesitation.

We're going to Big Al's Putting Fantasia, Briann announced matter-of-factly. She may have honestly felt that riding shotgun also made her designated navigator. Regrettably for her, that attitude reminded me too much of her mother.

That place sucks, said Ian, right on cue. I want to go Family Funland. They have batting cages and everything.

This selection left me disappointed. I preferred Big Al's, but my son needed a win, even if no one was going to be taking batting practice. I took solace in the fact that mini-mom's pretentious attitude needed a little toning down.

Ian graciously gave up the front seat to you, Briann. I'm going to allow him to decide which course we'll play.

Why don't we flip, she responded. That would be the fairest way to decide.

No, it wouldn't, Ian and I said in perfect harmony. Our eyes met in the rear view mirror. He could tell by my look that he had closed the deal and properly determined it was time to clam up.

No, I said, looking gently in Briann's direction. The fairest way is to let Ian decide, since you got to ride up front.

She remained unconvinced. Stop the car then. I'll let him ride in front if I can decide where we're going.

My disparaging look and the fact that the car was not going in her desired direction quieted her down. The peace was momentary.

"Family