The Putter: Not A Sports Story

By Charles Pumphrey

An innocent utilitarian object becomes the instrument of evil when it becomes inhabited by evil. The object of evil passes through the hands of those who obtained it, influencing their actions and minds. The instrument draws upon the nature of those in its possession, amplifying that individual's nature to do evil. Those in possession seem to feel its influence in differing ways. The story is told by the last person to possess the object, having reoccurring dreams of the history behind th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642144079

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The Putter

Charles Pumphrey

Copyright © 2018 Charles Pumphrey

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64214-406-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64214-407-9 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

It all started when a neighbor I had grown acquainted with stopped me as I was returning from the Nugget Casino in Dayton, Nevada. The Nugget had become a regular social hangout, a sort of social stop almost daily, where I would visit to say hello to the regulars and put a few bills into the slots, hoping to at least break even. At the casino, while enjoying a cold Corona on a hot day, a cold day, a windy day, or any day.

Pulling the car, a black 2005 GMC Yukon, over to the curb as he had beckoned from his front yard and at which curiosity and common courtesy compelled, he immediately went into his garage and returned with something in his hand that I recognized as a golf club putter. Days before, we had a conversation in that very garage about how I had been occasionally been playing golf at the Dayton Valley Golf Course and how much I enjoyed the wildlife around the course.

The neighbor had remarked, My father, as you know, has passed away, and he had collected three vintage putters. He proceeded to show the putters that were neatly stowed away in a golf bag, presuming these to be his golf club bag for they had several newer clubs within. Not being able to help myself, I remarked that there was one in the group that I would enjoy having. My clubs were modern clubs, but the one I had my eye on would be a good addition to my bag.

Well, he had said previously, I think I might keep these. They did belong to my father.

When he emerged from his garage with the very club I had drooled over, I was stunned. He extended the putter, and I took it, saying, But this was your father’s.

He replied, I know, but I want you to have it. You are my friend.

We shook hands at that moment, and I felt honored.

Taking the putter and thanking him, I went into my Yukon and drove the half block, made the U-turn on the cul-de-sac, and parked my car. Then I opened the rear door and put the putter into the golf bag located in the back of the Yukon. I then entered my garage, which I had opened with the remote control located on the auto control mechanism in the middle of the console, dead center in the middle of the inside roof between the passenger’s side and the driver’s side.

I reflected on the significance of this incident. The neighbor I had come to know was a man of character. A person of pride and one who was honest and trustworthy, he was also kindhearted and loved animals and nature. Medium in structure, strong of build, slightly graying hair, he wore thin-rimed eyeglasses and had gray eyes. His hands were strong, and when he gave a handshake, you felt the strength. You could find him working on his home’s yard, Nevada-style decomposed granite with shrubs and dry rock creek, water conservation conscience. He would be wearing sweat pants, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes.

The Nabor’s wife, an attractive blond-haired person with a shapely figure and a sweet disposition, an animal lover who always had time to stop and give my dog a bit of love as we walked along the street heading toward the open field that was a short distance from our home. Lady Bug, the Staffordshire terrier, adored her and whined to stop and receive the attention she got every time. They had several dogs themselves, most acquired from past relations, and when they walked the brood, it was fun to see the two hoofing it down the road with their menagerie on the leashes trotting along obediently.

Lady Bug was medium-sized, stocky, and a very muscular dog, with similar appearance to the much-larger American Staffordshire terrier, an American pit bull terrier. The coat was smooth and clung tightly to the body, giving her a streamlined appearance. She was a brindle with a white freckled nose and white blaze chest.

She had a broad, wedge-shaped head, defined occipital muscles, a relatively short foreface, dark round eyes, and wide mouth with a clean scissor-like bite (the top incisors slightly overlap the bottom incisors). The ears were small. The cheek muscles were pronounced. The lips showed no looseness. The teeth formed scissors bite. The head tapered down to a strong, well-muscled neck and shoulders placed on squarely spaced forelimbs. They were tucked up in their loins, and the last one to two ribs of the rib cage were usually visible. The tail resembled an old-fashioned pump handle. The hindquarters are well muscled.

Lady Bug walked me twice a day whether I needed it or not. The routine went something like this. She allowed us to sleep in her king-size bed, sleeping in the middle head-on, with whichever pillow suited her at the time. She awakened with a whine indicating I gotta pee, so I obligatorily get up and open the door and let her out, from which she raced to the grass, squatted, relived herself, and returned, so I opened the door and let her back in. She then went directly to the couch, jumped up on the middle onto her waiting blanket, and assumed the resting position prior to receiving her breakfast snack.

After making the coffee, sitting down next to her highness Lady Bug, I started to enjoy a cup of the freshly brewed java. About this time, the wife, Monique, with sleepy eyes joined us, poured herself a cup, adding cream and sugar to hers, and put it in the microwave to heat it up after adding the cold cream. This apparently was the cue for Lady Bug to start thumping my leg with her paw, indicating I need to be walked. Putting down the only half-consumed cup, I got up, put on a pair of sweats and a baseball cap with Vietnam Vet on it, grabbed her leash, and out the door we went.

I know. I know what you are saying. It goes something like this, Are you nuts? Well yeah, I guess I am. But you have to understand, I know if she were vegetables, she would be in the Dumpster. Spoiled rotten, sure enough, but she is the most wonderful thing on four paws, and we love her too much.

Anyway getting back to the story. After receiving the putter from the friend, I thought it might be fun to do some investigating. Upon first examination, I found this on the inner face: Karmman Mfg Corp, Peoria, Illinois, 85QDC88 Pat, Pend, and stamped on the outer edge, AL 5. The company (DBA FING) designed and produced customized FING golf clubs. Karmman also supplied golf bags, gloves, headwear, and related gear. It provided club-fitting services, systems, and training at golf courses and pro shops across the United States, as well as an online fitting program. Those who swung with FING included international professionals. The company was founded in 1949 after Karmman Johanson designed a revolutionary putter in his garage. His youngest son, Peter, led the family-owned firm.

So after looking into FING, I decided to try the putter on the course.

Chapter 2

Of Course

My buddy Brad Hooton was a great guy and a good golfer. He usually played Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays with three other golfers from the Dayton Valley Golf Club. Occasionally one or more of the foursome would take off on vacation or become ill or whatever and would be unavailable. Brad would give a call, and I would fill in. I was a hack, but they put up with me and Dan. One of the foursome was good at giving me tips and coaches me to some level of shamelessness. Gary was patient, and that was about as far as it went.

So on this particular first outing with my newly acquired FING 5 putter, I was playing my usual to driver off the tee, hitting off the shank, and doing everything wrong, but when I was on the green and putting, I noticed something extraordinary. I was making puts. Not only two and three footers, six, eight, ten, and twelve footers were falling dead center. Dan, a very good golfer, remarked, Wow, Chuck, you got the eye today.

After eighteen holes, and breaking a hundred for the first time ever due to the putting alone, we returned to the clubhouse and parked the golf cart behind the Yukon, opening the back hatch and putting the golf bag into the rear of my vehicle. That was when I noticed that I had been experiencing a tingling in my right hand. Up until that time, it had gone unnoticed for it was only a slight sensation. Reentering the golf cart and returning it to the cart return area, going into the nineteenth hole, sitting down next to Brad ordering a MGD, that was when I noticed the tingling had stopped.

Brad was one of the best things to happen in a long time. I met him at the Dayton Valley Golf Course and took an immediate liking to him. Brad was eight years my senior, but if we were standing next to each other, it would be difficult to tell who was older. He was approximately my height at around six feet and weighs around 220 pounds. Gray hair and keenly sharp eyes, the color escapes me now, but I will say blue for that was what my instinct told me. Normally my end stinks butt didn’t tell of anything.

Brad seemed willing to listen to the stupid jokes and smiled or laughed even though they might be completely dumb. He put up with the chasing of golf balls in the most God-awful places and waited patiently while I shyly kicked it into a hittable position. Who could ask for more in a friend?

Chuck, what got into you today? You made every putt no matter how far or what the break. You were amazing.

Hell, I don’t have a clue. Guess it was the Visine or something, but I’m going to have the same thing for breakfast from now on.

Man, there are guys on the PGA who would have liked to have made some of those putts, buddy.

You know what they say, Brad, a blind squirrel can find some nuts once in a while.

I could buy that one, Chuck, but this blind squirrel found the nuts eighteen out of eighteen times and, brother, that is a bit eerie if you ask me.

You can say that one again, Brad.

Okay, I could buy that . . .

Ah, cut it out, Brad.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, just pulling your chain, Chuck.

Want another MGD, Brad?

Naw, I’m gonna finish drinking at home with the wife.

Moreover, on that note, Brad slid off the bar, stood, and headed out the double door toward home. Brad lived on the golf course. Dayton Valley Golf Club was an Arnold Palmer Signature design that had been a PGA Tour Qualifier course since 1995, making it the longest-standing site in the country and very challenging.

The course was surrounded by the Sierra Nevada Mountains and stretched across the valley below. The rolling, links-style layout featured sculpted fairways and large, undulating greens. You may find yourself faced with a tough lie even after a good shot. It was a challenging test with plenty of water and strategically placed bunkers coming into play throughout. Careful shot placement was especially important on the water holes at Dayton Valley GC. The most difficult hole on the golf course was the par-4 ninth. It was a lengthy dogleg left with water down along the entire left side of the fairway and short and right of the green. On your approach, hitting left of the green, you will find heavy rough or pot bunkers.

As I sat in the bar, looking out directly at the eighteenth or ninth hole, depending which side you were playing, I was struck by the beauty of the sun shimmering on the water. The beautiful green, leading up to the lush gorgeous fairway and perfect green with its flag blowing slightly east in the light wind, flapping gently in the breeze. During play, I witnessed the geese upon the water pelicans swooping down and landing, mallards and ducks, birds of many verities roosting in the various trees surrounding the fairways. This, more than the game, was why I came here, not for the competition, not to lower my score, but for the beauty and the serenity.

Tearing myself away from the beauty, I paid my tab and found my awaiting chariot. Clicking the magic clicker, I heard the resounding chirp indicating the door to my ride had magically unlocked itself and was ready for its driver to enter to continue operational status.

Maybe one too many MGDs, I entered my vehicle and placed my keys into the ignition of my trusty steed when I noticed a strong tingling in both hands. Placing the drive lever into R, I backed out of the handicapped parking spot, shifted into D, and proceeded out of the Dayton Valley Golf Club parking area down past the wrought iron entrance gate onto the main street. I negotiated the neighborhood Stop signs and passed one of the favorite watering holes, the First and Ten, a sports-type bar featuring large screen TVs and server in tight shorts and halter tops.

Next came a right turn onto Highway 50. Speed limit through Dayton at this point was thirty-five miles per hour. Driving along at this snail pace, you noticed things like the sign indicating this was the place of the original first gold strike in Nevada. Old Town Nevada was interesting, just straight ahead, if I had not made the right turn at the corner with its many original historic buildings. I passed the Gold Ranch Casino on my left advertising many new slots on its brightly lit billboard and boasting of the winners having won various sums. Continuing down the road, the speed limit now increased to a blazing forty-five miles per hour.

On my left, a Taco Bell came into view and the Pioneer Casino, the shopping center featuring a nail salon, beauty-barbershop combo, Starbucks, 99 Cent Store, Smith Food King, Wells Fargo, Pizza Hut, Burger King, and various small independent businesses.

So you see, not too rural. Now we moved along, increasing to fifty-five and finally to sixty miles per hour for about five miles, and I made a right turn into my neighborhood, negotiated a few short turns, and arrived at my final destination, home. I shifted into P, locked the chariot, and entered the domicile through the garage. Honey, I’m home. The strange tingling in the hands had subsided.

The evening progressed as most nights progressed, with little to no noticeable events of significance. We had a simple dinner, a salad consisting of lattice tomatoes, avocados, cauliflower, black olives in a vinegar-and-oil dressing. Next came a little television Fox News with O’Reilly and Dancing with the Stars, which we had recorded from an earlier broadcast. Of course, there were discussions about the 2016 presidential race and the candidates. Followed by the dance contestants discussions as to favorites and who we thought would end up with the mirror ball.

Lady Bug decided it was okay for us to go the bed after we were allowed to let her out to relieve herself. So we trotted off to prepare ourselves for a night of blissful rest in Lady Bug’s king-size bed. You know the drill, right, wash, brush, etcetera, etcetera?

Now I lay me down to sleep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And that was when it started!

Hello, I’m looking to buy a putter.

Well, sir, you have come to the right place. We have many to choose from. Do you have anything specific in mind? We can custom make a putter, or we have off-the-rack models available.

Yes, I do have something specific in mind. I’m hearing good things about a Karmman putter called the FING AL 5, do you carry that brand and model?

Yes, mister—ah, I did not get your name.

My Name is Christ Powers.

Pleased to meet you, Mr. Powers. Right this way, please. My name is James Johnson.

Mr. Powers made note of Mr. Johnson’s unusual stature. He was slight in body build, almost emaciated. His clothes were hanging loosely upon his frame. Suspenders were holding up his trousers and obviously preventing them from simply slipping off down his slight frame. Mr. Johnson was wearing a black belt around the waist of the gray pleated pants. The belt had a simple silver buckle. Seemly ridiculous as the belt served no purpose other than to fill the belt loops. The trousers were cuffed on the bottom, slightly covering the top of Mr. Johnson’s black oxford shoes, which appeared a full size too large. The blue shirt with white buttons was buttoned to the top, but there was no necktie to adorn the neck and large Adam’s apple. Johnson’s hair was coal black, slicked back with pomade. Eyes were jet-black, appearing to have no irises.

Following Mr. Johnson to the far left corner of the store, Christ Powers noticed a Karmman FING AL 5 putter mounted to a display wall. The putter mounted horizontally had a display light shining directly down on it, giving the instrument a magical glowing appearance.

Here it is, Mr. Powers. We have only just received this a few days ago. It’s the latest model, and we are quite proud to have this to offer in our establishment.

So I see. You certainly have taken pride in its display, Mr. Johnson.

Yes, Mr. Powers, quite so, quite so. Proper merchandising is half the battle, or so they say.

Mr. Powers reached for the putter, turned to Mr. Johnson. May I?

Why, yes, of course, Mr. Powers, by all means please do.

Powers took the FING AL 5 down off the display and held it by the grip. The putter itself was exactly thirty-six inches in length. The putter face was a surprising five and three quarters long. Two and three quarters to a center line for putt alignment. The grip was black, flat on front and both sides, but rounded on the rear. There was a figure of a horse on the front and the words FING in white relief.

Mr. Powers took several practice strokes with the putter, and suddenly he felt a strong commitment to purchase this putter, an overwhelming compulsion, a driving force to possess it by any means possible. Trying to contain himself and his desire was difficult, but he returned the putter to the rack. Mr. Johnson, can you show me something else in a new line, please?

Yes, of course, Mr. Powers, right this way.

As Mr. Powers moved away from the FING 5, he got a sharp pain running down his left arm and a shortness of breath.

Powers said to himself, I do not want to seem overly anxious to possess the FING. They will drive up the price, and I will not be able to afford it. The nagging pain in his chest was still with him.

Here we are, Mr. Powers, these are the newest in non-FING putters we have to offer.

Mr. Powers went through the motion of trying several before he returned to the FING 5. Immediately the tightness in his chest subsided.

Well, I don’t know, Mr. Johnson, they are close matches, but the FING does fell pretty good. How much gravy are we talking about here?

Mr. Powers, we are offering a special discount on this, our first model 5. Today it’s only $275.

What, $275! I don’t want to buy your store, I just want this putter. Are you nuts?

Well, sir, that’s 25 percent off the suggested retail.

Oh my god, is this thing made of gold or what?

Mr. Powers, this is the finest golf putter ever made, designed by the manufacturer Mr. Karmman himself to give the ultimate putting results, there is no finer instrument on the market today.

Powers was about to walk out of the store when that feeling came over him, the feeling that he absolutely must have this putter at any price. There was no way in hell he could afford to pay $275 for a putter. Looking out the front of the store window, he saw it was quite late, dark, and there was no activity on the street. Johnson’s back was turned when Powers reached into a nearby bag, pulled out a seven iron, and struck Johnson squarely on the back of his head, cleanly opening his skull. Johnson fell face-forward with his brains spilling out onto the floor in front of him. Powers wiped the seven iron with his handkerchief and placed it back into the golf bag blade down.

Taking the putter, he walked to the front door of the shop, stopped to look at both directions. Seeing no one, he exited the shop, got into his car, and drove off.

Good morning, honey, sleep well?

What?

I said, good morning, honey, did you sleep well?

Wow, I had the craziest dream. It was so friggin’ real, almost like a story about a real person’s history or something.

Really, dear, probably the cauliflower giving you gas. It does that to me sometimes. Was it scary, Chuck?

Was what scary, Monique?

Your dream, silly.

Oh, that, it wasn’t bad, Monique, up until the guy bashed in the other guy’s brains with a seven iron, then it got a little testy.

Sounds more than a bit testy to me, Chuck. I had better cut back on spicy stuff for a while, buster.

Got any plans for today, Monique?

The girls and I are going shopping in Reno. I am going to look for some curtains for the guest room. The sun comes up on that side, and our guests will not be able to sleep in, so we will not be able to either if I do not fix the problem.

In that case, I am going to see if Brad has room for one more at the golf course today.

Okay, honey, have fun, and don’t spend too much time in the nineteenth hole. We don’t need any 502s now, do we?

Hey, Brad, is there an opening for me to play with you guys today?

Chuck, must be extra sensory pee pee. I was just about to give you a tinkle. We do have an opening today. How about picking me up around eleven thirty and we can go hit a few practice balls at the range before tee off at twelve? Brad lived right on the course, so it was easy to stop by, grab him and his golf bag so his wife would have their car.

Ya got it, pal, see ya around eleven thirty. I hung up my cell and went to check my golf bag to make sure I had plenty of golf balls; after all, I would more than likely be putting my normal half dozen in the water and wouldn’t want to run short.

I dug around in the box of experienced golf balls I got