He Lies Nine: Nineteen Masterworks from Golf-Fiction.Com

By R.N.A. Smith

Herein, golf's leading writer of short fiction returns with eighteen stories plus the futuristic novella Golflandia, at last complete.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514492291

R.N.A. Smith

For four decades, R. N. A. Smith has sought to harness what he has seen, while clawing at his “inner eye” as well, to portray golf's myriad moments of significance. Along the way, morsels of praise have fueled him, with pride of place given to these threesomes: Hogan, Taylor, and Updike; Finegan, Donovan, and Coore. Still, he cannot deny that his writer's card displays bogies offsetting his birdies and eagles of text rarely made. R. N .A. intends to continue sweating toward new glories in the field of golf fiction and through golf-fiction.com to aid other literary linksters in bringing their gifts to light.

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Copyright © 2016 by R.N.A. Smith.

ISBN:  Softcover   978-1-5144-9230-7

          eBook        978-1-5144-9229-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/21/2016

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SIX THREESOMES

An Introduction

1st THREE:  Ball at Rest Moved

Perfect Foursome

Justice of the Fleece

At Peace With the Game

2nd THREE:  Ball Assisting or Interfering with Play

The Fall of A Sparrow

Shoot in the Seventies

I’m Working on Something

3rd THREE:  Ball Played as It Lies

The Butt End

Lucky Stiff

As It Lies

4th THREE:  Four-ball Stroke Play

An April Sensation

Golflandia

Ariel

5th THREE:  Ball in Motion Deflected or Stopped

He Lies Nine

Is It True?

Santa’s Putter

6th THREE: Ball Lost or Out Of Bounds

Happy Golfer

It Must Be Putted!

Eighteen Hundred Seconds

THE NINETEENTH HOLE: Cleaning Ball

My First Great Shot

An Afterword

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"A writer should strive

to master half-truths."

To my son Troy

a scarred scholar

whose strength of character

rivals any in this book

An Introduction

March 27, 2016 ……… Sparks, MD

In preparing to write this intro-duction, I decided to look over the prefaces to my three previous anthologies of short golf fiction. Of course, there are paper copies of these works about my domicile, but I had no need to leave my computer, nor would you yours if you’d like to peruse them. In this Internet age, one need merely travel to Amazon and click on the Look Inside cover images for GROWING UP WITH GOLF, CLASSY DIVOTS, and HOLES STILL TO PLAY to see the text of those preliminary chapters.

What you will find there, ain’t bad, if I do say so  Those intros together do a nice job of explaining such vital matters as who I was/am, the origin of my pen name, and what distinguishes each of these collections from the others. My role as a WEB pioneer with DIVOT receives its due; my association with golf.com is chronicled.

So, why repeat myself? If you’re interested, the info is there. I don’t mean to be snarky, it’s just that R.N.A. Smith has always had a thing about not re-covering the same ground.

For example, you’ll never find a string of sentences in the Smith oeuvre that begins by repeating a pronoun. I don’t write, He did this. He did that. He felt her touch. He reached for her … To me, that’s lazy authorship. Just so, when I craft a section of paragraphs, there is no repetition of initial sentence-words. This writer never pens two or three Whens as sentence-openers in the same sequence, never even starts with an I twice – let alone in consecutive sentences. Does following these rules make my narratives fresher? I hope so, though some critics may argue that occasional awkwardness of style also ensues from this idiosyncrasy of mine. As in all such matters, it’s what you feel that counts.

There are, of course, new developments related to my career and life to report, things subsequent to the 2013 publishing of my previous book, BLINDFOLDED, which presented a fictional biography of early golfing great Willie Anderson. Of primacy in updating you would be my second founding of an Internet golf site, in 2014, whose address states its purpose bluntly -- golf-fiction.com. The advent of full retirement has given me the time plus energy to handle web administration while continuing to produce both commentaries and fictional pieces about our game.

For the record, I also own the web rights to golf-fiction.net. Either address will take you to the same place, a free library of short stories, novel chapters, poetry, and other artistic forms, all related to our game, by authors both renowned and unknown. Please give golf-fiction.com a look; better still, submit your own efforts. WANTED: MORE WRITERS OF GOLF LITERATURE!

By the way, assuming you noted the sub-title of this anthology, I hope you were not put off by the puffery-word Masterworks. Its use was deemed acceptable, considering the punning value involved. To wit, I am the webMASTER for golf-fiction.com, where drafts of each of the stories in this book have, and will continue to appear, under my lesser pen names.

Returning to the subject of golf-fiction writing, I ask all aspiring authors to consider this tenet: A writer should strive to tell the truth, AND master half-truths. As way of illustration, here is a short sketch.

There’s a fellow – we’ll call him Frank – who plays in both of the same senior golfing clubs as me. I don’t know the guy well, beyond my acquaintance with his golf game which is quite good. But, when I saw him at the practice green the other day, it seemed to me that a word or two to this gent were in order.

Frank, how’s it going? I began, not really looking for an answer but rather uttering a prelude to another message in mind. Congratulations on your season last year. That was quite a performance.

My reference stemmed from the fact that this Frank had won one of our club championships by six strokes in September, after tying for the other in August. The look he gave me in response, however, was worthy of two ties for last place!

What gives? I wondered.

You know, Randy, those were decent wins, but when I really wanted to play my best last fall, it didn’t happen for me, not at all. Our double club champ proceeded to describe a sequence of events that occurred in October during his time on vacation. Having traveled to a seashore Mecca in the North, he had begun his week by visiting one of the oldest courses in the country, a 9-holer situated high above the ocean. That day he was met by a chilly 4-club wind. Really, a 4-club wind, he assured me. So? Was Frank out to set the course record there for old farts and was kept from doing so by the blasted breezes?

No, he responded, somewhat piqued by my joking surmise. There was something else entirely, unfortunate about those conditions. Frankie informed me that he’d brought both a too-light sweater and a too-tight vest to layer under his wind shirt, leading to a chilling experience of iron play full of tops.

By the time I got back to the clubhouse, Randy, I was frozen. Then, stupidly I drove down to the beach to view the big breakers. That exposure, of course, made my bones even colder. For the rest of my time up there, I was sure some awful bug was going to get me.

And, did you get sick? I asked.

Only in my mind, friend, was his vague response. He turned back to his practice balls, and stroked one then another toward a distant cup, before resuming the narrative, which Frank began by saying out of the blue, I did make two hellacious putts, though …

When was that … on the 9-holer?

Oh no, the champ replied, with more than a hint of self-sarcasm. I sunk them – great reads! -- after I was already sunk – in the estimation of my brother and best high school friend. You see, it was still kind of raw a few days later when the three of us got together for a round at a course new to me. And, genius Frank not only didn’t bother to change his defective wardrobe, he continued wearing his straight-jacket vest the whole round, even when the damp day improved. You should have seen some of the ground balls I hit. NOT impressive.

By this time, I was scratching my head inside. Frank Walker was no dummy when it came to golf. That was obvious. Was he saying that he didn’t figure out the connection between his clothing and the uncharacteristic dubs he was producing – till after those rounds? Or, was the guy scorching his own pride for thinking he could overcome the clothing handicap when it really counted? Turned out, neither of my hypotheses was on the mark.

With a sad shake of his head, Frank began, "Starting the round, my hands felt cold. Well, maybe that was nerves, I don’t know. Getting ill was very much on my mind still, having been in close contact with a bunch of people during the trip. So, I was determined to stick with my four upper layers the first few holes.

Then on number four, I rolled, yes rolled, a ball into a green-fronting pond with a frickin’ 9-iron, having made a good swing, it seemed to me. You would imagine that the vest went flying into the water, too, at that point, wouldn’t you? Well, my brain said otherwise, counseling not to risk another chill, considering that maybe it was my weakened focus as much to blame as what I was wearing … that maybe it just wasn’t going to be my day." He shrugged at me while uttering that final phrase, as if pantomiming the resignation he’d embraced during his bad round.

Well, how did you play upon your return? I asked him

No problem. Back in the 70s.

To be frank, I didn’t quite believe that our champ had been totally honest about his thought process while playing with his brother and friend. My own experiences hinted that perhaps he’d refrained from shedding any clothes because the idea of being hampered by them was an excuse he could live with – a notion much preferable to facing the fact that perhaps he was choking under a special pressure.

Or, as the Danish genius Kierkegaard put it, according to my golfers’ translation, Fear and tremble, for faith is a fragile earthen-formed tee, yet we still worship the wooden ones.

When I asked Frank Walker whether he’d shared with those two his clothes problem, he responded by giving me a stare of disapproval. Make excuses? the champ huffed. That would be weak.

True enough, I’d mused inside. But, you did tell me. Here’s hoping that this tale may prove of assistance to some of you, golfers and authors alike.

Left to me in this introduction is the pleasant task of citing those who have helped R.N.A. Smith in the quest to complete this volume, my sixth published book.

Let me begin with Phil B. to whom I say with full candor, "Thank you for your close reading of Golflandia. Your observations were invaluable in polishing its rough spots."

As for my imaginary agent, marketing consultant, editor, writing psychologist, and literary-rights lawyer, each of you has done me proud once again!

To the following friends and family members who permitted me to use their likenesses as illustrations in this book, I should like to provide each of you with a gratis copy as a show of my gratitude. However, it occurred in my Scots mind that you’ll probably be purchasing so many copies to pass onto your jealous acquaintances that an extra one from me would hardly matter.

This being so, I shall give you what can’t be bought, one of my customized bookmarks based on the cover of HE LIES NINE, autographed by the author, of course. Moreover, should you desire one of the limited-edition posters for this work, I’m open to negotiating. Cheers! Brendan S., Bruce B., J.P., Bob G., Rod N., Phil B., Kathy G., L.W.S., Scott and Matt S., Gedney G., Nick B., Carey G., Rob I., Vernon G., Joel G.

I cannot conclude this acknowledgements section without a shout out to my dear wife LouAnne. Honey bunny, you’ve lamented having less to do with this book than any other of mine, yet my feeling is that you have supported me in some marvelous way every day of our forty years joined in wedlock. Lucky me who gets to travel in your orbit always! -- RNAS

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"Yet, there’s magic in me

when I play with these guys."

Perfect Foursome

As Archer Reynolds drove toward what would be his new home course, balls of excitement and melancholy seemed to wobble on the brim of his golf cap. The business transfer had been necessary. It was even a promotion. Still, he considered his lost golfing buddies a steep cost.

Geez, our weekend foursome had been golden. Dan, Joe, and Wilber had come to know his life story intimately. They’d tolerated his foibles on the links, shot only friendly barbs in his direction, returned with zest by Archie. We celebrated each others’ great holes or rounds with actual sincerity, and really commiserated over the chokes and slumps that came along. Will I ever be part of such a close group again?

Having entered the clubhouse and hit the head, it was Archer’s intention as instructed to check in with the starter outside. He’d gotten nearly to that power broker’s shed when a scrap of conversation halted him. The exchange had come from two men of Archie’s age on the tee box. A brawny guy with close-cropped hair and raw good looks was emitting a string of strange chuckles. Then, for some reason, he swiped at his eyes as though to evict tears. What was that about? Arch wondered. His buddy had said merely, Eddie, maybe you should try putting with that mother driver of yours.

A third player on the first tee hurried over to big Ed and patted his back while whispering something. This newcomer had shown Archie a pair of sharp eyes, a wild card within an otherwise comic countenance – his nose chubby, his mouth wide as a horse’s, the climax of a chunky body. Still, the tableau of closeness these three evinced lit a spark in the newcomer’s vulnerable psyche, and Archie’s own pain from loss flared again. Without thought to consequences, he called up to them, Hey fellas, can I join you?

The join expression that came to the faces of that threesome in response was not promising. Archer Reynolds saw a coldness, almost resentment, flash within those six eyes upon him. It was Ed who saved the day for Arch. Though his tone was gruff, the big man said, Ah, why not? Then to the starter he called over, Hey, Mike, this guy’s gonna be with us. Okay? Mike nodded.

Thanks, Archie sang out, before even ascending to the tee box. He hoped they couldn’t see how suddenly nervous his body had become. One of his knees was shaking. What the heck! Arch scolded himself. It’s just a casual pairing. Likely I’ll never see these gents again. Relax!

Drawing close to those three, the new man had stuck his hand out to shake. It was then that he learned their names: Eddie Vellum, red-haired Charlie (clown face) Renault, and Brock Winnesky. All of them seemed to be in their mid-40s. Each was in pretty good shape – a good deal better than me, Archer had winced. Would he be outclassed totally on the course by this group? He prayed not.

After three holes, Archie Reynolds felt a bit better. He’d happened to sink a long one for par on the first and had just holed a tricky 10-footer for another four, making him only one-over to date. Though the man knew he was not likely to keep to this pace – heck, a 6-over round would tie my best ever – still, Arch’s swing felt comfortable on this day and he was always a decent putter.

At the same time, his playing partners had proved human enough. Though big Ed did smash monster drives, he’d already fatted two wedges. Archie was glad to see that no temper tantrums of similarly large proportion had followed. Eddie Vellum seemed to be of a humble nature, no arrogance toward the game at all, in spite of his great power.

Brock, a diminutive guy, hit a low pull off the tee that lacked oomph, but he somehow harnessed all of his wiry strength when it came to the irons. His approaches had shot straight onto the greens. He was the only one of the foursome to hit all three in regulation. Then, sadly, Winnie as the other two called him, had three-putted once from twenty feet, and the second time from only ten – though that was a slippery first putt down a humped slope, Arch said to himself in Brock’s defense.

(Archie was later to learn that the Winnie nickname had been bestowed on Brock in a mock tribute to his curly-brown-haired good looks, which were of a delicate nature. The joke was that he resembled Arnie’s late wife, Winnie Palmer – Charlie was happy to share. The subject of this insult took it in stride, saying that it was a good handle anyway, seeing how his laugh could be said to be horse-like. Before the day was out, Arch had to agree. Brock did express his amusement in a high-pitched, neighing voice, worthy of Mister Ed.

By the end of the first nine, Archer Reynolds had sunk two more putts in the fifteen to twenty foot range. His playing partners had grown correspondingly warmer toward him, he noticed, with each additional triumph of his blade.

The newcomer bore no disdain at this development. If they like to see good putting, I’ll try to keep it up! For, he had realized by the fifth hole that although Charlie was a bit forbidding at times with his authoritativeness, the guy was still a good egg, while both Eddie and Brock seemed cut of the same competitive cloth as Archie – nothing showy, yet harboring plenty of quiet determination. Since then, Reynolds was hoping to be asked to play with them again, but who knew – maybe they had a regular fourth absent this day?

It was no surprise that Charlie Renault served as scorekeeper for the group, added up everyone’s totals between nines, and announced their scores with a mirthful comment. Of Archer’s unusually proficient 38, the clown-face had intoned, Somebody better check to see if he’s using a magnet ball. I swear I saw his last putt veer dead left into the cup – those hole-liners are made of steel, you know.

Though tempted to protest against Charlie’s silly hypothesis, Arch instead gravitated toward his own natural modesty. I don’t know where all this holing came from, he said. You’ll see on the back that I’m nothing special in that regard. But, when his remark seemed such a disappointment to the others, Archer wished he’d kept quiet.

As the foursome began the back, it was Charlie with the leading score, a 37, and also with the honor, rather than Archie – in spite of his wonderful putting. There was nothing clownish about Renault’s touch around the greens, Archie had punned to himself. On the front side alone that lumpy guy had chipped or pitched dead on five occasions by Arch’s account, not to mention one beautiful bunker recovery from a downhill perch only a foot from the trap’s rear edge. Could he keep that up? More likely than my continuing to stroke like an ace, the newcomer was quick to admit inside. Still, I really want to show them something …

Since Brock was acting as Archer’s cart mate that day, he was the one with whom the newcomer shared the details of his past and present life – how Arch had been involved with software design for almost twenty years, had not anticipated the order to transfer to this area, but happily was finding the people, scenery, and pace of life all to be quite pleasant … tranquil even. My wife and son say the same things in their own ways, he added.

That’s good, we don’t like malcontents in this neck of the woods, joked Brock Winnie Winnesky. And woods we got plenty, here in the Great Northwest. Do you like to hike, or ski, or fish, outdoorsy stuff? Winnie asked.

Arch frowned inside. The truth was he preferred a good book or movie to any roughing it. What to admit? My dad used to take me with him fishing, but I never could bait a hook right. So, I’d say I’m more the indoor type – except for golf, of course.

He was relieved to have been honest when Brock replied, Glad to hear it. Those two, Winnie chuckled, pointing toward the other cart, are always trying to coax me into some icy stream or up a snowy mountain. No thanks … Maybe we two can shame them into seeing an art film some time?

Taking his cart partner’s words in, Archer hoped that the intimation being made was that he had a future as one of their bunch, an accepted golfing buddy and friend. To belong again was a feeling that was already warming his insides. Arch gave a glance to the break of his upcoming putt one last time and stroked with a delicate smoothness. He knew he’d made his fifth long one of the day long before the ball dropped … another proof to these three golfers that he was worthy of their group.

Although Archie Reynolds had driven into the woods on fifteen and even missed a short but tricky putt on the penultimate hole, he still felt elated by the 81 he’d posted on his first trip around a course that was both longer and tighter than his old home track. When Brock invited him into the clubhouse for a post-round drink, Arch felt no hesitation in agreeing to the offer.

It turned out that Charlie and Ed were also thirsty to extend the day and were already seated at one of the round tables near the grill’s front window. Hey, here comes the man with the magnet putter, Renault with his clown face called out, while beckoning the twosome over. Archie just laughed at that, asked Brock to order him a beer too, and excused himself to attend to matters in the bathroom.

When the ace putter had returned and been allowed to down a couple of sips of his brew, Charlie spoke to him again. Look, Arch, Brock says he didn’t mention this to you, but we’ve signed up for a local charity event over at the Hilltop course – typical captain’s choice scramble tournament – that’s being played next Saturday. We’ve had a lot of success in these things in the past – with our different talents – and hey, the way you putt, we’d like Archer Reynolds to complete our team. What do you say? Are you free that day?

Stunned, Archie felt suddenly like he needed to pee again. "A tournament? I’ve never been in one of those things. Well, look, you’ve played some business golf. Would the pressure be much different? Sure, you had the greatest putting day of the season today, but you ARE a good putter … aren’t you? To buy some time to make up his mind, Arch asked an obvious question. The tournament’s so soon; did you sign up just the three of you – how was that going to work?

Big Ed supplied the answer with a chuckle. I’d roped my brother Billy into joining our team, but he’d rather be out on a motocross course. Believe me, my little brother would kiss you if that’s what it would take to get him off the hook.

But, if Billy doesn’t like to play golf, why would you ask … how could he be any good? Arch wondered.

Charlie spoke up. Oh, that kid’s a pure hacker. He doesn’t half watch where the ball goes either. But, for God knows what reason, he can putt like a banshee. Just stands up to the ball, swipes at it, and boing, ball pops against the back of the cup and drops. Got no fear how far the ball may go by if it misses. Billy hardly plays any break. He just doesn’t care, you know? At the same time, the kid really does have touch – you can’t hit a ball too hard and have it stick in the hole ... So, he actually could help us in a scramble. We’d rather have a real golfer like you, though, who can drop ’em.

Puzzled, Archer let go of his bottle and probed again. "You guys said you’ve had a lot of success in these types of tournaments, yet it sounds like Billy hasn’t been your regular teammate. So, who was your fourth in these things?"

The temperature around the table descended in an instant to the feeling of an icy brew. Each of the threesome stared, it seemed inward to Archie, for a count of three, before they exchanged glances and a phantom nod of agreement. Arch readied for Charles Renault to take the lead in replying, but it was Brock instead who spoke.

My wife Kathy, he uttered, seeming to hold back a reservoir of pain. Kathy was our fourth for several years in these tournaments … till four months ago. He swallowed then, and there was Charlie:

She died, Archie … in a car accident. Kath was a great gal … hell of a lot of fun on the course … could hit it and really stroke it. This coming Saturday will be the first tournament we’ve played in since. Brock said he thought he was ready, and mumbling this, the big clown-face had to wipe at his eyes.

With fierceness, Brock declared, I am ready. We all are. And, I think Kathy sent you to us, Archie. So, please say you’ll play.

I’ll do my best, Arch managed. And, while the others hurrahed around him, he asked himself how badly could this movie-like scenario end? Suppose he made zero putts on Saturday. Suppose he embarrassed the other guys by slowing their group way down – looking for his lost balls. Suppose he did something really wrong in this format that he hardly knew. Could he cost them penalty strokes in a scramble? Then what would they think of Archer Reynolds? How would they dump him? Gracefully, in total awkwardness, or with anger – as though he’d been a fraud as a golfer and putter all the time? At this moment, Archie couldn’t wait for Saturday to be over.

Hilltop Golf Course simmered in a bright sun on the opening day of the following weekend. Archie saw its sign and turned up the drive to its clubhouse for the first time, his eyes bleary. How many times had he awoken the night before? How much worse could his stomach feel than right now. Butterflies? It felt more like a swarm of bees were stinging, caught somehow in his gut. Still, he’d told the others he’d be here, and that was that.

Arch forced out some false cheer when he encountered Brock in the shop, then Charlie on the range, and Eddie at the practice green. To the queries as to whether he was ready, Archer Reynolds sang out an Oh, yeah! Each of the other three had eyed him slightly, though, upon hearing his enthusiasm. Well, what did they want? The damn truth! That he felt sick to his stomach and probably would stink today.

His drive off the first tee was a lousy pop-up. Archer’s failure didn’t matter in this format, since big Ed had smoked one center cut as usual. Then Brock had knocked a 7-iron to 12 feet below the hole, so Arch again was off the hook when his second shot caught the front right bunker.

Ed, Brock, and Charlie all just missed the birdie three. Now it was time for Arch to do his thing. Yeah. Was there a part of his body that wasn’t trembling? Certainly both his hands and knees were as he lined up the try, aiming about six inches right of the hole.

Archie looked at the line once, twice – should he look again? No, that would do no good! – then jabbed his putter into the back of the ball, hitting it too hard. Fortunately, he’d also pulled the putt, which at least made it appear as though Archer had attempted a bold frontal assault on the cup. His effort was about to motor past the right lip of the hole when the ball must have encountered some tiny bump in the green, ’cause suddenly it angled left, popped against the hole’s back rim and dropped.

The putter roared out his approval at this lucky development, joined more innocently in their delight by the other three. That’s our man, cried Charlie. Okay, let’s go get a bunch more birds!

Downing a sports drink while waiting his turn to hit on the par-3 second, Arch felt like praying thanks to God – not only for the lucky first putt, but also for the blessed relief he was feeling in his belly. The bees had been driven out, or found their own way. It didn’t matter, his tummy no longer was tormenting him. He was actually looking forward to his next turn to putt! The newcomer to tournament golf couldn’t believe how matters had turned. He wasn’t going to choke! He could do this.

Having watched the first three do no better than to get a ball about thirty feet short and left of the cup on this down the hill one-shotter, Archer felt even more at home. There was plenty of room for him to get inside that, if he could just strike well enough to fly a certain cavernous bunker dug along the front side of the shallow, angled putting surface. Come on, Arch, you fade your 5-iron just right for this shot. Help the team here!

He did and he did: The ball was flushed – such a sweet feel! – and dropped in a lazy rightward path to where two hops and a bit of roll left team Renault a mere foot from their second bird of the day. Big Ed tapped it in, and Archie got pats on the back all around. Now Archer Reynolds was raring to hit his next shot, blissfully unmindful of how momentum could veer either way in this sort of event.

Seven holes and four birdies later, team Renault made the turn with a fine score of 6-under, for a thirty. Archer Reynolds had played a big part in two of those additional triumphs, having sunk a fifteen- and thirty-footer en route for threes. A fabulous pitch by Charlie on Hilltop’s longest five had snuggled tight for a four, and Brock’s 4-iron from the tee to three feet on number eight had made for an easy two.

In the men’s room, Arch hesitated about going to the sink after zipping up. Should he refrain from washing his hands, perhaps washing some luck off? He laughed at himself and stepped to the basin.

While rinsing, Archie dared to stare in the mirror. His thin face was red as it always became when he’d been in the sun – no difference there. My eyes are the same shade of light brown, that beak of mine is still crooked from the day a baseball struck it. My chin’s just as pointy as ever, the shoulders as sloped, and that pot belly’s still there. Yet, there’s magic in me when I play with these guys.

Drying his hands, Arch gave them a close inspection as well. After all, they were doing the putting. But no, his long, big-knobbed fingers showed no change. The man sighed then, though he didn’t understand why.

On the back, Charlie and his boys started slowly, having to get-up-and down for par on the number-one handicap hole, then failing to get a tee shot within forty feet on the uphill par-three eleventh. When they failed to birdie the easy par-5 that followed, their captain felt it was time for a growl.

Come on, guys, Charles Renault urged. Six-under isn’t gonna cut it. We need more birds, now who’s gonna step up and get the job done? I’ll tell you who – all of us! Eddie, smack one here! And, the big guy did. His bomb left them a flip wedge to the thirteenth green, Charlie lofted a soft pitch inside ten feet, and Brock rolled it in, just before Archie’s turn to try.

Seven-under became eight-under on the very next hole when the team conquered that tough par-5, thanks to a huge 3-wood from Eddie, Archie’s pitch-and-run to eight feet, and Charlie’s no-nonsense bullet into the hole. That’s more like it, the team captain had crowed. Four pars in would give them a 64, but that would not do, in Charlie’s eyes. His clownish face morphed into a mask of dark determination as he harangued the team with the taunt, If we don’t get to at least 63 now, we’re a bunch of losers – do you hear me? – losers!

Eddie teed up to blast one and he did. But, for the first time that day his miss surfaced, a big hook that scurried into wild land on the left. Thus, the team was forced to use Archie’s thoroughly mortal drive on this fifteen hole, leaving them a long way from home. Close-mouthed, big Ed stepped up again – to make amends.

The 5-wood struck by Eddie Vellum rose to gigantic height. Archer watched it with wonder. How would the winds up there so high play with a shot? The green ahead was up a steep slope, guarded by a fearsome bunker in front. As Ed’s ball fell, on a perfect line for that day’s pin, four men were praying that the orb would find fifteen’s putting surface. At last, they knew – Yes! The bunker had been carried. Now it was only a question of how close to the cup their ball lay.

No one else on Team Renault even reached the green, but no one cared. When they’d motored up the hill to greenside, it was Brock who first caught sight of how matters stood. Ten feet, he cried, above the hole! Indeed above the cup, and what’s more, Ed’s ball had found its rest atop a little ski slope of a hill. A slippery try for bird awaited them.

Charlie urged, No chickens! Go for it. We’ll get to nine-below right here! So, lagging this putt was not to be considered. As usual, Eddie took the first turn on the green. His touch was not good anyway, so the others just sniggered for his benefit when the try didn’t stop till it was farther from the hole than before. Next up was captain clown-face. His effort licked the right edge yet still trundled a good six feet past. That’s all right, he blustered. Don’t back off, guys, one of us will make the uphiller, if need be – but we’re not gonna need to.

His words sent a chill through Archie. The thought of perhaps needing to make a decent length putt just to make par here shook him. He hoped like heck that Brock would roll his effort right into the hole, or at least leave his miss in tap-in range, but that was not to be. Accustomed to heeding Charlie’s will, Brock Winnesky stroked boldly, then watched his slightly-pulled ball slide by the cup on the left. Obviously upset, he stalked past Charlie’s mark and yanked his ball off the ground.

Okay, Arch, you can do it, the captain urged.

Having witnessed misses on both the left and right side of the cup, Archer Reynolds squatted, narrowing his eyes to try to see the line. It looked dead straight, but could it be? Unable to restrain himself from getting this putt over, the newcomer promptly aimed at the center of the cup and made his stroke.

As he started the putter forward, though, a sliver of doubt stabbed Arch’s hands and the man decelerated his blade just enough to hood the face a hair. This act of anxiety caused a slight pull and Archie, like Brock before him, rimmed the left edge of the hole. The only good news resulting from that choke stroke was that his ball had only dribbled down the hill, stopping four feet by, and thus giving the team two feet less to negotiate for par than Charlie’s mark had left them.

All right, Eddie, knock it in, the team captain called out, his tone primarily full of disappointment at the missed birdie, but also containing a hint of further concern. Ed missed. Charlie bustled up, and missed. Brock’s attempt horseshoed out of the hole, a total robbery. That left it up to Archer Reynolds again.

His body still a flutter from that previous putting failure, Arch nevertheless was telling himself that he was glad to have this chance for exoneration so soon. And heck, this time the task was far simpler. Every player knows that the hole in effect shrinks on downhillers due to the pull of gravity, and expands when the ball is stroked uphill. It’s a straight putt again. Just rap the ball firmly and the hole is bound to get in the way.

With this thought in place, Archer again stroked, this time to save par. He focused hard to assure his blade did not close like on his previous effort and succeeded. The only glitch that kept him from striking a perfect putt was a last-second recall of how Brock’s ball, struck so vigorously, had not fallen. Remembering this, Archie put the brakes on his impact rather than stroking fully through. His ball charged up the first two feet of hill but died at the three foot mark. Shame of shame, he’d left the deciding putt a full foot short of the cup.

Before he knew what he was doing, the newcomer had kicked his ball all the way over to the edge of the green and was stalking after it. With every step, Archie was feeling a deeper shame than that which had transpired from missing two putts. I don’t act like this; this isn’t me!

Having retrieved the bruised ball, Archer turned to his companions, ready to humble himself with the most adamant of apologies, but before he could speak, Charlie was making a joke. Man, Arch, were you a placekicker in college? That’s quite a leg you’ve got. Next time you find my ball in the deep rough, feel free to give it a foot mashie.

The other two were also grinning. They’d not been put off by his tantrum, Archie noted with a surge of joy inside. Nevertheless, he swore not to act like that again in any competition.

Sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen failed to produce any more sub-par scores for Team Renault. The card they turned in read 65, seven under par. Charlie opinioned, We might win a prize – they’re paying five places. When all the teams were in, though, it turned out that their 65 had tied for second place, on a day when the scores were for some unknown reason higher than expected. The first-place team had shot only one stroke better with their 64.

These results, however, rather than pleasing Arch, instead made him long to replay the final holes – to vindicate himself. If only we hadn’t bogeyed fifteen—my fault! If only I’d had the guts to go after that bird on seventeen, rather than coaxing my ball close, after the other guys had been too bold. Look at that 64! If we’d shot that, too, we woulda won in a match of the cards with our bird on number six. I blew it! With his head down, Archer strode to the men’s room.

Encamped at the farthest urinal of three offered within, Archie soon felt the presence of a heavy golfer stepping to the middle one. He half expected to hear Charlie blustering his way. However, it was Eddie Vellum who spoke.

Good thing you were ‘on’ today, Arch, with the rest of us putting like crap. Charlie’s out there blaming himself for the bogey on fifteen – says he pushed us, you, too hard on the back – but Brock and I told him, ‘Hey, we win or lose as a team,’ right?

Archer Reynolds swiveled his eyes, recognized genuine concern on the big guy’s face, and with as much manliness as he could muster, replied, Sure, no other way to look at it, his head filled with a mixture of elation and chagrin. As he gripped the handle to flush, Archie felt like celebrating more than their second-place showing now. The newcomer mused, Another perfect foursome? … Perfect enough!

To Ed he enthused, So, when’s our next tournament?

His playing partner chuckled, Beats me. Charlie will know.

FINIS

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Vladmir’s surprised comment as he mounted the tee was, ‘Pin tough place never before.’

Justice of the Fleece

Playing sheriff was part of being a good superintendent, Rick Blade had learned a long time ago. His golf course was the town. Those who respected his course and the game of golf were his decent townsfolk. It was his job to protect both from any outlaws, jerks who abused his holes or did dirty tricks when competing.

If Ricky saw anyone cheating on his course, he rode right up to them and laid down the law: At Cedar Hollow, you either acted upright or Sheriff Blade ran you out of town. No exceptions … except maybe twenty times a week.

Yeah, Rick was a lot tougher in his mind on this score, than he had come to be in actuality. Generally, he watched and said nothing these days when dubs fluffed up their balls in the rough. He no longer felt much of an itch either when some old-timer dropped a ball inside the out of bounds on number nine near its green, instead of replaying the approach shot from back up the hill.

And, the sheriff acted deaf mute when careless folks happened to drag their soft spikes hard enough to make tiny troughs in his greens. Heck, if you lectured them, they’d just be doing more of the same on purpose to show you when you weren’t looking. At least, that was how some fellows reacted, Rick had learned to his sorrow.

Then there were the political realities to be considered: It was the summer tourists paying inflated green fees who made a year-round membership so cheap for the town’s people.

Blade’s golf director and his boss the town supervisor were very sensitive to the course maintaining a reputation for friendliness. Rick had been warned in earlier days to give newcomers a lot of leash before taking them to task.

Though this approach had gone against the superintendent’s grain, he had succeeded in muffling himself long enough that this political expediency had begun to feel natural. It took one of the course’s regulars, Wicked Hook, to make Rick feel the star on his chest again. Sheriff Blade had a job to do.

The revival of this role had begun on a fall Friday afternoon, late in the day. Rick had been meandering along the right rough in his maintenance cart, heading up the pine-streaked hill toward the twelfth green. One of the sprinklers at that site had jammed the previous week. He was going to make sure that no puddling of the putting surface occurred again.

Though Blade had taken the offending head apart and cleaned it, he was still inclined to drop by the hole every so often when the sprinklers there were due to cut off, just to witness the efficacy of his handiwork. Whether this diligence amounted to little more than a superstitious ritual, Ricky did not care. He felt better when leaving for the day, having visited the twelfth.

By this time, however, that spell’s comfort was dwindling. In fact, the superintendent was musing more about what Sylvia (his wife) would be serving for dinner, than concentrating on the sprinklers ahead, when he suddenly saw reason to brake.

Rick did so as a courtesy. Through the pines to his right lay the fairway of the fourteenth hole. A golfer at play there could hear his cart’s engaged motor well enough. And, someone there -- his back to Rick -- was getting set to hit. In fact, it was Blade’s newest crewmember who was meticulously arranging his feet and posture in readiness to swing, the superintendent noticed with a grin.

Vladmir Carmenov, after five months on the crew, still could only speak fractured English, but he’d maintained as sound a work ethic as Rick had ever encountered. It usually took an order from his boss (daily!) for Vladmir to cease work when his official day was over -- at 3:30 -- and go have some fun.

Fun, Rick realized, was not something native to this Slavic refugee’s outlook. His round face rarely crinkled into laughter. Nevertheless, the man needed healing. His dossier spoke of horrors. Perhaps golf could help.

In response to an offer of lessons, Vladmir had embraced Rick like he’d just saved somebody’s mother. The stocky man had applied himself to the game voraciously. Whatever Blade demonstrated at four o’clock was practiced into the twilight and beyond. As a result, stocky, blunt-fingered Vladmir had become an honest to goodness fourteen handicapper in a matter