A Twosome

The partnership that had developed between Tony Marconi and Howard Kennington-Longworth appeared to be in danger of breaking up.

Tony was a former longshoreman from Surrey, a burly, swaggering character and a weekender with a place at the south end. Born and raised on Vancouver’s gritty east side, Tony affected the poise and charm of his namesake from the Sopranos TV SERIES.

Howard Kennington-Longworth retired from his sales job at a men’s clothing store and settled in the seniors complex about the same time Tony made his first appearance at the golf course, nearly three years before. It was no secret that Howard had been separated from much of his savings in a notorious Ponzi scheme, and his closeness with a dollar was understood.

Each had signed up as a member. (Nothing fancy like some of the mainland courses, where a commitment to forty thousand dollars will get you onto a waiting list. Here, a hundred and fifty dollars a year gets you fourteen-day advance booking privileges, a ten percent discount on pro-shop equipment and bar drinks, and two dollars off green fees for anyone playing with a member.)

Howard and Tony were drawn as a twosome at a shotgun tournament their first week as members, and from there they just seemed to stick, showing up at the same time on Saturdays and Sundays, and Howard arranging to be available at other times when Tony’s schedule was uncertain.

They had seemed at first to be an unlikely fit. Howard’s demeanour had always been as composed and calm as Tony’s had been uneven. Each seemed to have a quality that balanced the other: Howard had an unparalleled understanding of the etiquette of golf, and knowledge of its often-arcane and sometimes incomprehensible rules; Tony had a generosity of spirit and a wallet to match—his insistence that the next round was always his, and that he was simply rewarding Howard for the instruction he gave Tony, was accepted with grace. So the pairing had worked—until it didn’t.

Tony was known as a really big hitter of the golf ball, at least as far as distance is concerned. Direction and accuracy were another story. That may have been behind the rift that developed between them.

It seemed that Sheila Martin was the only witness to the incident that changed things, as she explained to Samson Spinner while they played down the fifth fairway together. “I was playing behind them on number three. Tony hit one of his massive drives, about a mile to the right and into the big stand of firs with all the salal around them. He went in after the ball, shouted, ‘Okay, I’ve got it,’ and played a shot to about a foot from the pin. Howard stood and applauded, then he also hit to the green. He told Tony his putt was good and handed him the ball. Tony took his ball … and that’s when Howard said, ‘Uh, Tony, what ball were you playing off the tee?’

“Tony looked nonplussed for a second, gazed at the ball in his hand and said, ‘A Top Flite.’ Now as you know, Samson—as everybody knows, because he brags about it—Tony plays nothing but the best—and most expensive: Titleist.”

“He does,” Samson agreed.

Sheila said, “Then Howard asked, ‘Not a Titleist?’ Tony looked down at his ball, looked a bit flustered, but answered, ‘That’s the ball I hit out of the trees. So obviously I was hitting a Top Flite.’”

Samson grunted. “Oh-oh.”

Under the rules of golf Tony would have been assessed a two-stroke penalty for hitting the wrong ball, and that would have been that.

“So, two strokes for hitting the wrong ball,” Samson said. “And for—shall we say—making a mistake, about the ball he was playing?”

Some would have called Tony’s actions cheating; there is no worse label in golf.

“They played two holes in total silence,” Sheila continued. “Then suddenly Tony pulled out his cellphone, muttered something about an emergency, and left.”

Samson said, “Christ! Tony was the one who insisted the course bring in a no-phones-at-any-time rule.”

Versions of the story were passed around, and opinions were offered.

“You have to make allowances,” Finbar O’Toole declared. “I mean …”

Finbar’s opinion was given short shrift, knowing his propensity for managing to have a sudden elevation in his handicap in the weeks before any club tournament where money was a prize. (“Managing” being the word often knocked around.) Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, course treasurer, further devalued Finbar’s contribution when she suggested he pay his overdue annual membership fee. “And last year’s,” she added.

As Sheila was the leader of the women’s golf group, her description of the event was listened to carefully, though she warned each time, “Remember that I was some distance away, so I cannot swear to every detail.”

Sheila’s title used to be ladies club captain, before Dr. Daisy Chen took over the practice of the departed Dr. Timothy. Daisy turned out to be a very useful nine handicap. And something of a progressive. “I think ‘women’ is more realistic than ‘ladies’—I mean, how many of those do we really have among us!—and more inclusive. And surely ‘group’ rather than the exclusive connotations of ‘club.’ Also, ‘captain’ tends to have an authoritarian ring, don’t we think?” (Daisy would know; she acquired her post-grad and medical qualifications courtesy of the Canadian Armed Forces, in which she finished up herself wearing that rank’s three pips on her shoulder board.) Daisy’s surge of egalitarianism won the day.

Sheila did not offer an opinion on the matter of Tony and Howard and the golf balls. She simply said, “We must all respect the rules of golf.”

At the same time, she was not about to let the matter fester. And it bothered her that the situation was creating an ugly mood, both in the clubhouse and on the course.

People had started taking sides, some claiming that they had heard from Tony that the incident had been exaggerated and that he had genuinely mistaken a ball lying under a leaf for his own, and that Howard had rudely refused to accept an explanation and an apology.

Tony had made no such claim, but when Howard declined to offer his own version, knowing it would just add to the divisions, his silence was taken by some to confirm the false rumour.

Both men dropped their names from the senior men’s team that played other local clubs once a month. This meant a scramble for replacements and, when that failed, complaints from the other clubs about their schedules being messed about.

Both Tony and Howard were suffering from the event more than anyone should, which was remarked on by Daisy Chen, among others. Tony had almost stopped showing up, and if he did, it would be around twilight, when he would tee off on his own, a lonely, bulky figure with drooping shoulders, which, given that posture is critical, did nothing for his golf swing, as was attested to by his observations when balls flew in myriad directions.

Howard continued playing but avoided Tony’s tee times—and Tony. If they happened to be in the parking lot at the same time, each would let his gaze move to the ground and go his own way. Both stopped going to the bar.

“They’re both in danger of becoming depressed,” Daisy diagnosed.

They’re not alone, Sheila thought, and decided that they’d all had enough.

“It’s only a bloody game when all is said and done,” she told Samson.

She advised Tony and Howard that in her role as head of the course discipline committee (until then, nobody had known there was such a body), she demanded a meeting with them in the bar. She ordered the drinks. A glass of his favourite Okanagan red blend for Tony, a pint of Granville Island pale ale for Howard, and a large chardonnay for herself.

“You’re making everybody miserable,” she told them. “And we’re going to stop it.”

Rarely had two faces shown such a blend of curiosity and, clearly, relief.

Sheila placed a sleeve of balls on the table in front of each of them. She handed a blue Sharpie to Tony, a red one to Howard. “Mark them,” she said. “Every one, and all your others. It’s too easy to make a mistake if you don’t. I have you booked as a twosome for ten o’clock Saturday morning.”

As the drinks were delivered, she said, “Tony’s round, this one.” And in the words of golf announcers everywhere, she added, “Play away, gentlemen.” And of golfers to each other, “Play well.”