INFURIATED, DINK COOPER threw a nearly empty milk carton at the television, not believing his eyes. “Get out of the way, you nincompoop!” he screamed at the screen, milk still dripping down his throwing arm.
Phil Mickelson needed to make a tricky, slicing, downhill ten-footer on the seventy-second hole of the U.S. Open to win the championship, but his caddie was standing directly in front of the camera.
Dink’s blood pressure spiked as burning rage ate at his gut while he waited for another camera to pick up the action.
Mickelson barely tickled the putt. His ball gained the momentum of a runaway train as it began its circuitous journey toward the hole.
Dink unwittingly held his breath as he tracked the ball’s every turn. All of a sudden, the screen went blank.
In a state of shock, the irate man’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. He frantically clamped both hands onto the bedside rails and held on for dear life as he waited for his pacemaker to corral the stampeding horses running wild inside his chest. His constant bedside companion, a blinking monitor, immediately emitted a high-pitched alarm that spilled out of his room and into the hallways of the hospital.
Rico, his roommate, covered both ears and stared in disbelief at the immobile ghostly figure in white hovering in the background, seemingly unconcerned about Dink’s medical crisis.
Nurse Rachel Blanchard could hardly contain her joy as she finally stepped forward to address the alert. Reveling in Dink’s anguish, she nonchalantly placed the television remote on a table just out of his reach and began to fiddle with settings that silenced the machine’s menacing warning.
“What in tarnation do you think you’re doing, you cantankerous woman?” Dink screamed. “If you’re trying to kill me, why don’t you just drive a stake through my heart? At least give me the satisfaction of seeing Phil win the big one before I die.”
The nurse shot him a cutting glare sharp enough to open his chest cavity and expose the fibrillating heart in his emaciated body.
The old man defiantly jerked his head away when she tried to reaffix his oxygen mask. “Now, now, Mr. Cooper. Let’s not pout.”
“You’d like to muzzle me with that contraption, wouldn’t you?” he grumbled.
Cool as an iceberg, she held up a syringe the size of a turkey baster and injected a clear solution into his IV.
“Mr. Cooper, we’ve been over this time and time again. If you can’t watch a golf tournament without getting all riled up, then you’ll have to do without. It’s such a frivolous endeavor, after all,” she stated, shaking her head in disgust.
Dink pulled his fragile structure into a more upright sitting position, defiantly folded his cadaverous arms, and closed his glass eye best he could.
“Listen here, missy. I’ve managed to live all 108 years of my life without your direction. Now give me that remote or I’ll hold my breath ’til I croak—and it’ll all be on you.”
“Mr. Cooper, if you are actually 108, then please try to act your age. I have neither time nor patience to deal with your shenanigans,” she said before walking out of the room.
“Of course you don’t have the patients, you old battle ax!” he shouted. “You’ve killed them all off!”
Dink replaced his mask and deeply inhaled a hit of oxygen while his body seemed to implode into the recesses of his bedding. “Dang woman. See what she went and did?” he complained to Rico.
“Yeah, I seen it. Shame the way they treat the infirm around here. If I was twenty years younger, I’d…I’d—”
“Sure, sure. I know. You’d take it in the shorts just the way I did.”
“Tell me something. Was you really thinkin’ ’bout holdin’ your breath?”
Dink turned his head and shrugged his bony shoulders. “Might have. But little does she know, old caddies never die. They just shag their balls and move on,” he cackled.
Rico coughed up a reservoir of brown sludge and wheezed. “Think Phil made the putt?”
“You’re darn tootin’. When he’s on, nobody’s better. Haven’t seen his equal since the great Bobby Locke, the only player I ever saw that hooked all his putts and every other shot he hit.”
“You actually saw Locke?”
“Shoot yeah. Saw ’em all at one time or another.”
“Ever seen Tiger?”
“Only on TV. Never a big fan. Now don’t get me wrong. He played better than anyone in the history of the game for a twelve-year stretch or so, but although he popularized the sport, I don’t think he was truly a good ambassador for the game. Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned, but I still believe golf is supposed to be a gentlemen’s game. I mean, did you ever see Jack Nicklaus throw a club, drop an F-bomb loud enough for the whole world to hear, or stomp off after a bad round and refuse to talk with anyone? Of course not. We all know the game’s frustrating, but if you act like a spoiled, snot-nosed kid when things don’t go your way, then you’re not mature enough to represent the greatest game ever played.”
“Being a bit harsh on the boy, wouldn’t ya say?”
“It’s not only Tiger. There’ve been a few others throughout the years. Back in the day, you dared not be around Tommy ‘Thunder’ Bolt if he was having a bad round. Even mild-mannered Bobby Jones was a notorious club thrower in his early days—until he thoroughly embarrassed himself during a match with Alexa Stirling, the national champion, when Jones was fifteen. After that, he learned to temper his tantrums during tournament play but once admitted ‘All the way up to the finish of my golfing days during casual rounds I encountered golfing emotions which could not be endured with the club still in my hands.’ Fortunately, the current crop of kids handle their frustrations in a more positive way.”
Nurse Blanchard reentered the room. The perpetual plastic smile pasted across her face did nothing to warm her countenance.
Dink watched her every move as if she were the enemy infiltrating his defenses.
She poured a glass of water and held out a pill. “Don’t give me any grief. Just take your medicine like a good boy.”
“What you gonna do if I refuse? Put battery acid in my enema bag?” he sneered.
Blanchard stood her ground without so much as a blink.
“What is it? Cyanide?”
“Mr. Cooper, there are two ways of going about this: the hard way or the easy way. Which would you prefer?”
“Give me that gall durn thing. Think I’d give you an excuse so you could manhandle me?” He looked over at Rico and winked. “Why, if I was twenty years younger I’d…”
“You’d what, Mr. Cooper?” she asked sarcastically. “Be eighty-eight if my math serves me correctly.”
“I had more piss, vim, and vinegar at that age than you’ve had during your entire life. And believe you me, if I could get out of this bed I’d…”
“Come now, Mr. Cooper. What exactly would you do?”
“First and foremost, I’d tell you where to go and then walk right out of here. Sure as hell that’s what I’d do.”
“As we all know, that won’t be happening anytime soon, so why don’t you just lie back, relax, and have a nice nap.”
“Not much else I can do after you’ve doped me up. Hope you’re proud of yourself—abusing us helpless senior citizens. Got half a mind to report you.”
The forced smile disappeared from Blanchard’s face. “Mr. Cooper, if you actually had half a mind, maybe you’d fully grasp the frivolity of your childish behavior.”
The nurse spun on her heels and headed toward the door where she paused momentarily, still sporting that patronizing smirk. “Oh, by the way, Phil missed the putt.”
Dink’s long toenails curled like talons under the sheets. “Damn!” he said to Rico while attempting, unsuccessfully, to reach for the remote with his Calamity Jane putter. “That bitch could curdle milk.”
He stared at the blank screen, hoping the nurse had lied to him. “Wish I were on that boy’s bag.”
“Like you could’ve helped him make that putt?”
“It’s not the putts that cost him as much as his wayward driver. He needs to quit trying to compete with the kids off the tee ’cause when Phil swings within himself and gets into a good rhythm, he’s capable of hitting his share of fairways. Knowing that’s a weakness, he needs to be more selective by choosing when it’s appropriate to hit the wild thing. That’s where a good caddie comes into play. His man needs a good horse whippin’ if you ask me.”
“Bones? You talkin’ about Bones?” Rico asked, cupping his ear.
“You’re damn right I am. Any caddie worth his salt voices his opinion and doesn’t back down unless need be. But on the flip side, you gotta be ready to take the heat if you’re wrong. There was many a time I’d just leave the bag sitting next to the ball after my man made a bad club selection. Made him think twice, that’s for damn sure. I mean, let’s get real here. He threw away more than half a dozen or so strokes in the four days I watched by making bad plays in order to recover from his wildness.”
“That’s Phil—the ultimate gambler.”
“As every sportsman knows, there’s a big difference between gambling with the odds versus against them,” Dink said. “Gotta know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em.”
“But a golfer has the ultimate say on what shot he’s gonna play. He’s the boss, after all.”
“Oh, pshaw! That might be, but if the player doesn’t have enough confidence in the decision-making process of his team, it’s time to move on. He’s gotta have as much trust in you as you have in him.”
“Maybe so, but ya don’t want to go bitin’ the hand that feeds ya.”
“Now I’m not saying there aren’t times when it’s best to back off. It’s a fine line for sure. But that’s when you gotta know your man and what his limits are.”
Dink rearranged his mask and quickly packed his lungs with a fresh gulp of oxygen.
“It’s like the time when I caddied in a sizable money match for this infamous gangster, Shorty, who was actually over six feet tall but got tagged because of his short temper,” he said with a sigh. “I was still a little wet behind the ears then. He and his mobster friends were flush with cash, betting on every and anything. Mind you, this was during the Depression. They were boozing it up real good, and at one point they had me run to the pro shop for a tape measure ’cause they had a hundred bucks riding on who had the biggest dick. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that when it came to a crucial moment in the match, I stood by my guns in a manner of speaking and defied Shorty.”
“Sounds like a death wish to me. What was you thinking?”
“Just hold on to your britches and I’ll tell you. So, it comes down to the last shot on the last hole. His second is 150 yards over water.
“‘Whatcha think I oughta hit?’ he asks, passing the buck to me.
“Well, knowing what a hack he is, I over-club him and hand over a mashie iron, knowing it can’t go wrong if it goes long.
“Shorty shakes his head. ‘It’s a spade mashie.’
“I refuse to take back the club, insisting it’s a mashie. He looks at me with those menacing eyes and says, ‘For your sake, hope you’re right, pipsqueak.’
“It’s a bit unsettling, to say the least, knowing my fate lay in the hands of this drunken hack. At any rate, the bushwhacker hits the shot so fat, swear I can hear it squeal. He curses and throws the club into the middle of the lake. ‘Wrong club, you little prick!’ he yells. ‘Told you it was a spade mashie. You just cost me five G’s.’
“Don’t know what I was thinking but I ask, innocently enough, ‘How ’bout I toss a couple of “atta boys” your way and we’ll call it even?’
“‘What? Think that’s funny? You a comedian now?’ he asks.
“‘I thought you were the wise guy,’ I quip, not realizing the implications of my statement.
“He pulls this cannon out of his bag and points it at me. ‘How’d you know that? You a G-man or something?’
“‘Already told you, I’m more of an “atta boy” kind of guy,’ I say, still ignorant of the peril in which I had placed myself.
“At first I thought for sure he was going to plug me, but before I know it I had somehow tickled his funny bone. That sets the old boy to laughing so hard his gun goes off and he accidentally shoots his partner in the foot. While all this commotion is going on, I hightail it out of there and catch a cab in front of the clubhouse.
“While I’m leaving, I yell out the window, ‘Told you it was a mashie!’
“Next thing I know, I’m in a war zone. He’s running after me, spitting more lead than Capone’s thugs at the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
“Not more than a couple weeks later, I read in the paper that Shorty caught a slug from one of his crosstown rivals while trying to employ a foot wedge.
“Atta boy, Shorty! Way to go, I say to myself. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
Dink looked over at his roommate, who was shaking his head.
“Man oh man, you sure was some kind of stupid back then,” Rico said. “But who isn’t when you’re young and think you have all the answers?”
“That’s the thing about golf. You gotta know how to read your man whether he’s your opponent or partner. Sam Snead once told me he’d watch every move his opponent made coming down the stretch. Sometimes it was nothing more than an extra waggle or glance down the fairway that tipped his hand. It was then that Snead knew he had his man on the ropes and it was time to drop the hammer.”
“This Snead guy sounds like a pretty shrewd cookie.”
“For sure, but that old country bumpkin wasn’t the only golfer to realize that clubs aren’t the only way to beat a man. Take Tiger, for instance. His intimidating presence is the fifteenth club in his bag. He can stare a man down better than most boxers at a weigh-in. The mere sight of him climbing the leaderboard is enough to have his competition choking on their own vomit. All he has to do is hold on and watch the field come back to him.”
“What ever happened to him anyway?”
“Don’t worry none about him. The big cat’s still lurking on the outskirts of the jungle. He’s suffered more injuries than Evel Knievel incurred at Caesars Palace, and that’s put a crook in his plans, but maybe even more damaging was the psychological blow to his ego after he had a few run-ins with the ladies. His wall of invincibility crumbled and fell after that. Just goes to show, we’re all human regardless of our place in history.”
“Think he’ll make a comeback?”
“Hard to say. Most people have written him off ’cause of his injuries, age and all, but it seems to me he plays his best when he has a cause or something to prove. And remember, he’s only just entered his forties. A few players had some of their best years in that decade. Vijay, for example—he won a record twenty-two times. Then, of course, there’s the ageless Sam Snead, who won seventeen of his record eighty-two victories after that age. In 1974, at age sixty-two, he placed third in the PGA championship behind Trevino and Nicklaus and in front of Player. If that wasn’t enough, only a few months before that he placed second in the Los Angeles Open on the demanding Riviera Country Club course. And who could forget Tom Watson? A month or so shy of his sixtieth birthday, he lost a playoff to Stewart Cink in that classic British Open. And lest we forget Hogan, who at age forty-one was the first and only man to win the Masters, U.S. Open, and British Open in the same year.”
“Certainly, you don’t think Tiger will regain the form and status he once had,” Rico said.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about golf, it’s to never—and I mean never—underestimate your opponents. I once overheard Snead talking about that very point one day on the range. It was the last round of the 1938 PGA match play championship. It didn’t change over to stroke play ’til ’58. He was paired with Paul ‘Little Poison’ Runyan. Snead, one of the longest hitters on tour, had a huge advantage over Runyan seeing as how his opponent gave away fifty pounds and over eighty yards of distance off the tee. Everyone and their brother assumed it was a foregone conclusion that the mighty Snead would crush the little man. ‘Hell, I had people congratulating me before we ever teed off,’ I can remember Sam saying. Well, through phenomenal work around the greens, Little Poison gave Snead a whoopin’ he never forgot. The diminutive magician beat him 8-and-7, the worst defeat in the history of the event. Just goes to show that bulldog determination and an exceptional short game are great equalizers.”