THE NEXT MORNING, Ty watched monstrous divots fly past the window as he swilled the last dregs of his coffee. He stuck his head out the door. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little steep there, sport?”
Tommy slung the five-iron over his shoulder and assumed a defiant stance. “You’re always telling me to hit down on my irons. What do you want from me?”
“Just remember, it’s thin to win.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Don’t forget to re-sod.”
Joy walked into the room, scraping her pink bunny slippers across the floor. “So nice to see Tommy has taken an interest in terraforming our yard. Sure the neighbors are going to be overjoyed at our new xeriscape. It’s minimalistic, yet quite practical during this historic drought.”
Ty went back to reading the sports page.
“What are you doing up so early? Today’s Saturday. Remember?”
“A man’s work is never done, you know.”
“That’s for sure. All you need to do is look at my honey-do list, and you’ll see no truer words were ever spoken.”
Ty stood up and stretched. “Think I’ll leave now. At least when I’m on the clock, I get paid to take someone’s shit,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Oh honey, you know how to make a girl feel all warm and mushy inside. Hurry home. Tommy should have the yard completely denuded by the time you get back.”
“Can hardly wait,” he moaned.
Ty gathered his paperwork and scrambled out the door. He nearly tripped on strips of sod piled high on the walkway as he dodged an airborne chunk of real estate while craning his neck to catch the flight of a whiffle ball flying high overhead.
“Nice shot there, buddy, but try to flatten your swing plane a bit in order to shallow out the angle of approach into the ball.”
“Can’t you see that’s what I’m working on?”
Ty looked at the ditchdigger’s handiwork. “Sure you’ll have it all ironed out by the time I get home.”
“Father, I wish you’d quit pressuring me. There’s a fat chance of that, for as we all know, it sometimes takes up to a couple of years for even a seasoned professional golfer to rebuild or incorporate a new move into his swing.”
“Don’t think our front lawn will last that long. Maybe we’ll work on it when I get home.”
Empty parking spaces at Mercy General Hospital were at a premium. After two tours around the jam-packed lot, he managed to finagle a spot by winning a courageous game of chicken against the driver of a brand-new BMW. The disgruntled loser flipped him the rod and reached for something under the seat. Ty found some solace in the fact that if the dude was going to cap his ass, at least he was at a medical facility.
He whistled a cheerful little ditty as he skipped across the blacktop, making note that the cool, cloudy skies of yesterday had given way to a searing heat that scorched the back of his neck. Gotta be climate change, he again told himself.
Cognizant that the most likely place to catch an exotic disease is in a hospital, Ty walked to a side entrance and hesitated at the door. He stared down the pandemic-infected handle and discreetly covered it with his hankie. If he’d had a face mask, he would have donned that too.
He worked his way around the decrepit roadblocks stalled in the main lobby, noting that despite the soothing elevator music, the place had the ambience of a MASH unit.
The dour old bag stationed at the information desk was more concerned with her nails than providing information. “Yes?” she asked while filing away.
“I need to know in which room Mr. Dink is staying.”
Obviously put out, she reluctantly set aside the file and punched a few keys, careful not to damage her manicured nail tips. “No Dink at this facility.”
Ty’s stomach belly flopped at the thought that his whole career could be on the line. “He’s got to be here. How many 108-year-old patients do you have at this facility?”
A hint of a smile cracked through her mask of disdain. “Oh, that would be Mr. Cooper. He is on…” She paused while scanning the computer screen. “…the second floor, Room 222. He’s a real piece of work, that one,” she spewed while resuming her manicure.
He felt susceptible and somewhat paranoid while stepping into the elevator. Clad in hospital pajamas, the man standing next to him was racked with a tubercular cough. Ty inched closer to the corner and covered his nose. Note to self: Next time, take the stairs.
The smell of disinfectant did little to ease his fears over MRSA after entering Room 222. This is ridiculous, he thought. Howard Hughes had nothing on me. When did I become such a germaphobe?
He cautiously moved toward the haggard bag of bones lying closest to him.
Rico was sucking in more air than a Hoover.
“Are you Mr. Cooper?” Ty asked.
The old man weakly shook his head and directed his jaundiced eyes to the next bed over.
Ty took two steps and froze in his tracks. The mummified corpse in repose had one abnormally large eye wide open while the other remained fastidiously shut.
“My God, I think he’s dead,” Ty reverently whispered.
Rico hacked up enough phlegm to top off his spit cup. “No, he ain’t croaked. He’s just zonked out. That glass eye of his gets dry at times. Figure about now it’d take a shot of 30-weight to unfreeze it.”
Nurse Blanchard, aka Florence Nightingale of the second ward, interceded. “Can I help you?” she inquired in a disinterested tone.
“I’m here to see Mr. Cooper.”
Her sanctimonious smile drifted south. “Are you sure you have the right person?” she asked, knowing Dink never had visitors.
“Yes, quite.”
“Well, as you can see, he’s sleeping. You’ll have to come back another time.”
“When would be best?”
Blanchard lightly clasped Ty by the elbow and escorted him toward the door. “There really is no good time. You see, at his age he’s in and out of consciousness all day and doesn’t make for very good company.”
Dink piped up. “Hey, don’t be shooing my friend off like that! We’ve got important matters to discuss.”
The good nurse’s lips puckered as though she were sucking a lemon. “Very well. You can visit for a short time, but try not to let Mr. Cooper get overly excited.”
Then she whispered with a hint of glee in her timbre. “He’s really not long for this world, you know.”
Ty smiled politely and nodded.
Dink sat up straight, as if ready to go to battle and addressed the nurse. “Visiting hours are ’til 9:00 p.m., and if my friend so wishes, he can stay past that far as I’m concerned.”
“Mr. Cooper, it’s imperative that you get plenty of sleep. Besides, I’ve never seen you stay awake past noon.”
“That so? You just watch. Tonight I’ll party like it’s 1999,” he said, using his frail arms to simulate raising of the roof.
“How preposterous. I don’t quite understand this constant undermining of my authority. As we all know, I’m only looking after your best interests.”
“Like I told you before, sweetie, done quite well for all 108 years of my life without your direction. Now if you’ll excuse us, we got man things to discuss.”
Blanchard tucked her head and forcefully marched out of the room.
“Can see why animals sometimes eat their offspring. No wonder I never got married,” Dink croaked, his voice weak and fading.
“Mr. Cooper—” Ty started.
“Hold it right there, bucko. The name’s Dink. That bloodletting, cockamamie she-devil masquerading as my nurse is the only one who calls me Cooper.”
“All right, Dink. Pleased to meet you. Name’s Ty, by the way. I understand that you caddied most of your life and was wondering if you might be willing to share a little of your history.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Well, guess I could pay you a small stipend, but I don’t have much money to work with.”
The old-timer cupped his ear. “Huh? What’s that you say? Not too sure about that ‘stupid’ thing, but tell you what, bring me a little John Barleycorn and we have us a deal.”
“Couldn’t it be dangerous to mix alcohol with your current medications?”
“If I was fearful of every dadgum thing that came down the pike, I’d have died shortly after popping out of the chute.”
“Okay, we got a deal,” Ty said, gently clasping the brittle bones encased within the old man’s childlike hand.
The journalist placed a small voice recorder on a bedside tray.
“You ain’t some type of G-man, are ya? Reckon I paid my taxes most years, but still. Hate to get pinched over a slip of the tongue.”
“No worries, Dink. I work for a golf magazine. I feel our subscribers would be delighted to hear the history you experienced during your long caddying career.”
Ty turned on the recorder and scribbled something in the notebook he held.
“Can’t rightly recollect what I had for breakfast, let alone… Let me see, that would be ninety-eight years ago that I first packed a bag. Now I don’t expect you’ll be holding everything I say as gospel, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
“That would’ve been 1918—and made you ten years old.”
“Yeah, by cracky, guess it would’ve.”
Dink repositioned the pillows behind his back before beginning his story.
“Ma named me Fenimore after the writer, but damnation, I got tired of defending my name and knew after getting my butt kicked a few times that had to change.
“Anyway, we were poor as church mice, and my buddy Billy Bob tells me I can make fifteen cents carrying some guy’s luggage around. Didn’t know anything about being a bellhop, but I had no problem with lugging a suitcase for fifteen pennies, that’s for sure.
“So next morning, I get up bright and early. Then me and Billy Bob walk five miles to the greenest pasture I ever did see, which confuses me some ’cause first of all, there’s no hotel in sight and second, if it’s a farm, where’s the beef grazing in this vast meadow? Only thing I notice are these small groups of people scattered every which way, wandering aimlessly, just ranting and raving over what looks like a small white ball.
“Well, we walk up to a small shack and this mean old cuss chompin’ on a cigar asks me what I want. So I tell him I want to pack luggage. I can remember his response clear as day.
“‘Look, you little dink. Come back after you grow a spell,’ he says to me, laughing dismissively.
“Right then and there I had my new name. At the same time, his condescending nature put a burr under my saddle.
“‘Hey mister, might be small, but I’m strong,’ I say, flexing my muscle. ‘Watch this.’
“Well, I proceed to throw the loop on the strangest suitcase I ever did see around my neck and had to stand on my tiptoes to get it off the ground. Darn near hang myself but I don’t let on I’m close to dying.
“‘Like your style, kid,’ he says. ‘Tell you what. Got a trooper that’s older than Father Time himself. The old coot’s blind as a bat. Doesn’t carry a full bag and can’t hit it very far, so all you gotta do is watch every shot like a hawk.’
“Well, I’m not too keen on gunplay, especially when a blind man’s doing the shooting, but next thing you know, I see this little old duffer riding in a small, handmade buggy pulled by the largest dog I’d ever seen—about the size of a Shetland I imagine. Bet it took him all of ten minutes to crawl out of that contraption, then he comes and looks me over through these binocular-like specs hanging on his nose. They were thicker than the whiskey bottles pa used to throw at me when he was good and drunk.
“‘You my caddie?’ he asks.
“Not exactly sure what that is, but if it pays fifteen cents, he can call me whatever he wants. ‘Yes, sir,’ I say. ‘Dink’s the name.’
“‘Dink!’ he laughs, noting most of the golf bags are just about as tall as me. I proceed to pet his wolfhound and ask what’s with the getup.
“‘This here’s what I call my golf cart. It’s the only way for an old hack like me to get around nowadays.’
“Far as I know, that may’ve been the first mobile golf cart to sully a course. Although I didn’t know it at the time, that inventive gadget ends up being the bane of every looper from then on out.
“‘Ever caddie before?’ he asks me.
“There he goes again, throwing that strange word around. So I just stand there looking spellbound, and before I can answer he hands me this large vial of sand and says ‘As I’m sure you know, before I hit every shot you’re to pour a small mound and place my ball atop it.’
“Now that I think back on it, that old buzzard had me pegged from the get-go. So anyhow, I proceed to pouring and before I know it he’s having a conniption fit.
“‘Whoa, hold up there, sonny! I said a small mound—just enough to tee my ball slightly off the ground.’
“Now what the hell does tea have to do with the price of goats in Tibet? I ask myself.”
Dink paused for a moment and looked at Ty with renewed energy. “Did you know that two Scots patented the first artificial tee in 1889? That one didn’t pierce the ground, though. George Grant invented the modern wooden golf tee. His design was patented in 1899, but the peg-type tee wasn’t universally used until the 1940s.
“Up until the end of the nineteenth century, players would take a small amount of sand or dirt from the bottom of the hole on the greens and tee off next to the cup. Guess there wasn’t much need to fix ball marks when there were trenches to fill. In the mid 1890s, areas next to the greens were built to minimize wear and tear on putting surfaces. Suppose that’s neither here nor there, though.
“Anyway, about this time my head’s spinning with these new words and then the old guy says, ‘Hand me my driver.’
“Well, now I’m really bamboozled ’cause how am I supposed to hand over his driver when he’s the only person I saw operating that cart? Fortunately for me, he’s smart enough to see my plight.
“‘It’s the biggest club in my bag,’ he tells me, ‘the one with the wooden head.’
“So I pull out this knobby-looking stick and hand it to him. Before you can say ‘Gee willikers’ he’s going through all these rituals that I guessed were part of the game. The geezer’s doing all these different kinds of stretches and bends, then he swings at nothing but air. I figure this guy really is blind. He can’t find the ball that’s sitting up nice and high right in front of him.
“Then lo and behold, just as I’m about to say something he places the stick behind the ball. Now I don’t know anything about golf, but I can tell he’s in trouble right from the get-go. He assumes this awkward position, looking stiffer than a corpse, all bound up in a small, ill-fitting suit that could well have substituted for a straightjacket. On top of that, he has this tie looped around his throat so tight the veins in his neck are popping like an angry hemorrhoid.
“Next thing I know, he swings like a windmill and passes right over the top of the ball. At this point I’m not sure if this is part of the ritual or not, but the way he and others on the course are cussin’, I guessed so. I decide to join in on the fracas and start yelling and using every dang bad word in the book. The old codger eventually gets me to calm down ’cause I’d got myself worked up into a tizzy. He makes a few more passes before finally catching a piece of the ball and bunts one off the tee.
“‘Where’d it go?’ he asks, looking blindly down the fairway.
“Not knowing any better, I walk twenty feet out and retrieve his ball.
“‘I’m going to hit a mulligan,’ he declares.
“Now my mind’s totally blown ’cause just by coincidence I know the Mulligan family that lives just down the block. Am familiar with all their kids, so I’m looking around, trying to figure out which youngster he is going to hit and why. At any rate, we make our way down a strip of grass he calls the fairway and he eventually hits his ball toward this pole with a piece of cloth attached. We close in on the pole and he’s ecstatic.
“‘Yes! I’m on the green!’ he rejoices with glee.
“I’m now certain that this prehistoric relic is a couple cards short of a full deck ’cause if anything he’s on the black. I bend over, take a pinch of sand, rub my fingers together, and smell it. Sure as God makes little green apples, it’s that stinky crap that leaks out of those tin lizzies the rich folks are driving around.
“‘This where they park them horseless carriages?’ I inquire.
“He commences to look at me like I’m plumb loco. ‘That’s a sand green. Hand me my putter.’
“Don’t know what he’s talking about on two counts: the sand’s black, not green, and what the hell’s a putter?
“This old goat must be clairvoyant ’cause he yells out, ‘It’s the short, flat stick!’
“I go about fishing through the bag, looking for a stick that’s short and flat, but no such animal exists. ‘All the sticks is round!’ I yell back.
“And then, plain as day, I see on the bottom of the metal part it’s stamped putter. This stick looks totally different from the others. I can’t figure out for the life of me how he’s going to get this up in the air, so while he’s struggling with the cart, I pour an extra-large pile of sand on top of the tar pit and put his ball on it.
“‘What in the world are you doing now?’ he asks.
“I’m getting pretty comfortable with my position, so I figure it’s about the right time to throw some of that new jargon around that I’d been learning. ‘I’m teeing the ball. How else you gonna get that confounded thing in the air?’
“He goes about explaining that once you’re on the green—that’s really black—the proper technique is to roll the ball.
“‘But you roll all your shots,’ I say.
“He gets this silly grin and says, ‘That’s no easy task. You try rolling your shots with a lofted club in your hands.’
“So I proceed to take one of his sticks, give it a whack, and am as surprised as anyone that the ball got airborne.
“‘See, it’s not all that easy to roll one, now is it?’ he asks, jealously sneering at me.
“I can’t argue much with him on that point, but it seems rather asinine to carry so many sticks when all you need is a putter to roll your ball if that was the intent. By the end of the round, I’m all full of myself seeing as how I’m now an experienced caddie that knows the difference between putter and driver, bunker and fairway, and that black is the new green.
“Mr. Kroger, I come to find out is his name, squeaks open his coin purse like he fears moths might escape. He hands me a brand spanking new quarter. Never had seen anything so shiny in all my life, so right about now I’m feeling like a millionaire.
“‘Here’s a little tip for you, son,’ he says.
“I’m totally engrossed with my newfound wealth, but I keep waiting for the tip he promised. To my surprise, the lying bastard’s got no words of wisdom whatsoever. He just walks off.”
JUST THEN, DINK’S head snapped around as if he were a sentry on guard duty.
Nurse Blanchard steamrolled into the room, hell-bent on reestablishing control of her domain. “Story time’s up, Mr. Cooper. Time for your sponge bath.”
Dink elbowed Ty and winked. “Ought to stick around and watch me play up-periscope. Nursie here knows how to get a real rise out of me,” he cackled with glee.
“Please, Mr. Cooper. Your vulgarity is unfitting talk when there are ladies present,” the caregiver scorned.
“First, show me a lady. Then I’ll talk from the other side of my mouth.”
Blanchard turned toward Ty. “I’m sorry Mister, Mister—”
“Ryder, ma’am. Ty Ryder, that is.”
“Mr. Ryder, you’ll have to excuse us. Apparently, Mr. Cooper’s potty mouth needs to be thoroughly disinfected.”
“Would you mind if I come back tomorrow, Dink?” Ty asked.
“Sure thing. Just remember our deal,” he said with a wink.
Blanchard walked the reporter to the door, the soft soles of her sensible white shoes floating silently across the tile floor.
“I’m not so sure that your visits are in Mr. Cooper’s best interest. He’s usually napping long before now. Such disruption of his sleep habits could result in dire consequences for a man his age.”
“I wholly understand what you are saying, but I only need to visit with him a couple more times. I’ll try to cut my visitations into shorter sessions, and at the first sign of fatigue I’ll leave the poor man to rest.”
Blanchard scowled her disapproval. “If you insist, Mr. Ryder, but be advised I can halt these sessions whenever it is deemed that my patient is endangered. Even a small change in his routine is enough to upset the balance and undermine his welfare.”
“I understand completely.” What a bitch, he muttered under his breath while walking away.
TY ARRIVED HOME and discovered Joy planted on the sofa, nursing a glass of Chardonnay while watching a soap she had recorded.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asked tentatively.
She moved the bowl of popcorn to her lap and returned her attention to the engrossing boob-tube fantasy.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
The disinterested woman tapped the volume button down a couple of clicks and nodded, still polarized by the screen.
Ty grabbed the remote and hit the mute button.
“What the hell?” she yelled while pausing her program.
“This is important. I need your complete attention.”
Joy moved over, curled both feet underneath her derrière, and assumed a defensive posture.
“I want to apologize for my actions last night and this morning. Things at work haven’t been going particularly well, and the stress has left me a bit on edge. I’m thinking about rejoining that gym we used to belong to—you know, work off some tension, hit the heavy bag, pump a little iron, maybe even regain that six-pack I traded in for a keg.”
Joy relaxed, letting her guard down. “Apology accepted. Guess I haven’t been on my best behavior of late either. My work as deputy district attorney can take an emotional toll when the vast majority of offenders I prosecute are scumbags who get no more than a slap on the wrist. Might be a good idea if I rejoined that aerobics class—you know, get back those buns of steel you’re so fond of.” She smiled.
Ty reached over and playfully pinched her bottom. “Not bad for an older woman.”
“Better watch it. I’m pretty damn sure I can still kick your ass.”
“No doubt about that, is there? Where’s Tommy?”
“In his room, supposedly looking over his schedule for next semester. But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion he’s playing that Tiger Woods video game.”
“I’ll go check on him,” Ty said.
He knocked lightly on his son’s door. He could hear him hurriedly rearranging things and shuffling papers.
Ty noticed the computer shutting down just as he walked in. “What ya doing, sport?”
“Uh, just looking over my new schedule.”
“Get your swing straightened out? Those were some pretty hefty grenades you were tossing out there this morning. Why don’t I schedule you for a lesson at the club?”
“Dad, like I keep telling you, if I want to become an independent man I’ve got to learn how to figure things out for myself, and that can only be accomplished through deductive reasoning. The golf swing’s not any different than building a structure. You begin with a good foundation and work from there.”
“You didn’t answer my question. How’s the swing?”
“You see, Dad, by applying the principles of kinesiology I logically deduced that if I set up a little more behind the ball and turn my shoulders, keeping the club low to the ground, I load up on my right side, which increases the width of my backswing exponentially.”
“Hey, no fair using words that have more than one syllable. I’m a journalist, remember. Which reminds me… I had an interesting interview today.”
Tommy turned the computer back on.
“Aren’t you even curious?”
“About what?”
“The interview.”
“Oh sure, Dad,” he said, activating his game.
“Well, it just so happens that I talked with this caddie who’s 108 years old.”
Tommy worked his tongue around the outside of his mouth as he pressed keys.
“Maybe I can share some history of the game with you—sort of like a father-son bonding experience.”
“Jeez, Dad! You made me miss a shot. I’m not really interested in what those old fogeys did back when dinosaurs roamed Earth. It’s like a lot of religions, all wrapped up in tradition and rituals. It’s enough to make you want to puke. I mean, who really cares? It’s irrelevant. The here and now is where the haps are, Pop. None of those old farts could hold a candle to Spieth, Day, McIlroy, or any other present-day golf star.”
“I beg to differ, Son. If Jones, Hogan, Snead, or Nelson had the same modern technology, I guarantee they would’ve won their fair share against today’s best.”
“Whatever. If they were so great, how come all of their records have been obliterated?”
“That’s not necessarily true. Take Nelson, for example. In 1945, he won nineteen of thirty tournaments he entered—eleven of them in a row—a feat that will never be duplicated.
“So what? The competition back then sucked compared to today. Besides, almost all of the scoring records are held by modern golfers.”
“We’ve already touched on the advances in equipment, but what about course agronomy? Today’s new and improved grasses practically tee the ball on every fairway. Plus, precision mowers can leave greens smoother than a pool table, enabling today’s golfer to employ a more precise arm/shoulder stroke. The slow greens back in the day were so rough and bumpy that a wristy type of popping stroke was mandated, which didn’t exactly equate to lower scoring.”
“Look, Dad. You can argue all you want, but today’s golfers are better athletes that kick ass and take no names.”
“If Mom hears you talking like that, she’ll be the one kicking ass.”
Joy stuck her head into the room. “Dinner’s about ready. Tommy, wash up. Make sure you clean underneath your nails and thoroughly scrub those ditchdigger hands.”
“Aw, Mom.”
“Don’t Aw, Mom me,” she slurred slightly, her tongue thick after pounding back the last of her Chardonnay.
The young lad finished wiping his hands dry on his T-shirt as he took his place at the dinner table.
“Care for salad, Tommy?” his mother asked.
He wrinkled and then held his nose. “Rabbit food. Yuck!”
“Sounded like you two were having a lively conversation,” she commented.
“Typically one-sided, I might say,” Ty interjected. “In one ear and out the other.”
“On whose part?” she retorted.
“So you’re taking sides already when you don’t even have the facts. Madam counselor, I must object.”
“My line of questioning was totally impartial. No reason to get your panties bunched.”
“I’ll have you know that when it comes to the subject of golf, I am quite knowledgeable. Thank you very much.”
“It’s the know-it-alls in the world who could stand to learn a thing or two.”
“I object.”
“Overruled.”
“Would counsel please meet me over at the sidebar? And I don’t mean for drinks,” he ribbed her.
“Forget it. Your steak’s getting cold. Now eat up.”
“So I assume this kangaroo court is adjourned?”
“I’m sure, much to your dismay, it was never in session.”
“Getting back on point, your son here thinks today’s golfers are much better athletes than the great players of yesteryear.”
“I’d have to agree that they are.”
“So you two are going to double team me here?”
“Don’t think there’ll be a need for that,” she said. “Tommy can hold his own. Throw me into the mix and we have a clear case of strong-arming an unarmed man. But I guess you’re entitled to your opinion—even if you’re wrong.”
“Sure you realize I’m going to have to appeal that decision.”
“It has to do with evolution, Dad,” Tommy chimed in. “Today’s male is bigger, stronger, and better educated.”
“No need to rehash the points we’ve already covered, but let’s look at it from a different perspective. I’m sure if you placed today’s top golfers back in time, they wouldn’t dominate the stars of that era any more than if the reverse were to happen. But it’s all conjecture, so it’s a moot point.”
“Nice try, Dad, but there’s no way you can rationalize your way out of this. As the judge would say, ‘Case closed.’ Right, Mom?”
Joy could only beam at her precocious future attorney general.