WARM TEMPERATURES AND calm air were perfect conditions for golf as confirmed by the packed driving range. Even so, Bo couldn’t imagine what would compel so many hackers to engage in such a futile exercise.
It didn’t take him long to spot Louie “Free Ball” Williams. The octogenarian sat uncomfortably in his wheelchair under a gently yawing umbrella, swilling a potent potable that looked alarmingly like embalming fluid.
Williams raised his heavy lids, lifted his sagging chin, and peered at Bo from beneath a broad-brimmed straw hat. His languid, rheumy eyes denoted a man with one foot already in the grave. The curmudgeon’s mouth, awash in an ample pool of saliva, clutched a broad-leaf burley that jutted from his lips as if it were a permanent fixture.
“You must be my twelve o’clock,” he said in the raspy, half-whisper of a lifelong smoker while holding out his fragile, bony hand.
Bo eased up on his grip as a slight grimace surfaced at the corners of the dotard’s lips.
“Yes sir, Mr. Williams. Bo Benson. It’s a pleasure.”
“That remains to be seen. Louie will suffice,” he said, closing his eyes as if he were about to take a quick nap. “Jon has gone to great lengths in order to squeeze you into my insufferable schedule, so let’s not waste one tick of the clock. As you have probably surmised, time is of the essence as the darkest hour casts a shadow upon my door. So, why are we here today, Mr. Benson?” He sluiced the unlit, soggy stogie to the other side of his mouth.
Unsure how to respond, Bo’s viscera tightened into a turgid knot. He looked away and expelled a nervous little chuckle. “Obviously, to improve.”
Speaking rather sternly, Louie raised his voice an octave over his usual throaty whisper. “There is nothing obvious in regard to golf, Mr. Benson. As Ben Hogan was so fond of saying ‘Reverse every natural instinct and do the opposite of what you are inclined to do, and you will probably come very close to having a perfect golf swing.’”
Bo swallowed hard, wishing he were anywhere but there.
“Go ahead and hit a few so I know what we’re dealing with.”
After choking back sloshing bile that roiled in his gut, the apprentice made a few reasonable passes at the ball. Quite pleased, he stepped back to await the master teacher’s approval.
“What do you see when you play golf?” the omnipotent guru queried.
“Well, I don’t know. Lots of things.”
“I’ll need more specifics.”
“Besides the unmistakable beauty of the course, I try to visualize my shots.”
“Which consist of?”
“The shape I want to hit the ball, of course.”
“Mr. Benson, what type of work do you endeavor in?”
“I was a farmer for most of my life.”
“When you planted seed corn, did you cast it willy-nilly and expect it to grow?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why would you treat the necessary preparatory steps in planting the seeds of your preshot routine so haphazardly and expect good results?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Precisely; you don’t know. The process of hitting a golf shot begins long before and immediately after your cursory glance at the imaginary flight path. The visualization procedure should begin on the green and work backwards. Take, for example, the tee shot on a par three. First, you want to see the ball where you want it to finish—nice and white sitting up high on the bright green grass next to the hole. You want to hear the dull thud as the ball bites into the green and see it kicking up a bit of sand before it spins toward the hole. Next, you visualize its path, trajectory, and the shape necessary to arrive at its preordained destination. Then, and only then, do you envision yourself setting up and making the kind of swing that will turn those previous images into reality. Don’t get all bogged down in mechanics on the course. The time to tinker is on the range. The easiest way to swing is the simplest. One facile thought such as a nice, high, balanced finish will tie all the elements into one cohesive movement, assuming you have pre-programmed the computer correctly.”
Bo took the required amount of time to complete his new routine before striking a near-perfect shot.
“Better,” the taskmaster stated, unwilling to give his prodigy more credit than he deserved. “Now tell me, what club troubles you the most?”
“In addition to the putter, I’d have to say my driver. I don’t seem to achieve the distance I should be getting.”
“That same sentiment applies to every golfer who’s laced up a pair of spikes. Well, have at it, boy. I’m not getting any younger,” the grand pooh-bah barked.
Bo belted out one of his better drives and held his finish longer than usual while admiring his handiwork.
“Surprised you didn’t take a divot.”
“Why’s that? I’m hitting my driver.”
“That’s precisely my point, lad,” Louie said, tossing a three-and-a-half-inch tee at his feet. “It’s teed way too low. You’re hitting it on the downswing. Gotta hit it on the upswing if you want to maximize distance. Widen your base a little, play it farther up in your stance, and peg it high as possible.”
Bo looked down at the high-teed ball hovering well over the plane of his driver.
“If that scares the bejesus out of you, levitate your driver equal with the ball the way Big Jack does.”
Bo followed his instructions, but the new visual aid did little to calm his quaking nerves. He felt like such a fool the second time he knocked the ball off the tee. The old man shook his head ever-so-slightly and tossed down another belt of ardent spirits.
Bo was wary, but much to his surprise, when he finally connected with the ball it exploded off the clubface, reaching heights that made his head swoon. He watched in amazement when his ball came within sniffing distance of the three hundred yard mark.
“Ouch!” he screeched, shaking his hand as if the grip were too hot to handle.
“Like I told Sugar Ray once, you gotta land that upper cut if ya want a TKO. Now let’s see you putt a few.”
“Here on the range?”
“The manicured grass out here is better than most greens you’ll ever set foot on,” Louie said, looking at his watch and tapping the crystal before bringing it to his ear. “Get on with it,” he said impatiently. “The cocktail hour is upon us.”
The student dropped a couple of balls and manufactured the smoothest stroke possible.
“Miss most of your putts to the left.”
Bo looked at him inquisitively as he thought it over.
“That wasn’t a question, by the way. Nothing wrong with using the square-to-square method, but you end up taking it back slightly on the outside and hooded. Practice with a string or line. Take it straight back, and don’t be afraid to let that club naturally open slightly, just like on your full swing. Look, son, there are more ways to putt than excuses players make for their ineptness on the greens—and none of them are incorrect unless they don’t work. Square-to-square always seemed to me like the simplest and most logical way to putt, but here again, it’s different strokes for different folks. Practice what I told you and come back—that is, if you still got the balls. Take it from a man who lost his long ago,” he joked, flashing a gummy smile.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he continued. “I’ve got a date with the boys back at the Hickory Club.”
Bo jumped out of the way when Free Ball activated his motorized chair, nearly popping a wheelie upon his abrupt departure. He sped off in a huff, his bent and crippled body listing to one side as he was jostled about in his quest to quench his insatiable thirst.
The golf student stood there speechless as he tried to decipher all that had just taken place. The old man might be a great teacher, but his bedside manner left a little to be desired. Does he badger and intimidate all of his students? And if so, how does he get away with it? he wondered. One thing’s for certain: He did capture my full attention.