As we approached the second tee, Hugh swiveled toward me with the most transparently wooden simper ever affixed to a human countenance. It was his intention, I believe, to simulate benign goodwill and collegiality. If such was his aim, however, it failed miserably – for I immediately perceived the malignant expectancy lurking behind his grotesque facsimile of a smile. The second hole and I had a long and tortured history.
It was an uphill par-3, over a wooded ravine. The tiny green nestled snug back against a weathered stone wall laced with lichen and weeds, and beyond this wall rose the Esso tank farm. One of the farm's enormous gray storage tanks loomed imposingly over the wall, and threw a broad shadow across the green. Too strong a shot would send your ball into the thick heather tight against the weedy wall, from where a five was likely, and a six not out of the question. It was preferable by far to be short. But not too short. For between the tee box and the green yawned a bottom choked with trees, vines, mud, shrubs, and nettles. A narrow path led down from the tee through this small wilderness, then wound steeply upward to the green, a vertical climb of at least thirty feet. I attributed Hugh's deceitful grin to the fact that in years past I had personally interred great numbers of golf balls into this unforgiving quagmire, and this hole had been my private, personal incubus. Every new foul curse I learned as a youth had been discharged upon the second hole. No doubt, Hugh expected that my vocabulary of abuse would have increased with time. He was, therefore, looking forward with great anticipation – not well hidden by his makeshift grin – to my performance.
All of this, I deduced the very moment I observed the expression on his face, that horrible smirk.
Unfazed, however, I confidently conjured up a winning smile of my own.
“Ah, I remember this hole,” I announced.
“Do you?” Hugh replied distantly. “There's not much to it, really.”
I had the honors and stepped swiftly – nervously? - upon the tee. In truth, I had not really expected to win the first hole, after topping my 5-wood, and was therefore just the slightest bit unready. It was essential, however, to disguise my lack of preparedness and get down to business. I stood atop the tee in the pose of a conqueror, therefore, and judged the direction and speed of the wind. The elevated green appeared farther away than it actually was, which had always made it seem necessary to hit the ball very hard; the vagaries of the wind complicated things further, and would easily lead the novice into making flawed decisions.
Once long ago I had stood upon this very same tee, jaded from observing my 5 and 6-irons rise against the currents, hang briefly in the sky as if suspended by invisible strings, then plummet down into the dense, woody thicket, and had impulsively yanked my driver out of my bag. Hugh's eyebrows had shot up in alarm. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “Getting the ball to the green,” I had replied calmly. “Well, I expect you’ll do that,” he muttered trenchantly, as I turned a hard stare upon the ball – the type of stare, I had imagined briefly, in a narrow corner of my immature mind, that Mr. Player himself might fix upon a contemptible white pellet in need of discipline. Then I had hardened my stare even further, tightened my jaw, and unleashed an angry, brutal swing. And my ball did, indeed, clear the woods – that much could not be denied, for it soared high over the leafy thicket, cleared the green while on the rise, and was still gaining altitude above the nasty rock wall behind the green, before clanging thunderously into the huge gray Esso tank that sat solemnly overlooking the hole. The vile little orb then ricocheted off in some unknown direction, landing in some unknown place. I had lost track of its flight in the drooping sun, but hoped the detestable and unworthy ball would die a painful death, perhaps gnawed to bits by a famished goat.
Following this rash and shocking exhibition in the early years of my association with Milford's second hole, neither Hugh nor I had uttered a word. As the metallic reverberation from the ball's violent impact against the Esso tank died away, I had stepped quietly aside and watched meekly as Hugh lofted a smooth mid-iron slightly to the right of the green, near pin-high. Then up the path we had trudged, Hugh forging a few paces ahead. I trailed silently behind, wool-headed, and considering that smashing a driver on a par-3 was probably not, actually, what Mr. Player would have counseled.
Poised on this identical second tee again now, thirty-five years later, and gazing up over the same brush-choked gulley to the same small green – has it shrunk … I don’t remember it this small! - I disliked the fact that this bleak memory had percolated to the surface of my mind. Why was that insignificant bout of recklessness from the past still lurking in my brain at all? What tiny handhold, what minute crevice in the ledge over which a myriad other memories had tipped and fallen, had this particular incident been doggedly gripping for all this time? And for what possible reason? It was baffling. And should not be dwelt upon. For history would not repeat itself today. Of that, I promised myself. Oh no - I was a wise and mature player now, seasoned by time and experience.
I bent over and teed my ball, but caught just a glance of Hugh's face as I straightened up; which was quite unfortunate, as I had not intended to acknowledge his presence at all. He wore a blank expression, however, and revealed no trace of the huge excitement I knew was burbling inside; his expectation, perhaps even his certainty, that fate would laughingly compel me yet one more time to lash some grotesque shot deep into the dark and tangled abyss.
These were the thoughts I knew Hugh was harboring, savoring even, like a tasty bun, at that very moment. These were also the kinds of thoughts I needed urgently to banish, lest … well, lest history, indeed, repeat itself. Which most assuredly would not occur, not in any way, shape, or form. History was dead, I lectured myself sternly; dead, gone, and forgotten.
Before realizing what I was doing, however, I stepped away from the ball and found myself squinting narrow-eyed at Hugh. “I know what you’re thinking,” I said curtly.
“What's that?” he asked distractedly, his countenance a mask of innocent disinterest. “I was just wondering if you were ever going to hit the ball.”
I addressed my ball again, horrified to have taken notice of his existence, much less exchanged words.
“You don’t want the wind to turn,” he noted nonchalantly.
I set my feet and concentrated on relaxing my arms and shoulders. “There isn’t any wind,” I said.
“Oh,” he replied, again in that same faraway tone. “Sorry.”
I flung one final look at my target, the green draped invitingly yet precariously on the knoll above the woods, the flag motionless – and suddenly wondered if a 7-iron was enough club. At the moment, I felt not even a whisper of a breeze; but the wind could swirl up from nowhere, gusts could shoot in from the sea without the slightest warning. I had seen it many times. If such were to happen now, a 7 would be far too little, and a 4 or 5 would be better. I detected not the faintest stir, however, not the slightest draft or zephyr, and a 4-iron struck well on a windless day would surely rocket back against the merciless stone wall, and leave an impossible second shot. Moreover, it was unthinkable to switch clubs now, with Hugh loitering indolently and watching, his irritating veil of placidity hiding what I knew to be his hungry presentiment of my doom. I had the right club. The 7 was perfect, I assured myself grimly. But it was only perfect if I actually swung the bloody thing – and now it was time to swing.
I commenced the takeaway, slow and smooth, arms loose, my breathing even and unhurried. All was off to a good start. Arriving at the top of my backswing, everything remained in good order. For the briefest of moments, a mere sliver of a second, I looked ahead to the soft contact at impact, the ball elevating effortlessly into the air, riding blithely over the woods, then drawing slightly before landing with a neat plop near the pin. It was a beautiful vision, in which playfully chirping songbirds and rays of warm sunshine also seemed to play a part, and I smiled inwardly, much as I knew Mr. Flynn would be smiling, somewhere, when my ball dropped sweetly beside the fluttering flag. Surely, I stood upon the cusp of a shot of sublime beauty, certain to capture my old friend Hugh's admiration! Surely that, and more, a birdie putt – a string of birdies – and why not an eagle too on one of the par-5's waiting ahead, just for the fun of it? A happy chorus of songbirds sounded melody in my ears! What cheer! What joy!
But no, alas no – it was not to be.
The songbirds ceased their singing and began, instead, to scream like winged and flesh-devouring banshees; the trilling birds and the drowsy sunshine evaporated in a blink, and I – well, it had come time for me to move to the next position on my endless circle of golfing fate. For, as I commenced my downswing, without the faintest glimmer of warning, my charming dream dissolved, and I was seized, deep amid the bowels, by the glorious desire – no, the absolute necessity, the absolute rampant compulsion, overtly carnivorous in nature - to blast the puny, impudent white golf ball cowering at my feet far, far beyond the wooded depression, high over the grey Esso tanks, high across the glistening Haven, out into and across the Atlantic Ocean and toward the rocky shores of Greenland – to which mad and frothy purpose I accelerated with all the violence my frame could muster, barely nicked the top of the ball, and watched in horror as it skipped merrily down the grassy slope into the tree-filled gulley, there to disappear.
My eyelids fluttered briefly in the radiant sun.
Had I just scuffed my ball down the hill, into the briars and muck?
Really?
I furrowed my brow, hopeful I had just imagined the entire ghastly thing; hopeful I was still paused at the top of my backswing, and had not, in fact, slipped unknowingly through a slit in time where my old neuroses ran loose like dogs off their leads. But no, no, it was true, too true. I had somehow lost complete control of myself before even realizing it. And by the time my senses had returned, the deed had been done. My ball lay buried in the wooded bog, nowhere near the green, the Esso tanks, or indeed the coast of Greenland. Buried and lost yet again, in the damnable quagmire; another sacrificial victim, sustenance for another starving goat. Hugh stood observing it all, his gray eyes flat and unblinking. The fates had won. To which I could only remark, in my mind, “Well, of course.”
Nothing to do but carry on.
“Your shot,” I murmured casually to Hugh as I backed slowly off the tee, moving just a bit like an old man might move, stiff in the joints and a little foggy in the head. I thought my voice might have quivered a tad, most undesirably. I discreetly cleared my throat. The raucous jeering of the crows seemed to be fading away in the distance, and the luminous sun – which had seen it all - had crept, perhaps with disappointment, behind the clouds.
“My pleasure,” he responded politely.
Efficiently, and without further ado, Hugh drew a 5-iron from his bag and dropped his shot just short of the front of the green. Once again, I scaled the tee. There was still no wind. This time I took my aim, gave a single waggle, and struck a 6-iron long and to the left. We trudged soundlessly down the path into the clough, where I had put to rest an entire generation of golf balls, and had just now interred a new one, out of the daylight and into the deep and suddenly cool shade, then up toward the green and the great looming Esso tank, sere and commanding beyond the old stone wall.
I had a recurring dream. Three or four times a year, I dreamt that I was returning to Milford Haven. Sometimes I returned on the train, and craned my head out the window as we approached the little platform, smiling, silly with anticipation, the station hazy in the distance but sharpening into focus as we neared - then suddenly my friends waving and calling, surrounding me as the train huffed to a halt and I stepped off into the happy swarm. On other occasions I simply found myself in Milford, in some restaurant or shop, at school, on the golf course, strolling along the street with my chums, riding the bus, hiking a rocky coastal trail amid wildflowers, butterflies, cliffs, and clover. Always, I was serene and contented.
Waking after one of these idylls, I would dally in bed, close my eyes, and bask briefly in the reverie that I remained, indeed, in Milford; that I had cheated time, and resided yet among my special circle of boon mates in the carefree flush of youth, and would never have to leave. If the dream had been particularly deep and strong, I would spend the morning in a downcast funk, puttering through paperwork, busywork, vaguely sad, full of longing. As the years passed and I resigned myself to never returning, the intensity of the pining lessened, but never entirely vanished. And the dreams never went away.
Finding myself in a bookstore, I was prone to wandering into the Travel section, there to leaf through travel guides, searching for any mention of Milford. Once, with great melancholy, I read a passage in a Fromers or Fodors, to the effect that “This once-bustling fishing port, which boasts the deepest natural waterway in Europe, has declined precipitously since the oil refineries closed in the early 80's. The town now presents a rather drab appearance, and no industries have arisen to take the place of the departed oil industry. An effort is underway to transform the marina into a tourism center, and the town's proximity to the stunning Pembrokeshire Coast should make it a convenient base from which to explore this uncrowded and unspoiled region.”
Such gloomy words conjured up unwanted visions of my old confederates dragging about the streets in shabby, dirty overcoats, sallow, poorly fed, and drained of color. I felt as if someone had lifted the cover off an object which I remembered as being beautiful and sparkling, revealing it now, scrutinized with the cold realism of adulthood instead of the soft and impressionable faculties of adolescence, as dreary and ordinary; as if I’d suddenly learned that something I valued greatly actually had no value at all, and that I was foolish for having so misjudged its true worth. But this feeling never lasted. A paragraph in a guidebook was but a wee pellet against the fortress of my youthful memories, and Milford Haven remained, in my memory, a golden place, where I had spent a golden time.
Hugh won the second hole, of course. I gave but a cursory glance toward the waterlogged debris at the bottom of the shadowy ravine as we passed through on our way up to the green, and a curt “No” when Hugh inquired if I wished to stop and search for my ball. It was enough that I had again dismembered myself on this miserable hole; why chance unearthing some dirty, scarred, mummified artifact left over from some other horrible shot three decades earlier? I declined, therefore, to look for my ball – in fact, steadfastly refused even to think about it – and marched stoically up to the green.
Once there, I sighed quietly and muttered a fresh foul oath as Hugh chipped to within three feet of the pin, sank the putt, and squared the match.
“That's hard luck,” he remarked sympathetically, as he strode to retrieve his ball from the cup. “Do you want to stretch a bit before the next hole?”