MOST AMATEUR GOLFERS fall into two categories: those who cheat on their handicaps and those who don’t. Those who cheat hold to the belief that you can never have too many silver trays, silver bowls, and silver pitchers in one home. Those who don’t cheat have this fear that if they even consider the idea, God will steer them into freeway accidents that will leave them with incurable slices for the rest of their lives, if not, in fact, dead.
But handicap thieves provide for interesting discussions. A group of us came together the other day in the men’s grill and talked about it.
We started when Rob dropped in and blinded us with his chest. Rob’s chest was covered in gold coins on gold chains dangling around his neck. They were clearly visible, as his pirate shirt was unbuttoned to the waist.
The jewelry and shirt did not detract from his out-of-season tan, the obvious evidence of a face-lift, his Elvis pompadour, and his tight white slacks.
“Rob, it’s the new you,” somebody said.
“It goes better with my lifestyle,” Rob said. “You know how many movie people I hang with when I hit the Coast.”
“You’re a sick man, Rob.”
“Yo!” Rob said. “I’m invited to Pebble Beach … the Springs … Vegas four times a year. I know guys who’d kill for that.”
“It doesn’t bother you to take a 26 with you? We know you’re a four.”
“Man, everybody’s a thief out there. You ought to see what the guys from Goldman Sachs bring.”
Rob said he did have one problem. He’d met this babe in Carmel. She was hot. Really hot. They’d gotten involved. But the last time he was with her she told him the thing she admired most in a man was honesty. Rob couldn’t decide whether to tell her about his wife and two kids.
I said, “I don’t see how that’s a problem for you, Rob. It’s only a moral question.”
“Hey, that’s right,” Rob said. “I’m cool.”
Floyd recalled the time he was making business calls on customers and stopped by Rock Creek Muny on the other side of town. He thought he’d have a cup of coffee with Skeeter Morris, the head pro. Skeeter was an old buddy.
Floyd and Skeeter were sitting in the pro shop when this guy came in. Skeeter introduced him to Floyd. His name was A.R. something.
“I don’t know what it is, Skeeter,” A.R. said, displaying an awkward practice swing. He had the flying elbow and a choppy finish.
He wore a rain hat, ragged jeans, a dingy golf shirt, and scuffed-up brown golf shoes.
He said, “I haven’t broken 95 in six months. I can’t find a fairway with an Indian guide. I hit every iron crooked. I wish I could get back to my 12, Skeeter. I can’t come no closer to a 12 right now than I can to a pretty woman.”
Skeeter said, “I’m tied up, but Floyd here is a good player. Maybe you can talk him into going nine with you … give you some pointers.”
Floyd said it was a pretty day and he could put off making the rest of his calls. He got his clubs out of his car and met A.R. on the first tee.
A.R. said, “You know, as much as I love this game, I seem to try harder if I’ve got a little something going. What say you give me three up, and we play nine for a hundred, press to get even on the last hole if you need to.”
Floyd looked the guy over. He was taking peculiar practice swings with an old persimmon driver. The clubhead took up turf once or twice. Floyd gave him the three up.
A.R. teed off first and striped it down the fairway with a much different swing. The drive went about 285.
“I’ll be damned,” A.R. said. “How in the world did that thing find the fairway? Luck was my friend that time.”
Addressing his approach shot with a five-iron, he said, “I never know what to expect with this club. Shank. Top. Scoop. Here goes nothin’.”
The shot flew 165 yards, landed on the green, and settled in two feet from the flag.
“Whoa!” he yelled. “Where’d that come from?”
Floyd handed the guy a $100 bill, slid into his cart, and turned toward the clubhouse.
A.R. said, “You givin’ up? Lot of holes left. You sure?”
Floyd said, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Jim Ed joined us. He entered complaining.
“I’m fed up,” he said. “I played my heart out last week in Houston. I ran the table on the greens for three rounds. My worst score was 68. I carried my partner the whole way. We finished 37 under. But guess what?”
“You came in twentieth,” somebody said.
“Not even close,” Jim Ed said. “It took 43 under to win … 39 under to get tenth. We didn’t even win a pie plate. I’m tired of watching some diddy-bump drop-case who can’t hit it out of this room walk off with all the hardware.”
“What’s your handicap now?” Floyd asked.
“They gave me a three there, but you know I’m scratch.”
“There’s your problem. You need a California handicap.”
“How would I do that?”
Jim Ed was kind of naive.
Floyd said, “It would take a while, but it would be worth it to you. I know how much you love golf and how much you like to compete.”
Jim Ed was told to play twenty rounds at the club with different people, but throw in disasters. Hit balls in the water. Hook drives out of bounds. Four-putt three or four greens. Stub as many chip shots as possible, but make it look accidental. Mix up the disasters with the good holes. Follow up a birdie with a hard-luck 10. Turn in a bunch of 85s and 87s. The pro would attest to his scores. He could be an 18 in no time.
Jim Ed looked excited.
“I’ll do it!” he said. “I’ll get me an 18. Then, by God, we’ll see who can play this game and who can’t.”