THE ANNUAL MERCHANDISE show is always worth the trouble of fighting the crowds; you can load up on free stuff—golf balls, shirts, visors, ball markers, posters. I was in the drawing for the super range finder, the one that also shows TV channels, movies, and golf instruction, but I didn’t win. I was lucky in another way, though. I got the last posters that were left of Blubber Oates and Frecklebelly Edwards, two of my favorite Tour players.
Every exhibit had new things to promote.
My first stop was at the golf cart booth. The cart was bright yellow. It was a four-seater with the steering wheel wrapped in a sable cover. It was equipped with air-conditioning and central heating with push-button windows and plush leather seats. The computer and TV were on the dash, and there was a microwave oven and foldout service bar in back.
A beautiful young model in a bikini was sitting in the cart.
I asked the exhibitor how much the cart was.
He said, “With or without Malya?”
“Who’s Malya?”
“The young lady in the cart.”
“She goes with the cart?”
“That would be up to you.”
“How much is the cart by itself?”
“Right at twelve thousand, five hundred.”
“How much with Malya?”
“Wait a second,” the exhibitor said. He went to speak to Malya.
He returned and said, “A million four, but that’s only for the first six months.”
I said, “I’m not sure the missus would like having Malya underfoot. Is there something going on in the world of golf I don’t know about?”
He said, “We’re losing players, pal. Every year. The game’s become too stodgy for the new generation. We’re trying to keep the recreational golfers we have in this country, and attract new ones.”
Malya smiled at me and tossed her hair.
The exhibitor said, “There’s one other feature to this cart you may like. It goes up to seventy miles an hour.”
“Why would I want to go seventy miles an hour in a golf cart?”
He said, “Let’s say you’ve hooked your tee shot in the rough. You want to get to your ball before the others in your foursome, right? Give yourself a little better lie? All you do is use your right foot. You’re there.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, and moved on.
A voice on the PA system announced that Stat Man Shields would be starting his lecture on his new golf scoring system on Aisle 6. I wandered over.
Stat Man Shields didn’t seem to mind that there were only four of us in his audience. This included the six-month-old baby in a backpack on a man in shorts, T-shirt, and flipflops who was practicing his putting stroke with a purchase he’d made earlier.
Stat Man Shields was saying, “This is the same system I’ve used to prove that Felix Serafin was a better golfer than Sam Snead … that Al Watrous had a better scoring average in the Open than Bobby Jones, and so on and so forth. You can’t simply go by the score a golfer shoots if you want to know how well he’s playing the game. There’s more involved. One example. Does a putt that goes in from off the froghair count as much as a putt of the same length on the green? No. You subtract a half point. Another example. Does a drive in the first cut deserve the same two points as a drive of comparable distance in the fairway? No. Subtract one-fourth of a point if it’s a par-5 hole, one half point if it’s a par-4. Hitting the green on a par-3 is worth one point. Missing the green is no penalty unless you’re in the water. When you add up all the points at the end of the day, and measure the total against the odds of thirty-six one-hundredths over fifty-five one-hundredths, you will have a good idea of what kind of round you shot. Questions?”
I had only one. “Who let you out?”
THE PUTTER MAN. That was the sign on the booth. The proprietor could have passed for a Texas Ranger. He wore his Stetson barely above eye level. Pressed Western shirt, neatly creased jeans, ostrich boots.
On display was a variety of traditional putters. No bellies or broomsticks. Only old Armours, Cash-ins, Bullseyes, and Ted Smith Mallets. All of them in mint condition. Mixed in with the Pings, Camerons, Mortal Locks, what have you.
There was a decent crowd standing around. I managed to work my way up to the front row.
The Putter Man, who wore a Stetson and could pass for a ranch foreman, was holding up a Bullseye.
“Now, this dude,” he said. “What I’ve got right here will get the job done. When the flash mobs come over the fence and onto the fairway to get your goods, you can take out the first wave by yourself. Pop, pop, pop, pop. Like that.”
He went on. “The trigger on this dude is down on top of the blade. The shaft is loaded with nine-millimeter Golden Sabre 147 grain jacketed hollow points. You can get thirteen hundred feet a second at the muzzle.”
I looked at the other people. They were absorbed.
I said, “All these putters you have are made into weapons, like guns?”
“You bet your sweet life, they are,” he said. “I designed ’em myself and did the work. You must not be keepin’ up with the news. In the past two months alone, we’ve had twelve robberies on golf courses right here in Northwest Central Mid-Texas. The scum come out of nowhere. Sometimes they take more than your money; they drive off with the whole dern cart.”
I asked what the police were doing about it.
“The police?” he said. “I’ll tell you what the police is good for. When the police ain’t causing traffic jams by stoppin’ old ladies to check their IDs, they get a call about a break-in, go to the wrong address, and shoot an innocent man watering his front yard.”
The Putter Man said there was another splendid use for his putters.
“With one of these,” he said, “you can take care of the assistant pro who sold you the square-head hybrid for $550 when it should have cost $119. Go in the shop with this putter when there’s nobody around, and pop-pop-pop.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Are we talking about actually shooting people?”
The Putter Man said, “No, my man, we’re not. For the good of golf, we’re talkin’ about killin’ people that ought to be kilt.”
Holding on to my posters, I scurried out of the merchandise hall as quickly as possible without knocking anyone down.