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| The Man In Black |
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| Written by Sara Woodward |
| Monday, 08 February 2010 10:55 |
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Divot worked nights and played golf during the week. Every night he would head off to the city and cross paths with tired commuters heading home from their busy day. He worked as the city slept and slept as it woke. On his golf days he would set the alarm and catch a few hours REM before getting ready for golf. That particular day began as any other day. There was nothing to mark it out as different. There were no shooting stars in sky when he hit the sack and the alarm pierced his sub conscious as it did most mornings. He could have switched his phone off, turned over and gone back to sleep. But he would have missed his date with destiny. He always had breakfast in his dressing gown. On that particular day he had scrambled egg on toast. He cooked the eggs in the microwave and the kitchen smelt of strong black coffee and toast. Two slices, brown. The microwave pinged and he gave the eggs a final stir before putting them on the toast. He sipped the strong coffee, waited for the caffeine to kick in and rubbed his eyes. Normally a brown sauce man, he opted for the hot chilli and sprinkled it over the eggs, turned up the radio and sipped the coffee again. In between Kings of Leon and The Killers, he heard the weather report. Dry with a cold wind from the north east. Slight chance of sleet, turning to snow later. He checked his watch and threw the plates in the dishwasher. His shave was quick, the razor sharp. Gillette, with a new blade. It took him two minutes to shower. Divot dressed for the weather and pulled his second skin roll neck over his torso. He was built for the front row. An ex hooker and the fit was snug. Second skins are made to be snug. This was snug. His trousers were black and his black club jumper gave him a second layer. His shoes were clean. Black. Size nine. He put his glove in his golf bag. Black. He was the Man in Black. All he needed was a bit of luck and flowing traffic and he would make the tee time. As it turned out, he got the luck and more. At the club, the fire was burning and a twirl of smoke headed into the wintry sky. The morning paper had been delivered and the sports section was open on the golf page. The sun chasing pampered Pros on the European were catching flights, banking cheques and ringing home. Their caddies were cleaning the clubs, reading the next yardage book and finding the nearest burger bar. The course was quiet. It was a bitter mid winter day. A day to sit by the fire and read a book. Catch up on paperwork, send emails. Check out Ebay or catch the latest Hollywood release. But the siren song of the dimpled ball called across the fairways. Only the hardiest ventured out on that bleak mid winter’s day with three tee times booked. Two of them were for the Swindle. They sat round the fire with its yellow flames and burning logs, drank caffeine and slung banter around the table. Handicaps were discussed. A new year, a new start. Cuts made where cuts were due. The Busman had lost a shot. Big Rich found two and reverted to fourteen. Divot was a constant 8.5 and Pancake was absent remained on seven. For now. Gus had kept his single figures and Sid was still an honest eighteen. “We’re going to be late for our tee time” said Honest Sid. They left the warmth of the fire, the sports section still open on the golf page and walked out to the first tee to wait for the green to clear. Ahead was a four ball. Four guys out for the day and not in a hurry. They did not have to keep up with the group ahead. There was no group ahead. They went at their pace. Gus, Divot, and the crew waited. And waited. The ball drop was fair, the balls scattered across the hard ground. Ruggy took her usual position on the tee. Pole position. “How comes you always go first?” said Gus. Ruggy did not reply. She turned, hinged, swung and put the ball on the green. “That’s why” she said. Big Rich drew The Busman and Gus got the ball with the anchor. When the green was clear, we played our shots, got the par and were one down to The Busman and Big Rich. “Birdie, Gus. We need the birdie to win this hole” I said. Divot hit his tee shot on the second and still he had no idea about his date with destiny and the phone call had yet to be made. His drive had slight south paw draw on it and ended up right of centre. Par was looking good until he hit the next shot tight to the tree line. After eight sloth like holes behind the one pace four ball, The Busman and Big Rich were one point clear. On the ninth, the leading four ball glanced behind and called out, “We’ll call you through at the eleventh” before plodded ponderously on their way. Gus put his tee shot on nine left of the bunker. It grazed the fairway, took a kick and sat tight to a fence. The Busman found the fairway and had a long shot into the green. Gus chipped backwards and Big Rich never found his tee shot. The Busman had found the fairway and landed short in two, with a shot. He fluffed his chip shot. “Just get the par and we are level” said Gus. The putt missed and we lost the front nine. The fourball played their shots to the short par three. Only one ball found the green. Two found bunkers and one was wide and sat near the little green halfway hut which served homemade cakes and lemonade on soft summer days. The four ball stood to side of the green and waited for the three ball to play. They were very close to the small green and had premier ringside seats. Whether it had any bearing on the destiny of Divot will never be known. Stroke index seventeen, one hundred and thirty six yards from the white tees. The green was neck laced by bunkers and the flag was front middle. There was a slight breeze and the temperature had plummeted since the tee shots to the short par three at the first hole. It was eleven forty-five Greenwich Mean Time. The Man in Black looked at the flag and checked the card. It would play eight yards less from the middle of the green. He took his 48 degree wedge, regular shaft and aligned his clubface to the pin. Divot was methodical. He stuck to routine and he stood over the ball. It took him twenty four seconds to pull the trigger. The four ball watched the Man in Black. When questioned afterwards, they would always say they were there and it was the ball struck by the Man In Black. Ruggy hit her tee shot into the bunker and chipped in for birdie. Sid found the green, two putted and got the par. They looked over at the four ball and the four ball looked back. On the twelfth it began to sleet with a smattering of snow. Big Rich and The Busman were beaten on the last putt on the eighteenth green. They took it with good grace. “I can’t believe you sunk that putt” said Big Rich. “That was our match”. We headed in for tea and toast by the log fire. Divot had a date with the school gate. “See you Monday” he said. And he smiled. It was left to Sid and the four ball to verify the story of the eleventh hole and the truth about the Man in Black. They watched his tee shot land on the green on the eleventh hole. The black Titleist ProV1 landed on the green, checked, took one bounce and fell into the cup. So Divot had his date with destiny. He had beaten The Postie’s New Year Resolution and got the Hole In One. Golf exists somewhere between shanks, slices hooks. Chips ins, monster birdie putts and the nirvana of the dimpled ball whacker. The ultimate dream of every fairway walker. The elusive search by the scratch man or the hacker. The Hole in One. The shot of dreams beyond avarice. Forever replayed on the memory’s hard drive. Bagged by the Man in Black. He watched it hit the green and roll into the hole. There were no marching bands. No high fives or jumping up and down. No ‘he’s the man’ echoed across the fairways of PG Wodehouse. The flag was not taken as a souvenir. Just a quiet shake of the hand, an exchange of smiles, a pat on the back. The Swindle were full of admiration. “Must have been those scrambled eggs with hot chilli sauce” said Sid. “My bunker shot was better” said Ruggy. “I have got three of them” said the Busman. “You just got lucky” said Big Rich. The tee times were booked for the following week and the logs still crackled in the grate. A few days later the phone rang and we spoke to another Man In Black. We made the last long journey to the lighthouse on the headland to say our farewells, to a loved one who had slipped away on the morning tide. There would be no more cups of tea and lemon drizzle cake. We left our words on the on the wintry shore line and softly dropped tear smudged roses in a rock pool for the incoming tide.
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The Man In Black