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| Car Washes and Range Tokens |
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| Written by Sara Woodward |
| Monday, 08 March 2010 14:04 |
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Irons were stacked around the room in various states of repair. In bundles or propped against the wall. One was clamped in the vice. It looked like a seven iron which had seen better days. The workshop floor was covered with iron filings and bits of tape soaked in white spirit. Coffee cups sat on ledges with sugary silver spoons resting against the handles. In the bin, an apple core and half eaten stale cheese and pickle roll. A tub of green Swarfega was next to the vice, its top wedged back at a crooked angle. A calendar showing sheep grazing on the hillside in the Highlands was taped to the wall. Someone had written ‘pay the milkman’ in thick black letters and ‘buy Mum some flowers’ in green felt tip pen. Somewhere a radio was playing Johnny Cash’s ‘Walk the Line’ and stacked on top of the unseen radio was a pile of sun dried newspapers with curled edges and half completed crosswords. Don’t use this for a few hours”, he said as he re-gripped the club and checked the line ran dead centre down the shaft. He held a small pair of pliers and his blue-grey apron was covered with oil marks and grease stains. He had grime under his fingernails but he was a craftsman and held the club as gently as a butterfly. I looked out of the window. The sun had come out and my car was coated in grime from the snow, salt and grit. The number plate had almost disappeared and the windows had lost their shine. “About time you cleaned that dirty car” he said as I swopped the cash for the club. Afterwards I thought back to that little workshop with its metallic smell and iron filings and I remembered his words. Drifts of nodding snowdrops appeared in the hedgerows and the ice melted on the lakes. The greens were back and the fairways muddy. The Swindle swung back into action and went from drinking caffeine to taking drops from casual water. Ferries and trains were booked for the golf trip to France and lots drawn for room sharing and top bunks. Bill booked the hotel and took the hit on his credit card. Sid found his swing and got 36 points with two blobs. Biggles said he would make a flying visit from Bahrain and Pancake and Gus planned their next match. Mrs. Pancake was still in plaster and Pancake had gone down with flu. When a man is too ill to eat, he is ill. Pancake did no eat, read or text. He slept, sweated and slept and dreamt of a Swedish Au Pair. The Priest called and thought about the Last Rites but lit a candle instead. Bill began to plan his trip to The Masters with its bikini waxed greens and sycophantic microphones. Divot talked about buying some new clubs and Sid swopped motor magazines with Big Rich and talked about tyre treads. Ruggy found a loop in her swing and The Sheriff was due back from New Zealand with a sun tan and tales to tell about the Land of the Low Cloud. It was time for some practice. Most driving ranges take gold tokens with double headed eagle logos on one side. They do not fit in parking meters or supermarket trolleys and can only be traded for balls of dubious quality. One of the Swindlers had discovered a neat trick of going into a certain garage and purchasing car wash tokens. Identical to the range tokens and half the price. I tried my luck. “Three car wash tokens please” I said to the bored till attendant. I handed over the money and waited for the tokens which I could exchange for three hundred golf balls. That would cover a few sessions at the range. In return for the money I got three pieces of paper with a hash number for the car wash. I had gone into the wrong garage. “See you again” said the bored attendant. I left with a clean car and two pieces of paper. I headed to the range, handed over the money and loaded up the baskets of balls. The Pro was giving a lesson at one end and I tucked into one of the bays with my legally purchased balls. I did a few stretches and warmed up with some half swings with the pitching wedge. Somewhere the Swindle would have reached the turn and be stocking up with coffee and chocolate bars. They would be counting the points and ready for the back nine. I checked my alignment and grip and tucked a glove under my left arm. I had seen Harrington do it on the practice range at The Open last summer. Bob Torrance had watched him hit the balls and his strike was good. He went on to win so it seemed a good drill. He had come on a long way since Pancake had met him all those years ago when he didn’t turn his shoulders. “Feel the club at the top” said the Pro in the next bay. “Then you can work out your transition”. “I can hit it to the 150 yard marker” said his pupil. “I want to go on the course”. “Not until you can feel that transition” the Pro repeated again. “Then you can take it to the course”. The Pro watched as his pupil hit the balls and he squeezed the hand warmer in his waterproofs. The transition was proving a problem. “Let me show you what I mean” he said, pushing the pupil off the mat. The kid looked bored. “Remember to bring the club inside the line after the transition” he said and handed the club back. His pupil was a kid of six. Blond spiky hair, brown eyes and cute as Bambi. He could not spell ‘transition’. He couldn’t say it because he had lost his two front teeth and left them under the pillow for the tooth fairy. I wanted to tell the Pro to give him his money back. I wanted to say keep it simple Stupid, but instead I pulled my hat down over my ears and tried not to drop the glove. The adjacent bay did not remain empty for long. It was occupied by Loud and Louder and they had come to fix a slice. “See this is what you do, yeah” said Slice Man. He then proceeded to hold the club with a weak grip and aimed left with his feet. The ball was positioned forward and he came across the ball from the top imparting out to in spin. The ball sliced beautifully. “So what you’ve got to do is aim more left” Get your feet pointing out to the left more and that way you got loads of room for when the ball comes round”. The pearls of wisdom imparted they proceeded to hit their balls and ingrain their faults. Beautifully. They swung from out to in, they swore, they sliced. By the time I had hit my fifty balls, they had leathered two hundred with their drivers. Most of them had been sliced but the more they sliced the more they aimed to the left. They had turned up with a kid. “Let me show you what to do “ said Slice Man and passed on the sins of the father. Then he taught him another lesson. About honesty. “I’ll give you a fiver if you don’t tell your mum we came here. Say we went to the supermarket”. So the kid had a lesson in how to slice a ball and how to lie to his mum. They finished slicing and lying and went off to get a big Mac and fries with strawberry milkshake. The kid having the lesson with the Pro gave up on feeling the club at the top and went into bored kid mode. “I want my Mum and some chocolate and I’m cold” he said and skipped off to the vending machine. I picked up my three clubs and went to find my clean car. I called into the Club Repairer. “Can you just check this grip is still square” I said. “Not sure if I gave it long enough to dry”. He took the club and set about re-aligning the grip. “See you got the car cleaned” he said handing back the club. “Yeah, they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse” I said leaving the little workshop with its ordered chaos and coffee cups. I placed the seven wood gently on the back seat and went off to find some supper. The clean car sat in the garage and in the glove compartment were two tickets for the car wash. Somewhere a child slept under the stairs and dreamt of telling lies and slicing golf balls. Another child dreamt of Batman and finding something called transition. The seven wood sat quietly in the hall and the grip dried square down the centre of the shaft.
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