BACK NINE THE AUSTIN GOLF CLUB STORIES

Cleats of Clay

There was recurring chatter amongst the members of the Austin Golf Club about its finances. The chatter was based on paranoia and a keen understanding of human nature. Because Reggie Penworthy had personally bankrolled the purchase of the golf course from the city when the economy crumbled, the members felt overly beholden to this enigmatic character who none felt close to and who kept the ledgers hidden from inspection. His devotion to the course might shift into another interest such as gluing rocks together or collecting flattened cutlery and leave the club up Waller Creek without a wedge.             Indeed the members paid an initiation and monthly fees (the former was waived for the group who had been longtime regulars at the public course, the group  known as the senior members), but this money was, by their rough and drunk calculations, not adequate to cover costs. Thus they felt insecure and took it upon themselves to plan some events to generate more income.             After an ill-fated attempt at a general membership meeting—kept secret from Penworthy—that devolved into squabbling and one golf tee inserted up the nose of Barker Baines Johnson by Alfred Joe Littlefield, it was decided that a suggestion box be put out for one week to gather ideas, including those from members wise enough to not speak up at meetings. A group composed of Paul B (the most junior senior member), Sinfonia Dugger (an avid golfer and thorn in various sides), and Darian Porter (one of the younger, trendier members) was selected to review and choose any viable options.  The complete list of suggestions: One day a week rent the course out as a leash-free dog park. Build a giant nuclear-attack-proof bunker under the course and sell time shares. Allow the fairways to be changed to advertising-covered artificial turf. Trick two or three very wealthy dumb guys into joining at an exorbitant fee that Penworthy wasn’t told about. Add disc golf baskets to the greens and get a second membership group. Sell biofuel made from the grass clippings and the old grease from the grill. Charge members a fee for each stroke taken. Burn down the clubhouse and get the insurance money. Have the Rolling Stones play a benefit concert. Everyone just believe that the money will come and it will. Drill for oil, especially on the dogleg on hole number 2. Grow marijuana in the rough and sell it. Cut down all the trees, especially on the dogleg on hole number 2, and sell the timber.        The meeting where Paul B, Sinfonia Dugger, and Darian Porter reviewed the list was listless. That is, someone had lost the list, so they decided to come up with their own ideas, knowing the ones from the members would be imbecilic anyway.       After fumbling through some weak bake sale / car wash / raffle obviousness, Darian Porter mentioned that one of his uncles was Pug Snodgrass, an Oklahoma golfer whose one professional victory on the PGA Tour was the 1968 U.S. Open—the year of the disqualification of the top six golfers for use of morning glory seeds.  Maybe they could charge a few high rollers from Austin for an exhibition and lessons from Snodgrass. Although it would be a one-time event, rather than a steady source of income, it sounded more plausible than anything else, so an enthusiastic announcement was issued to the club.   *     *     *         Snodgrass was quite willing and asked for a reasonable retainer for his services so the plan went forward. Somewhat to their surprise, given the lousy economy and Snodgrass’s modest and aged claim to fame, twenty people from outside the Austin Golf Club signed up for the all-morning event, at $300 a pop.       The clubhouse was decorated in a 1968 theme, with the club members in attendance to be decked out in bell bottoms and love beads. Long arguments were fought over the mix tape of background music for the luncheon in the clubhouse. Decades-old arguments over the superiority of Procol Harum vs. the Moody Blues reemerged with undiluted passion.       Finally the big day arrived, with the event to kick off at 9 am. Darian arrived at 8:50, sweating buckets. “Has anyone seen my uncle Pug? I was supposed to pick him up at the hotel at 8 and take him to breakfast, but he wasn’t there. I’ve been looking everywhere.” The clubhouse was quickly searched without success.       By 9, the attendees were gathered on the tee box where Snodgrass was to put on his opening exhibition. For a few minutes they were content to interact and sip the Irish coffees they were plied them with, but by 9:10 watches were being checked. Suddenly a golf ball landed exactly where Snodgrass was to stand. It bounced forward twice, bit, and rolled back to its landing spot. Everyone jumped back in surprise. They looked down the fairway and saw a figure 200 yards away wearing flaming red plus fours and a turquoise-and-lime green plaid shirt. He waved happily, jumped in a golf cart, and took off toward them at full speed. As he approached he tossed balls ahead of the cart and hit them left-handed polo-style. Each one rolled to the feet of the stunned crowd.       He came to a stop and the crowd got to see that his cart was a smaller version of the Oscar Mayer weinermobile. “Howdy, folks! I’m Pug Snodgrass from Ada, Oklahoma! How you all are?”       A few “Just greats” and “Doin’ alrights” were elicited, but they weren’t good enough for Pug. “Oh, one of those crowds, huh? OK, I’m gonna hafta force you to shape up. Form four lines of five people each, C’mon, snap to it,” he said with a military forcefulness. They complied. “Alright now. I want each of you to turn around and shake the hand of the person behind you.” When they tried, of course, they saw the person behind them turning to the person behind them. “Haw, haw! What a bunch of dopes!” The crowd was his totally by now, except for a couple of cringing curmudgeons.       “Speaking of dopes, I suppose you all know the reason I won the ’68 United States Open was because the six dopes ahead of me took dope, so don’t be a dope and use dope, OK? Wow, the word ‘dope’ sounds funny if you say it over and over, doesn’t it? Try it, c’mon, say it.”       The slightly perplexed group dutifully chanted “Dope, dope, dope, dope, dope….”       After about the sixth “dope” Pug started marching around the tee box in time to the chanting in an exaggerated military style with his driver over his shoulder like a rifle. He marched over to the golf balls he had hit to the box earlier, did an elaborate twirling of his club, and then hit five 300-yard screaming drives in quick succession.       The morning proceeded in like fashion. Pug did something seemingly insane and then turned it into a show of golf magic. He balanced three balls on a tee then hit the bottom one with a wedge while the top two dropped down onto the tee. He had the group hum “The Anvil Chorus” while he hit shots in time with a club in each hand. The crowd loved him.       Finally it was time for the lunch break, to be followed by individual lessons. Janine, the Scottish ex pat and mistress of the grill, created what she called the “Hands Across the Water” luncheon, consisting of chicken-fried haggis, single-malt guacamole, and Falstaff porridge, all washed down with tankards of Wee Heavy.       The jolly group got jollier as they plowed through the feast. Pug in particular was extravagant in his consumption and praise of the cuisine.       The group reconvened on the ninth green to get their lessons. Pug explained that they would start with putting. He followed his morning routine by beginning with a putt that jumped over another ball like a pool trick shot. He surveyed the crowd and said in a serious tone, “The green’s where about a third of your strokes are and very few practice there enough.” He had the group all start by trying to simply hit a thirty-foot putt, not even at a hole. Only four of the twenty were within two feet of the distance. One went about ten feet and a couple went almost fifty.       Pug stared for a long time at the putts. He stared at the green. He stared at his putter. “You’re pathetic. You three, step forward,” meaning those who hit the worst putts. They did, a bit sheepishly but assuming Pug was going to have some fun with them. “Alright, pull down your pants. Down around your ankles. Now! I mean it!”  Still thinking it was going to end as a joke, they slowly did as commanded. Pug walked up to the first and hit him hard in the shin with a putter. The man fell to the green in agony. Blood ran down his leg. Pug approached the second and started to repeat the attack.       Darian Porter, who had been watching from the background all morning, grabbed him from behind and they wrestled on the ground, with the much younger man finally pinning Pug. “Are you insane?! You can’t hit people like that!”       Pug gasped for breath. “They deserve it! Golf’s too good for scum like them. They all should die!”       Paul B and Sinfonia Dugger, wearing the required ‘60s garb, started herding the guests off the green and apologizing. “Guess he drank a little too much lunch. Sorry. Let’s go have a beer to cool off.”       After everyone had gone, Pug stopped squirming. Darian stood him up. He had a distant glazed look in his eyes. “What is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”       “No, not at all. It’s like I said to them. When they hit those unbelievably lousy putts I had a…I dunno…a revelation. I cannot let golf be ruined by such, such…trash. I work on my game for fifty years. I show them all those shots this morning. And then they do this,” he said, sweeping an arm toward the green. “They are not worthy. I am now going to make it my life’s work to discourage people from playing golf.”       Pug Snodgrass picked up his bloodied putter, got in his weinermobile, and drove  down the middle of the final fairway.        © Red Wassenich October 2008 Back Nine home page | Back Nine table of contents | Next story If you would like to be notified when a new story appears, send us an email at backninestories@gmail.com. Back Nine: The Austin Golf Club Stories Web site founded April 2008 All stories copyright of the authors. May not be reproduced without permission (the stories, not the authors).