BACK NINE THE AUSTIN GOLF CLUB STORIES

MIND GAME

Sinfonia Dugger was never referred to as “sunny” or “chirpy,” but her mood of late had darkened so much that by the time she was leaving the ninth and final green, her shadow already crept across the women’s lounge at the Austin Golf Club. Glumly dragging in, she would order a Falstaff and a shot of rye and sit in front of the fireplace, staring into the nonexistent flames. Her friends had one by one tried speaking with her over the four weeks that this transformation had happened, but she rather coldly deflected them. Now she sat alone, Geronimo, the club dog, usually curled at her feet.             The members’ quality of golf paled in comparison to their rumor-mongering skills. Sinfonia was pregnant, although she was in her fifties. She had been hit in the head by an errant drive. She had been fired from her volunteer job at the animal shelter. She had been jilted by Reggie Penworthy, the club’s owner. Maybe it was the pigs’ knuckles from the club’s bar.             The Ladies Match Play Championship was in two weeks and Sinfonia’s victory in the recent Unisex Championship made her the favorite. Her posted scores were the usual solid, unspectacular ones she prided herself on and which looked likely to hold under the pressure of tournament play, so that apparently wasn’t the cause of the malaise. Excitement was building more than usual because Penworthy had thrown in a year’s free club dues for the winner, quite an increase from the traditional bag of shag balls fished from Waller Creek.             On the verandah overlooking the 9th green, the men’s hangout, Sinfonia was regarded with comical derision, an honor normally reserved for men. These men were too confused by women, including their wives, to normally do anything other than make dismissive sounds like “Bah,” “Foof,” “Egad,” and “Feh” when the occasion called for analysis of a woman. But Sinfonia was different somehow. None of them could tell you how.   *     *     *               One lovely August morning around 9:00, when the temperature had barely reached 85, Sinfonia and Paul B, the most junior senior member, found themselves on the first tee together. They agreed to play, their first match since she bested him in the Unisex Championship. Both hated the complications of betting. Nassaus, greenies, pushes, barkies, bingo bango bongo, sandies were for rubes. They bet a Falstaff on lowest score.             Paul B hit a 6-iron short of the green on the 150-yard opening par 3. Sinfonia hit her 5-iron from the 137-yard front tees and it landed directly on Paul B’s ball, croqueting his onto the green, two feet from the hole. Hers sat exactly were his had rested.             “Holy cow!” yelled Paul B. “I’ve never seen that before!”             “Me neither! Wow! I can’t believe it!”             They happily marched to the green. Paul B fetched his ball and waited for Sinfonia to chip on. He placed his ball in the same spot and chipped. Each made their par putts.             They repeated their wonderment as they walked to the 2nd tee. There was a delay as they waited for players from the adjoining hole who had sliced into their fairway. Squirrels chattered in the huge pecan trees that shaded the tee. A lawn sprinkler imitated the sound.             Sinfonia sighed. Paul B tried to ignore it. She idly swatted with her driver at the pecan shell shards and broken tees that littered the ground. Again she sighed. Finally he managed to say, “Yes?”             “Well, it’s just that what happened on the last hole was the first time I’ve been excited on the course for weeks. I’m, I’m…bored with golf.”             To admit this to one of the old guard of the Austin Golf Club was akin to telling the Pope you had recently decided Mary to be a run-of-the-mill housewife. Paul B stared at her—confusion, contempt, pity playing across his face. “Bored…with golf. I am sorry, Sinfonia. That must be the world’s emptiest feeling.” He stared down the fairway. “My god, I can only glimpse the edge of such an abyss and that little bit is pure horror.”             “I know! It is! It is! I tried denying it, but every round has made it a little worse. I had to drag myself out here this morning. Thank god I happened to run into you.” She touched his arm with her gloved hand. Such an outburst was not the norm, neither for the sender nor receiver. Their occasional subterranean hints at flirtation from the past bubbled out of the fissures in their emotional tectonic plates. Sinfonia broke the tension. “Looks like the fairway is clear. Hit away.”             Paul B gratefully found his line, took his stance, and began his rather stylish waggle. But midwaggle he stopped. “This cannot stand, Sinfonia. We must find a cure.”   *     *     *               They left the second tee and headed to the verandah, which at 9:15 am on a Tuesday is a peaceful place. The usual crowd is out on the course and not yet ensconced. Paul B fetched a couple of coffees and a pitcher of Falstaff. He questioned her. When had the boredom begun? A few weeks after her victory in the Unisex Championship. Was there a precipitating event? No, a gradual buildup. Was there anything from the outside world causing angst? No, life was its usual pleasant, smooth path.             Paul B stroked his chin. “It sounds like the cause is buried deep, and short of us going to the couch…” They both cleared their throats and took sips. “That is to say, I am a believer in action. I propose a series of exercises to break the pattern.”             Sinfonia took a long pull on her Falstaff and stared down at the 9th green. “I would be most grateful.”             *     *     *               They met that night at 11:30 on the 7th tee. Paul B picked up her bag of clubs and led Sinfonia to the east edge of the course, along Red River Street. He emptied out a dozen shag balls and had her hit 3-woods into the stores at Hancock Center, the misbegotten shopping center that occupied the former back nine holes of the Austin Golf Club. He had overcome his avoidance problems with playing this hole by hitting such a shot. She seemed to perk up a bit, especially when there were sounds in the darkness of dented metal and broken glass. But clearly more was needed.             Next they went to the 8th hole.  He had her hit her shots with her eyes closed. She drove a bullet down the middle, hit a smooth 7-iron onto the tricky green, and two-putted. She stood for a minute by the hole. She sighed. “Nice trick, but what’s it really prove?”             Paul led her to the 9th tee, the one furthest from any passersby. “You’re probably not going to like this one, but…well, let’s say I’ve found it…uh, exciting in the past. I’ll turn away and go behind the water cooler, but you have to play this hole naked.”             Sinfonia drew herself up to full height, gave Paul B a stare so scorching it could be seen in the midnight darkness, slammed her 5-wood back in her bag, and begin to peel off her golf glove.             “No, that’s alright. You can wear the glove.”             She spun back to face him and repeated the stare. Then her shoulders loosened. She snorted. “Maybe I take things a little too seriously, huh?”             “Oh, I take golf very seriously,” said Paul B. “It’s quite OK to take unimportant things seriously.”             Sinfonia thought for a moment. “Alright. But you have to be my caddy on this hole. And you know the dress code. And perhaps you can caddy for me at the Ladies Match Play.”   © Red Wassenich July 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).