If Only Your Golf Clubs Could Speak
David Margolis
Sports Fiction & Essay Contest 2013 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Fiction
We are gathered here today for a memorial to our former master, Dave. Two months ago, Dave suddenly passed away while playing golf at the Hollow Promises Country Club. As we sit in the basement awaiting the garage sale this spring, I would like to remember Dave and the remarkable events that occurred prior to his death. As the longest club in the bag, I have been your driver and spokesman for the past three years, ever since Dave broke my predecessor over his knee after a horrible slice off the first tee. In the past, I have tried to keep a grip on the problems facing us and I have been flexible in my judgments. My new titanium head has been helpful during these complicated times and a great improvement over the previous block of wood.
I would first like to express my regrets to some of our good friends who could not be here today. In July we had the unfortunate experience of losing twelve of our favorite golf balls when Dave proceeded to shank all of them into the lake on the third hole. Fortunately we were able to retrieve Sammy Seven Iron from the water and I am happy to report that he has made a complete recovery and is with us here today. I want to announce that Arnold Two Iron has found a home in a recyclable metal factory in Phoenix and I understand there are plans to turn him into an Art Deco lamp. Unfortunately things did not go so well for Flora Four Iron; she was melted down and is now part of a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Sandy Wedge joined another set after Dave remarked that her butt end was getting too large causing him to hit a number of fat shots.
I know everyone is slowly recovering from this difficult year. Your toes and heels may still be aching from the number of strokes that have been made with that part of your anatomy and I trust your headaches are starting to abate from all the skulls that occurred during the season. We all felt sorry for Peter Putter this year. He was horribly overworked with a number of three putts and even several four putts. One day, Dave swore at him and then viciously smashed his head onto the cart path near the eighth green and shortly thereafter rudely discarded him. He was replaced by the belly putter Henry Longfellow who we all felt was very pompous with his handle in the clouds. He didn't perform much better and even though we didn't like him we are still saddened that he is now high in an oak tree where he was flung by Dave after missing a two foot putt. We all welcome Peter back to the bag and we are sorry that he still is having flashbacks related to post-traumatic stress syndrome.
But let's get back to Dave and the circumstances leading up to his untimely demise. It all started when Dave hit one deep into the rough, dropped a ball conveniently from his pocket, and claimed that his errant ball had been found. We had witnesses from the Titlest balls that perished in the lake last year and I was hoping that some other intrepid balls would come forward, so-called balls with balls, to confront Dave about his deceitfulness, but none ever did. Another time Dave kicked his ball away from a tree stump while his opponents weren't looking. That bit of footsy gave him a clear shot to the green and he won the hole. But why was Dave cheating? I organized a committee consisting of myself, Tiger Five Wood, Penelope Pitching Wedge and Freddie Five Iron to investigate.
We found out that Dave was completely broke. Do you recall the driver that Phil Mickelson used to win the masters? Dave invested in the company that makes those clubs at sixteen dollars a share and soon it was worth only five. In 2007 he went on a golf trip to Ft. Myers, Florida and found this fabulous condo on a golf course that was under construction. Dave purchased the property for $500,000 with only $20,000 down but then the bubble burst and its value dropped over 70% and the layout was never completed. Last spring he injured his back when he hurled us into the trunk of his car in a fit of anger after a bad round. He missed work for three months (Freddie also suffered a bent shaft during that episode). He had been cheating to win money from his good friends and dig himself out of the hole. There was even a rumor going around from the other bags that Dave might get banished from the regular game by those who were suspicious of his chicanery.
Dave started spending more of his time at the nineteenth hole drinking. Hours would go by while we waited outside in the hot sun and pouring rain as Dave downed one Dewar's scotch after another. He wobbled out of the clubhouse late one evening and spun off the road and we feared for our lives. When we finally arrived home we heard him and the missus arguing that she was a golf widow and he was a lush. Then there was the night that the barmaid Annika got in the car with Dave and they spent the night at a motel and when Dave arrived home the next morning he lied to his wife that he and his buddies had decided to play on a golf course out of town.
Late last October, we teed off at noontime. Dave was playing very well that day but on the seventeenth hole it began to rain. His pals decided to go in but Dave wanted to finish so he started on the eighteenth by himself. Suddenly the sky got very dark and a strong wind came up from the West. There was a flash of lightning and to our amazement the sky opened and three angels descended onto the fairway next to Dave. Dave became ashen and his whole body started to shake. Finally in a very timid voice he asked "Who are you?" The specter with the longest beard answered "We are the Golfing Gods and we've come to talk to you, Dave. I am Gabriel. It is not well known but I once had a four handicap. I played regularly in biblical times out of the Mount Sinai Course; the sand traps were monsters in those days. The other two apparitions are Moses (great talent on the water holes) and Lucifer (can't beat the guy on a hot day). Dave, we are extremely disappointed by your behavior. You are abusive to your clubs; you're a liar, a drunk and a womanizer. We are going to take you with us where you will replace Sisyphus in rolling an enormous golf ball up a hill for eternity while wearing soft spikes." With that pronouncement Dave sunk to his knees and cried out, "Please spare me from this torture and I promise to mend my despicable ways. Just give me a second chance." There was a loud clap of thunder and a paroxysm of blinding light and then the angels were gone. We saw Dave lying on the ground. He wasn't breathing. The rescue clubs, Wilson and Taylor, tried to resuscitate him but to no avail, Dave was dead. In the obituary, it stated that he was struck by lightning but of course we knew better.
So today we evoke the memory of Dave the tyrant. Yes, Dave was a brutal man who cursed and tormented us, but every once in a while after a round when he had won some money and had a few drinks, he would scrub our grooves and wash our faces with Mr. Clean and tell us we had done well. Who will replace him? We hope it will be a kindhearted fellow whose swearing will be muted when a bad shot is played; and if we have to be thrown occasionally, we hope it won't be into a lake, onto a cart path, or up in a tree. But we fear that someone else might purchase us, someone who will neglect us and never play with us and store us in a dark cellar; or maybe he will get bored and trade in his old clubs for a new set of graphite Pings. Therefore let us bow our heads on our shafts and pray to the Golfing Gods for the soul of Dave and for our future.
