“Population three. I hope you brought an umbrella.”
“You’re funny,” says the girl.
“I think you mean funny-looking.”
“No, I mean funny, ” she says with a touch of impatience. “As in witty. And I like your blazer. Very Angus in AC/DC. All you need is the shorts.”
You’re right, that’s all he needs. But I appreciate the sentiment. To me she looks like a black angel.
“So, Jerzy, we good?”
“Yeah.”
“See you next week, then,” I say, and wielding my tray like a shield, I head for the exit.
46
THE FOLLOWING WEEK WHEN we return to Big Oaks, Jerzy grabs the 7-iron and swings without discomfort. Pain-free, his move is as long and loose as Sam Snead’s.
“Pickering’s appendix burst,” explains Jerzy. “He’s been out all week and could be out for a month.” I would rather have heard he’s on life support, but I’ll take it.
“How about that wonderful girl? Any more interaction with her?”
“Which girl?”
“Don’t give me that ‘which girl.’ The one who joined you at lunch.”
“Lyla,” says Jerzy. “Of course not. That was a once-in-a-lifetime event, like Halley’s Comet.”
“She likes you.”
“That’s a physical impossibility. As far as I know, she’s not blind.”
“She’s not. She commented on your attire. Favorably. In any case, between Pickering’s appendix and Lyla’s Comet, I’d say things are looking up. I propose we show our gratitude, up the ante, and go to work.”
That afternoon, we spend almost four hours in the stall. Jerzy makes so much progress, we decide to come back the next afternoon and Thursday, and in our third session, Jerzy has a breakthrough that most golfers never do. He learns how to “save it for the bottom,” as in connect his considerable size and heft to the bottom of his swing where the club meets the ball, the only part that matters. It sounds like a shotgun and turns every head on the range.
“That was stupid long,” I say as his 3-wood bounces off that old Srixon banner. “At least thirty yards longer than I hit that club.”
“You’re not exactly a spring chicken, Travis.”
“True. I’m a September chicken.”
Over the next couple of days, he tattoos the old banner so many times that it finally gives up the ghost, detaches from the wire curtain, and flutters to the ground. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to see that,” I say. “Like Berliners when the wall came down.”
The bigger revelation comes a week later, when I hand him my old bull’s-eye putter and walk him to the green rectangle about the size of three parking spaces which they have the temerity to call a putting green. I don’t know if it’s up there with Harvey Penick and Ben Crenshaw at Austin Country Club, but I’ll never forget the first time I see Jerzy roll it on the Big Oaks cement.
Putting is two things—aim and feel. Aim is the easy part. With practice, almost any asshole can do it. Feel, sensing how hard to strike a putt to make it roll the desired distance, is more elusive and nearly impossible to teach. After giving him a chance to get acclimated to the speed, approximately like putting on a bowling alley, I drop a tee ten feet away and ask him to stop the ball beside it. When that proves a minor challenge, I drop four more at three-foot intervals, then place five balls at his feet and ask him to roll each one to the next farther tee. When he’s done, I realize I’ve underestimated his potential.
“Jerzy, I got some good news. You can hit it long and you can putt. If you can do both, you can play. As in really play.”
47
BY NOW, IT’S THE third week of March, and that weekend a lovely thing happens. It gets warmer. That Saturday and Sunday it soars into the high thirties, causing the snow to lose a bit of its grip and giving the ground a chance to thaw. Monday morning, it’s back into the twenties again, but by then it’s too late. When I pick up Jerzy at school that afternoon, Louie sits
“You’re funny,” says the girl.
“I think you mean funny-looking.”
“No, I mean funny, ” she says with a touch of impatience. “As in witty. And I like your blazer. Very Angus in AC/DC. All you need is the shorts.”
You’re right, that’s all he needs. But I appreciate the sentiment. To me she looks like a black angel.
“So, Jerzy, we good?”
“Yeah.”
“See you next week, then,” I say, and wielding my tray like a shield, I head for the exit.
46
THE FOLLOWING WEEK WHEN we return to Big Oaks, Jerzy grabs the 7-iron and swings without discomfort. Pain-free, his move is as long and loose as Sam Snead’s.
“Pickering’s appendix burst,” explains Jerzy. “He’s been out all week and could be out for a month.” I would rather have heard he’s on life support, but I’ll take it.
“How about that wonderful girl? Any more interaction with her?”
“Which girl?”
“Don’t give me that ‘which girl.’ The one who joined you at lunch.”
“Lyla,” says Jerzy. “Of course not. That was a once-in-a-lifetime event, like Halley’s Comet.”
“She likes you.”
“That’s a physical impossibility. As far as I know, she’s not blind.”
“She’s not. She commented on your attire. Favorably. In any case, between Pickering’s appendix and Lyla’s Comet, I’d say things are looking up. I propose we show our gratitude, up the ante, and go to work.”
That afternoon, we spend almost four hours in the stall. Jerzy makes so much progress, we decide to come back the next afternoon and Thursday, and in our third session, Jerzy has a breakthrough that most golfers never do. He learns how to “save it for the bottom,” as in connect his considerable size and heft to the bottom of his swing where the club meets the ball, the only part that matters. It sounds like a shotgun and turns every head on the range.
“That was stupid long,” I say as his 3-wood bounces off that old Srixon banner. “At least thirty yards longer than I hit that club.”
“You’re not exactly a spring chicken, Travis.”
“True. I’m a September chicken.”
Over the next couple of days, he tattoos the old banner so many times that it finally gives up the ghost, detaches from the wire curtain, and flutters to the ground. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to see that,” I say. “Like Berliners when the wall came down.”
The bigger revelation comes a week later, when I hand him my old bull’s-eye putter and walk him to the green rectangle about the size of three parking spaces which they have the temerity to call a putting green. I don’t know if it’s up there with Harvey Penick and Ben Crenshaw at Austin Country Club, but I’ll never forget the first time I see Jerzy roll it on the Big Oaks cement.
Putting is two things—aim and feel. Aim is the easy part. With practice, almost any asshole can do it. Feel, sensing how hard to strike a putt to make it roll the desired distance, is more elusive and nearly impossible to teach. After giving him a chance to get acclimated to the speed, approximately like putting on a bowling alley, I drop a tee ten feet away and ask him to stop the ball beside it. When that proves a minor challenge, I drop four more at three-foot intervals, then place five balls at his feet and ask him to roll each one to the next farther tee. When he’s done, I realize I’ve underestimated his potential.
“Jerzy, I got some good news. You can hit it long and you can putt. If you can do both, you can play. As in really play.”
47
BY NOW, IT’S THE third week of March, and that weekend a lovely thing happens. It gets warmer. That Saturday and Sunday it soars into the high thirties, causing the snow to lose a bit of its grip and giving the ground a chance to thaw. Monday morning, it’s back into the twenties again, but by then it’s too late. When I pick up Jerzy at school that afternoon, Louie sits
Similar Books
