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The Starry Bridge The Blue Rose Ghost Nursing Doubts |
Capreol Writers Page - Short Stories
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John Bauer was on the 14th green when his left arm went numb. He’d been standing over a spanking new Titleist NXT, addressing the ball, confident. The putt, a makable ten foot birdie, flew from the fifty-eight year old’s mind. Replaced by just one thought, Not now. He’d been playing solid all day. Not quite the round of his life, but close. Close enough that he wasn't stopping because his arm was a little numb, A little numbness is nothing. A little voice in the back of his head spoke up then, whispering insistently – and sounding annoyingly like his wife – “It might be something. It might be something serious.” There was no point listening to the voice, John wasn't about to quit. Not when I finally got a real chance to win. I’ll worry about it later. Then berating his traitorous mind, Now focus! Stepping back he re-read the line. Stalling, he went through his entire pre-shot routine again. Kneading the feeling slowly back into his arm, he eyed the shot from every angle – even did the plumb-bob thing with his putter. “Yo John-ny!” his partner, Ted, called, “You gonna sink that bad boy any time soon?” John didn’t like being rushed. He didn’t much like being called ‘John-ny’ either, not the way Ted said it. Being ‘John Bauer’ was bad enough – he’d grown up with constant Leaf jokes – being ‘John-ny’ was worse. He’d harbored a growing dislike of Ted all through the one day alternate shot tourney. ‘Ted’ was Ted Reddick. A seventeen year old golf phenomenon. Everybody called him that – ‘phenomenon’. Not John though. Kid’s a damn golf savant. John recognized his talent – You’d have to be blind not to, he conceded. But, he added, he’s definitely an idiot. John would put up with anything if it meant finally winning the damn tourney. He’d been chasing after that cheap plastic trophy two decades – Longer than my partner’s been alive – and had never finished better than sixth. This year’s different. Approaching the ball, he had to wonder, Is this really worth it? Putting up with that arrogant punk just to get my name on some little gold plaque? John had growing doubts. Come too far to go back now, he thought. The putt lacked his usual smoothness, but the Titleist – pristine white dimples flashing in the sun – still rolled true, and dropped. The falling rattle was a welcome melody. “Nice one,” Ted said, sounding sarcastic, bouncing in the cart as he waited. John ignored him. Ted made ‘Hello’ sound sarcastic. The ride to 15 passed in silence. The sound of a driver slicing through the air – like a piece of canvas being ripped in two – announced Ted was warming up. The teen was smiling as he took his practice swings. There was nothing he liked more than ‘unleashing the big dog.’ He’s only seventeen, John told himself. Kids love the long ball. I could forgive that. But actually calling his driver ‘the big dog’? No. No excuse for that. Annoyingly, Ted used all the cliches. Dropped them like pearls of wisdom throughout the round. Hack-kneed catch phrases long past their expiration date. ‘Grip it and rip it,’ ‘Let the big dog howl’, even ‘Drive for show, putt for dough’. John had almost choked on his bottled water when Ted trotted that one out. God, he thought, the kid’s completely missing the point. Ted missed a lot of points. His bag’s short a few clubs. The thought was uncharitable, but true. Watching Ted address the ball John found himself resenting the teen. Arrogant punk, he thought. Then, God, I sound old. Working his left hand, he added, Feel it too. The drive Ted unleashed on fifteen was three twenty if a foot. Straight down the middle. A thing of beauty. Ted stood poising long after the ball had stopped rolling, admiring his shot. Damn the kid can play, John thought. “Good one,” he said, fighting to keep the envy from his voice. I can’t match that, it was a bitter pill but he swallowed it dry. Two fifty’s more my range – two eighty with the wind, he conceded reluctantly to himself. Sighing he thought, Know your limits and play within them, it wasn’t meant as an excuse even if it sounded like one. Just play your game, a finesse game, and let things fall where they may. So far things had fallen in his favour. Ted and John were at eight under par. Last year’s champions had won with minus six. If we just play smart we’re golden...the thought trailed off as pins and needles danced up his arm. “Good one?” Ted asked, sounding like he didn’t believe it. “That there was great. Let’s see Peter here match it.” That last was loud enough to carry as he stepped off the tee. The cocky smile told John it had been meant to. Having forgot their opponent’s names – something that had been happening with growing frequency – John needed a moment to catch the challenge. Peter didn’t look up, but his back straightened. Clearly he’d heard. The drive practically lifted Peter out of his shoes he put so much into it. It leapt off the tee and flew a solid two eighty – straight into the bush. “Hooked it,” Ted said, a malicious glint in his eye, as he started the cart toward their ball. Looking at the ball in the middle of the fairway John debated. Two-forty to the green. Do I go driver? It took only a moment to decide. No, he thought, it ain’t worth the risk. Go with the three wood. His choice made, he waited for Peter, and his partner Vic, to hack their way out of the trees. It wasn’t pretty. They ended on the fairway, but still with a hundred twenty to go. John addressed the Titleist, waggling the head of his club back and forth as he tried to get a solid grip with his tingling left hand. Right from the back-swing it was wrong. The left arm dragged. The angle he drew the club back was way off. At the top of his swing he felt a pull in his chest. Pain flashed through his mind. Obliterating anything else. His carefully rehearsed routine, thousands of hours on the practice tee perfecting the motions, conditioning muscle memory – all ruined. Gone was the long familiar swing-thought, “Head down, follow through.” In it’s place was, “Oh damn!” The downswing was ugly. It was all John could do to make contact with the ball. Almost falling during his follow-through, his left hand came free – a mistake he hadn’t made since he’d first started golfing. The club flailed around his head as he finished. As much as he wanted to turn away, he couldn’t. It was like passing a car wreck, he just had to look. Sailing through the air, high, short and way left of where he had aimed, the ball fell with none of its usual grace. Landing like a wing shot duck, it bounced once and died. Skied it, he thought bitterly. Only then did he reach up to his chest. The pain – so sudden in coming – was gone. Indigestion, he told himself, that's all it was. The little nagging voice laughed at his self delusion. “What was that?” Ted asked, not helping. Not even recognizing the need. John didn’t say anything. Just shoved the three wood in his bag and climbed into the cart. He kept opening and closing his left hand as they rode to the ball. The numbness was back. This isn’t good, he thought. I got to focus. Chances like this – of actually winning – don’t come often. Can’t let it slip away just cause of a bit of pain. Toughen up. Bite the bullet. Ted’s shot, which John watched from the cart, was perfect. Perfect form. Perfect distance. Perfect line. The kid knew it too, John saw, knew it and still had to gloat. “Now that’s a pretty shot,” he said as the ball dropped delicately onto the green. A swing that good speaks for itself, John kept his peace. The golf course wasn’t the place for lessons, even humility lessons. “You’re up.” It was a challenge. There was nothing John could say to that. Pulling his putter out, he marched to the ball determined to make his shot. Peter and Vic were away. They were sitting five with thirty feet still to go. John and Ted were at three, with a makable eight footer for birdie. The thirty footer came up short. In fact they ended up three putting. But not before John sank the birdie with a minimum of fuss. Ted didn’t have much to say to that. Which was fine with John, more than sick of the teen’s chatter. The relief he felt after the putt dropped was as much cause he’d felt no pain as because it went in. Sixteen, a nice par four, was much of the same. Ted almost drove the green – 340 yards, damn him – leaving a short wedge shot to the pin. Vic didn’t do as well. Putting it 290 but in the first cut of rough. Respectable, but not great. The nine iron felt awkward in John’s hand. It wouldn’t sit. He could barely feel his left hand, getting the fingers to close on the grip caused him to break out in sweat. The numbness was back, worse than ever. Play through it, he told himself, mimicking the advice he’d received as a boy from hard nosed hockey coaches. The hack he took barely resembled his normal swing – but it did the job. The ball ended up on the green. A respectable fifteen feet from the pin. The slope had helped, pushing the ball toward the flag as it rolled on the short cut grass. Putting wasn’t Ted’s strength. He stood over the ball without his usual arrogance. John, just realizing the kid’s weakness – just realizing the kid had a weakness – felt a bit of sympathy. The hesitant stroke had no confidence. The ball rolled forward, caught the lip and, after fighting gravity for an impossible second, fell. The fist pump that Ted gave was the equal of any Tiger Woods ever gave on winning a major. John started to shake his head – sympathy gone – but a stabbing pain in his neck made him stop short. It’s just nerves, he thought. Excitement, he kept telling himself as he prepared to tee off on seventeen. The par three was his chance to shine. I may not be able to drive like Daly, but my short game’s solid, he thought. Watching Ted tee off on four and twelve – par threes both – had been frustrating. Oh Ted had made respectable shots – the damn kid didn’t make any other kind – hitting the green both times, but he hadn’t come near the pin John would. He had four holes-in-one, and dozens of near misses, to his name. He was expecting this to be another one of those. He wasn’t expecting to slice the ball into the green-side bunker. Neither was Ted to judge by his low voiced swearing. John had almost had to stop mid-swing when he tried to exhale – a trick he’d learned from an ex-army sniper – and couldn’t. Instead of panicking he pushed through. Now, walking off the tee box, he was almost hyper-ventilating. Ted, still in the middle of his complaints, seemed to realize something wasn’t right with his partner. He cut off mid-swear, “You okay man? You don’t look too good.” “I’m fine.” What else can I say? Only one hole left. I’m winning that damn plastic trophy if it kills me. “You sure?” “I can finish.” He meant that. Even Ted recognized the conviction. John didn’t even bother to watch Peter – or was it Vic? – tee off. Just climbed into the cart and waited. When a wave of pain surged over him he brought his hands to his chest and bent forward. Ted, climbing behind the wheel, raised an eyebrow. “Heartburn,” John explained. “I gotta lay off those big breakfasts.” He managed to sit up straight, which satisfied Ted. The pain was still there though. The bunker shot was the only other weak spot in Ted’s game. Still pretty damned good, John admitted despite the pain. The ball cleared the lip with ease, coming out accompanied by half a ton of sand. It rolled through the fringe and onto the carpet. Twenty feet. A long putt. John didn’t think about it. He tried to ignore the pain, but it was no good. It kept coming in waves. He could feel his pulse in the back of his neck, pounding fast and wild like some sort of crazed Keith Moon drum solo. Timing his backstroke between the beats, John somehow got the ball into the hole. It was Ted’s hearty, vaguely sarcastic, “Atta boy John-ny!” that told him it hadn’t been a hallucination. Par. It wasn’t what he’d wanted on a par three, but it was better than seeing the first square appear on his scorecard this late in the round. Eighteen was a blur. A long par five. Ted outdid himself on the drive. Which was good, because John barely got a hundred yards out of a skulled three wood. The lie had been perfect, so too the angle to the green – it was the kind of shot that would have tempted any golfer to go for the green. But not John, not today. Three minutes after taking his swing John could no longer remember it. Not because he wanted to forget – the epileptic effort was worth forgetting – but because his mind was focused on something else. Good shots. Bad shots. It was all he could do to stay conscious. Ted put the ball on with their third shot. John swayed as he walked to the green. But he made his swing. The putter, feeling like it weighed a ton, contacted the ball. The effort drained him. He was grey. Even his arms, usually aglow with a healthy ingrained golfer’s tan, were looking sickly pale. His putt had forty feet. John got maybe half of it. Leaning on Ted’s shoulder, he made it to the cart and slumped. There wasn’t any chance John would be getting back on the green for another shot. Ted had to sink his try. It was that or be disqualified. With chills overwhelming him John watched as Ted walked around the shot, lining it up carefully. The teen stepped away twice – wiping his hands on his pants. What’s he got to be nervous about, John wondered, his mind wandering. The club went back, struck the ball with a metallic ring, and off the ball rolled.... ### Waking up with tubes running from his nose and a bad taste in his mouth, John needed a moment to get his bearings. “Mr Bauer?” a tired voice asked, drawing his shredded attention. That’s me, he thought, turning. The speaker was an older man in a long white coat. That means something, John thought. Oh, yeah. A doctor. “Mr Bauer? Are you with me?” Trying to talk took two tries, but he croaked out, “Yeah.” His mouth was desert dry. “Uh,” he managed, “Where am I?” The question took enormous effort. “St Joeseph’s Health Centre. You had a cardiac incident while on the golf course.” Not remembering, John asked, “I did?” “Yes. Now I don’t want you to worry. It was minor. A warning really. You were lucky. I’ve scheduled some tests.” “Was it a heart attack?” ‘Cardiac’ means ‘heart’ right? he asked himself, flogging his scattered mind. “Heart attack is such an imprecise term.” The doctor smiled, “It was an infarction...,” the rest of what he had to say – a dry speech full of long latin words and technical details – sailed over John’s head. John just nodded. His memory was returning. Slowly. There was numbness, he thought, And pain, he definitely remembered pain. Finally the doctor stopped and asked, “Any questions?” “Just one,” John said – the tournament and that last putt returning in a flash – “Did we win?” |
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