Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (40 page)

“There were three of them that made the trip. You've probably read in the newspaper about one of them, Matt Dilson. He used to be the sheriff in Mecklenburg County."

“Isn't he the one that used to drive a confiscated bootlegger's car? Spider car I think they called it."

“Yeah, he's the one."

“I thought he was killed in a high speed chase or something."

“He's paralyzed from the waist down, but he ain't dead."

“How can he play golf?"

“He can't. Not yet at least. Guy's got guts. It wouldn't surprise me if he figured out a way. Dilson's sort of the recreation director—he's in charge of all the projects."

“When are they going to start building the course?"

“They've already started. Got most of the grading done they said."

The two men worked their way to the center of the mower. Big Willie stood and watched Bo polish the last reel. “You have any trouble yesterday or this morning passing out work assignments?"

“Not really—just the usual grumbling. Stick wanted to know who died and made me king."

“Did y'all get everything done?"

Bo stood up and again wiped his sweaty face with the now filthy cloth. “I guess so."

“You guess so?” Big Willie's voice had the volume turned up. “Didn't you check?"

“Damn it, Big Willie. You didn't tell me to check up on them."

“I don't tell you when to take a leak either, but that don't seem to stop you."

“Shit."

“That too.” The big man carefully stepped over the mower reels, plugged an air hose into a handheld grinder, squeezed the trigger and watched the fine-coursed stone spin on the end of the shaft. “See what you can do with this thing."

Bo took the heavy device with a scowl on his face. “You haven't taught me how to use it."

“Haven't you watched me sharpen the blades every afternoon since you came to work here?” Big Willie exploded.

“Not on my days off,” Bo muttered under his breath.

“What was that?"

“Nothin'."

“Boy, don't you give me no lip."

As he remembered Big Willie doing, Bo scotched the first reel so the blades wouldn't turn, squeezed the trigger a couple of times to get the feel of the grinder, then gently touched the spinning wheel to the right edge of a blade."

“No, damn it all,” Big Willie shouted. “If you rest the wheel on a blade like that you'll grind a rut in it. Move the wheel quickly along the edge of the blade. You have the angle about right."

“How's that?” Bo asked after zipping the stone the full length of the curved blade.

“You tell me."

Remembering how Big Willie tested the sharpness of the edge, Bo brushed the blade with his thumb. “Sharp enough to shave with,” he announced.

“Then do the next one."

Big Willie watched Bo continue the process. Took me a month to learn how to do that, he thought. Ruined a dozen blades in the process too. He studied the expression on Bo's face, waiting for the anger to disappear. Instead, it grew more intense. “You know why I'm hard on you, boy?” he asked.

“I think I do."

“Tell me."

“I think Tad has it about right."

“What's that prissy s.o.b. have to do with it?"

Bo's lips curled slightly. “He calls me Token ‘cause I'm the only white man you've ever hired. I figure the Park made you to hire a white guy to correct a racial imbalance or something, and you're doing your best to make me quit."

“You calling me a racist?” Big Willie barked in disbelief.

Bo stood up to relax the tension in his thighs. “Well, you don't jump on the other guys."

“And that's because they're black like me?"

Bo glared at him. “It sure ain't because they do better work than I do.” He squatted and resumed the sharpening process.

“I don't teach them how to play golf either.” Big Willie walked to the opposite end of the mower so he would be facing Bo. “Think a minute,” the big man shouted over the roar of the grinder. “Why else would I be hard on you?"

Bo released the trigger. “Like I said, it ain't because they do better work than me. I've been working for you about two months now and I already know more about this stuff than they ever will."

“Keep going,” Big Willie said, making sure Bo saw the smile on his face.

Bo finished the reel he was working on, then looked up with an angry sneer on his lips. “Maybe it's because you love me, think of me as a son, think I'm somebody special and want to be sure I become the best in the business."

“I knew there was a brain hiding somewhere behind that thick skull of yours,” Big Willie replied as he walked away, still smiling. He returned drinking a Pepsi and carrying a second just as Bo finished the last reel. Bo rubbed the cold can across his beaded forehead before taking a long pull on the soft drink. He looked Big Willie squarely in the eyes and asked, “Are you telling me that you are training me to be your assistant or something?"

“Who else am I going to leave in charge if I take a vacation or get sick or run over by a truck?"

“Why didn't you tell me?"

The ever-present unlit cigar rolled from one side to the other of Big Willie's mouth. “Would it have made a difference?"

“Yes it would have made a difference. Man, I've actually been looking for another job."

Big Willie squatted next to the mower, took the cigar out of his mouth and seemed to be studying it. “I figure that just like me you've been put down all your life ‘cause you ain't pretty. That makes a man out of some boys and a crybaby out of others. I had to find out which you were."

“And the verdict?"

Big Willie grinned, stood up and slapped him on the back. “You haven't quit yet, have you?” He jammed the cigar back in his mouth, took the empty can out of Bo's hand and tossed it into the recycling bin. “You check out the Red Course and the front nine on the White. I'll get the Blue Course and the back nine on the White. Make a note of anything that didn't get done. Then meet me at the driving range."

“In a minute. We didn't grease the mower yet.” Bo smiled a toothy grin. “Gotcha."

“No you didn't, big shot. I was just testing you,” Big Willie lied.

Bo took a mighty swing, topped the ball and watched in dismay as it dribbled fifteen yards out onto the range. “Shit.” He placed another ball on the rubber tee, gripped the club handle as tight as he could, glued his eyes on the ball, and swung again. He caught sight of the ball just as it reached the peak of its flight. It immediately hooked far to his left. “Damn.” He grabbed another ball from the basket.

“Hold on, Bo. Take a couple of practice swings. Line up your feet. Grip the handle firmly but don't squeeze it too hard. Glue your eyes to the ball. Remember to lock your wrists and left elbow on the downswing, and for goodness sake, quit trying to kill it. What you want is a nice, smooth swing."

“I need a damn computer to keep up with all the stuff I'm supposed to remember,” Bo groused.

“You have one, right here,” Big Willie said, tapping Bo on his forehead.

This time Bo heard the sweet click and watched with satisfaction as the ball rolled just beyond and to the right of the 300-yard marker.

“Keep hittin’ ’em like that and you might some day be a pale imitation of Tiger Woods,” Big Willie said as he walked away.

Three shots later Big Willie was back. “Man,” Bo said. “That's a fancy set of clubs you've got there."

“Yeah, they are. These are the clubs I used on the tour."

Big Willie set up shop on the next tee and the two continued to hit practice shots for thirty minutes.

“Come on over here in the grass,” Big Willie abruptly instructed. “I want to teach you to use your fairway woods. Can't use a tee in the fairway."

“Maybe not,” Bo said, “but I don't see much difference between using a tee and rolling the ball up on a clump of grass."

“Who told you to do that?"

“Nobody, but I've seen lots of golfers on the fairways do it."

Big Willie removed his cigar and spat in disgust. “The little hotshots come out here and cheat all over the place and still can't come up with a decent score. The rules allow you to move your ball under very few circumstances, but they never allow teeing it up on grass or anything else except for the first shot on every hole. I don't ever want to catch you cheating—improving your lie, taking mulligans or gimmies—stuff like that."

“You lost me boss man."

“Improving your lie is just what you were talking about. Some of these so-called golfers wind up behind a tree and use a foot wedge."

Bo laughed. “You mean they kick the ball into a better position?"

“Yeah. They hope their partners don't see ’em."

“What's a mulligan?"

“You hit a bad tee shot and try again without counting the bad stroke plus a penalty stroke."

“Oh,” Bo said, “a do-over."

“Something like that,” Big Willie replied looking very serious.

“And a gimmie?” Bo asked.

“That happens on the green. If the ball is, say, two or three feet from the hole, the golfer picks up the ball as a gimmie, instead of putting out. You start taking gimmies and you'll get to the point where you can't make a six inch putt."

“But Big Willie, if everybody playing agrees, what's wrong with a little bending of the rules."

“It ain't golf,” Big Willie said through clinched teeth, biting off the end of his cigar, which he immediately spit on the ground.

Big Willie dumped a half dozen balls on the grass and rolled one into position. “Now, using a fairway wood—that's your number two through five woods—everything is about the same except you want to pretend you are driving a wedge under the ball with the club head. Give it a try."

Bo selected a two wood and went through the motions, but hit the ball on it's top, pounding it into the ground instead of out onto the fairway.

“Try it again."

He rolled the ball out of its depression and swung again, this time digging the club head into the grass behind the ball.

“Damn, that stings,” Bo said shaking his hands furiously.

“Didn't do the club no good either,” Big Willie laughed. “Think of it this way. You want to bounce the club head off the ground right under the ball."

Bo assumed his stance, then backed up and took three practice swings. With the first he missed the ground completely, but with the second and third he successfully bounced the club head off the ground and understood what he was supposed to do. He carefully aimed his feet, rehearsed in his mind the procedure and swung the club while staring at the ground right under the ball. Instead of a click he heard a dull thump and assumed he hit the ball poorly.

“That's the idea,” Big Willie exclaimed. “Damn, I'm good."

Bo looked up in time to see the ball bounce and roll to a stop just short of the 250-yard marker. They spent an hour working with the remaining woods and, although it took a while, Bo finally understood that it was club selection, not the force of the swing, which determines distance.

“Tomorrow we'll work with the irons. The only real difference with an iron shot is that you want to dig a little hole in the ground just in front of the ball."

“Doesn't that tear up the fairway? I see those holes all the time."

“Yeah. It chops out a little piece of turf on every shot. It's called a divot. Good golfers always replace their divots."

“Do any good golfers play at Tanglewood?” Bo laughed as he pulled a five iron out of the bag and practiced on the one remaining ball. It went 150 yards, and he proudly walked out a few feet, picked up and replaced his divot."

Unfazed, Big Willie said, “The next day we'll measure your average distance with each club in the bag. Then, if you are on the fairway 150 yards away from the green, you'll know to use a five iron, or whatever."

“How will I know the distance from ball to green?"

“That's a lesson I'll teach you after you've learned to putt and we finally actually play a round of golf. There are distance markers on every fairway. The trick is in estimating how far away from a marker you are."

“We could really screw the golfers up by moving the markers, couldn't we?” Bo joked.

“I don't remember that ever happening,” Big Willie said with his eyes beginning to twinkle. “You know hole 16 on the white course?"

“Sure. That's the one with a big rise in the middle of the fairway. You can't see the green from the tee."

“Right. A couple of years ago guys started complaining about losing their balls after hitting tee shots. It turned out two little girls made a game out of hiding in the woods, running out and picking up the balls when they came over the crest of the hill, then running back to the woods where they watched the golfers hopelessly searching for their balls.” Big Willie was laughing so hard tears were streaming out of his eyes.

Bo was laughing too. “Man, I never thought of good stuff like that to do when I was a kid."

“I have to admit,” Big Willie managed to say through his laughter, “I watched those kids for two hours before I could force myself to stop them."

Bo carried the bag of clubs and placed them in the bed of Big Willie's pickup. Big Willie carefully laid his tour clubs in the truck bed also, hesitated, and pulled out the other bag. “Here, Bo. Put these in your locker. They're yours now."

“Big Willie,” Bo protested. “I can't take your clubs. These things are expensive."

The big man climbed into the cab, started the engine and stared at Bo from the driver's seat. With a toothy smile on his face he said, “I told you I don't want no lip from you, boy."

“Mr. Hathaway wants to see you in his office immediately. I'll give you a lift."

Bo gawked at the Park Ranger in disbelief. “The Park Superintendent?” The Ranger nodded.

“At 7:00 a.m.? What does he want? What did I do?"

“I don't know. The call came from dispatch. Let's go."

“I'll take a golf cart. I'll need some way to get back, assuming he doesn't fire me."

“I doubt that you are being fired. If that were the case, Hathaway would have Big Willie do it. I do know if Hathaway wants to see you personally it must be important, so you'd better get on down there right away."