'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse'

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: Here is the first installment in a new series of stories entitled "The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse," by novelist, Richard Voorhees.

Earlier, Richard provided Cybergolf two excerpts from his latest book, "Shooting Genji," a noir thriller set at the time of the 1929 Stock Market Crash. You can find these at http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/a_lateafternoon_golf_match and http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/a_lateafternoon_golf_match_part_ii.

So here's "The Golf Blessing," the first in a series of unfortunate golfing misadventures by Richard Voorhees.]

Introduction

One fine round, four golf buddies - known as Irish Coffee, Single Malt, Wild Turkey and Beer Boy - stumble upon some kind of golf Shangri-la. But is this strange golf course actually a blessing? Or is it a curse? It will all depend on how they play the game . . .

The Golf Blessing

The four of us are doing our usual post-mortem on the 19th hole, slowly recovering from a particularly hard-fought round. It's evening. We're nursing our wounds, and our drinks.

"Golf is a curse," I say. "A curse."

"C'mon, Irish Coffee. You didn't play that shabbily," says Single Malt. "What about your approach shot on #7? That was a thing of beauty."

"It's a game for masochists," I continue. "Only someone who enjoys suffering would play it more than once."

"I beg to differ," says Beer Boy, today's winner, gloating. "First I step on your throat. Now you stand me drinks. Love it."

"It's strange we spend our time playing a game that can make us miserable."

"Man, can you believe that cart girl today?"

"I know. Crazy. I ordered an Irish Coffee from her on the second tee. On 10, she's back. She gets out of her cart, looks at me, and smiles. And then she announces to no one in particular: 'I know what he wants.' And I'm thinking, 'I bet you do.' "

"You can't get that reading a book."

"You can't get that here, either."

"True."

"My friends, golf is a blessing and a curse. You dream and you curse."

"You curse like a professional."

"Like a tinker," Wild Turkey replies, "to be precise. I've been tinkering with my game, so I can take you boys down when we play next week on the coast."

"Bring it on."

"Links golf suits my game."

"Famous last words!"

A week later, we're standing on the first tee, quite jazzed to play the fabled links course we have ahead of us. It's nippy out and pretty breezy and we're waiting to tee off. The woman starter who's going to tell us when we can go has doled out scorecards and told us where the pins are placed (i.e., today they're at the back). She's also given us each a souvenir, a small brass cup courtesy of some Indian sweatshop.

The first fairway looks a lot like a fairytale. It curves gently uphill between slight banking hillocks, a welcoming lush-green, undulating prospect. The first hole is a 299-yard par-4. Off in the distance the flag is offering us a stiff salute. A bee buzzes me a couple times as a cute girl behind the wheel of a beer cart pulls up.

"You guys need anything?"

"No, we're good."

"Okay." And off she speeds.

"Hope we see her again when we're thirsty."

Speaking of which, while we wait Single Malt pulls a flask from his bag.

"Gather 'round, boys," he says, raising his little brass made-in-an-Indian-sweatshop souvenir cup. We accept the invitation a little hesitantly, given that it's morning. But there seems to be no refusing. Our friend begins by pouring himself a brimming shot. He looks at each of us, raises the cup, and says: "To the people we've lost who can't be here and would have loved to have played this round of golf with us today." I didn't expect this at all. My late-great brother would have loved to have been here with us.

Single Malt doesn't drink it. Instead he tips his cup and the whiskey pours out on the grass at our feet. After some silent contemplation, he smiles and holds out the flask. His Mom would have enjoyed this walk, also. We all thrust our cups toward him and he fills them to the top and refills his own. With a nod, we drain them in unison. I should have eaten some breakfast. He screws the cap back on and the starter, who's witnessed him bless her course, says: "You're free to hit away, guys. Have a great round."

My buddies hit nice shots and I hit a beautiful drive. It looks as if it might have found the green! And with an optimism befitting the beginning of a new round, we charge after our balls. Sure enough, a vista opens up as we head down the fairway. The Pacific Ocean sprawls infinitely away toward the horizon on our left. To the right are hills of sand and a stand of evergreen trees. This is lucky, because just then a squall hits us out of nowhere. Raindrops buzz me like a thousand angry bees.

We make a dash for the trees, the only cover within sprinting distance. Our clubs are banging and clanging. We could be on the lam from some hacker chain gang. The trees form a perfect canopy. Still we're half-soaked when we duck under them. Then, if it's even possible, the rain starts to come down even harder. Amidst the usual muttered protests, Single Malt does the only reasonable thing. He dips back into his golf bag, pulls out the flask, holds it up for all to see, and raises an eyebrow.

"Heck, yeah."

"Why not."

We stand silent, shoulder-to-shoulder before the deluge, peering out at the day that might have been. Then we each in our own fashion knock back another shot of Scotch.

"What was all the B.S. about 'sunny and warm'?"

"Yeah, really."

"I see a rain check in our future."

"My ball looks lonely out there in that puddle."

"Mine, too."

"Glad I super-sized my flask."

"Good call."

"It's keeping the cold off nicely."

Then from somewhere, clear as a sunny day, a woman's lilting voice pipes up: "Well, if you're chilly, boys, feel free to join me. It's lovely - warm and toasty - over here."

This is a surprise, hearing a woman behind us. We look and there's a pretty girl, dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, standing next to a golf cart. She looks pert as a pear monger. Or a golf nymph. We'd be crazy not to take her up on her offer.

"Some deluge, huh?" I venture.

"You're sure off the beaten track, way under here," Wild Turkey observes.

"I hope you don't take offense if I say the same about you," she replies. "This is out-of-bounds."

"We're not playing any shots."

"Just drinking them," says Single Malt.

"Ha-ha."

"This is not just out-of-bounds," she continues. "It's environmentally sensitive."

"We didn't know," I say. "It started pouring. We saw these trees and just ran for it."

"It's a complete surprise to see you here," she says. "I've got to be honest with you."

"I can't imagine it's all that surprising," I say. "You ducked in here, too."

"Frankly, you're the first live golfers who've ever strayed over here," she replies.

"Huh?"

"Ever."

"Hard to imagine."

"While we wait for the storm to let up," Beer Boy jumps in, "you wouldn't happen to be open for business, would you?"

"Since you're here," she says pleasantly.

"I could really use a beer chaser. What kind of beer do you have?"

"I don't have beer, but I have mead," she says. "It tastes like honey. Want to try it?"

"Sure."

Next the cart gal turns to me and says: "I know what you'd like." She seems to find this funny.

"Really?"

"I think you'd enjoy an Irish Coffee right about now."

"Wow. How'd you know?"

"You clearly could use some reviving."

"That's always my drink of choice in extremis."

"You'll never be in more extreme conditions than this, Irish Coffee," she says. "You don't mind if I call you Irish Coffee, do you?"

"Not at all."

"Make that three Irish Coffees," says Wild Turkey, checking his watch. "It's still the morning, right?"

The beautiful apparition conjures up our drinks. A mead for Beer Boy and strong coffee laced with Irish whiskey for the rest of us. Maybe it will bring us luck.

"What do we owe you?" Beer Boy asks.

"They're on me, you guys," she says.

"Wow, why?"

"Drinks are always on me here."

"You're kidding?"

"What did we do to deserve this?" Wild Turkey asks, genuinely puzzled.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure," says the cart nymph, "but you're here. If you weren't meant to be, you wouldn't be here. You'd be over there playing in the sun."

We do an about-face and, sure enough, the golf course is ablaze in sunshine and some golfers are trudging by, looking as if they'll be lucky to play 18 holes without a heart attack.

Beer Boy's eyes are wide with excitement. "Well, thanks a ton for the drinks. Guys? I say we head back out. We don't want to let those guys play through, do we?"

"I'm sorry if I didn't explain myself clearly," says the cart nymph. "You're out-of-bounds and this is an environmentally sensitive area. Crossing it is forbidden."

"We'll be super-careful," I say.

"And quick."

"It's not just that you may not cross it. You can't cross it."

"Oh, really? We'll see about that," says Beer Boy.

With that he shoulders his golf bag and stomps off toward the course. As he reaches the edge of the trees and is about to regain the open air, he steps into some soggy ground and his foot plunges in. It sinks all the way up to his knee. He puts a hand down to brace himself and it keeps right on going, up to his armpit. The three of us run and grab onto him and after tremendous exertion manage to haul him out. He comes loose, falling back onto terra firma with a sound that's a cross between a pop and a suck. "Spock" goes the Beer Boy.

"I'm sorry you didn't believe me," purrs the cart nymph. "I tried to warn you. You cannot go back that way."

"We'll go around then. Can you please tell us where we have to go?"

"Your only hope is to come with me, boys."

"But…"

"I don't think you'll mind."

"But…"

"Who wants to ride with me? I've room for one. Except, I'm sorry, not you, Mudball."

"That's Beer Boy to you, young lady."

"No worries. I know where there's a water hazard close by where you can wash off. Maybe we'll all take a dip."

And that, dear reader, is how we set off on the craziest string of holes of our whole accursed and blessed lives.

When not writing about golf, Richard Voorhees is a novelist, filmmaker and lexicographer. His novel, "Shooting Genji," and his dictionary of occupations, "The World's Oldest Professions," are available on Amazon.com and at his website, www.rgvoorhees.com.