'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 8. A Four-Leaf Clover

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the previous episode - http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/the_royal_ancient_golf_curse_part_7_hot_springs - our friends went skinny-dipping in mineral baths and completely forgot about golf, and everything else for that matter. This is the eighth in our friends'; series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the "Royal and Ancient Golf Curse."]

My interest in this round of golf -as golf, per se - is flagging, but I suppose that's normal considering how wickedly we've been distracted. Beer Boy has returned to inject renewed earnestness into the game. Crazy dude. Silly game. Must say it's nice to see him, though, and have our foursome reunited.

"He missed out, poor beggar."

"Nice drive, though."

"He smoked that one."

"Why keep golfing?" Single Malt wonders aloud but not quietly enough.

"Where's your fighting spirit, Malt?" asks the nymph. "The fourth hole is a quintessential golf hole. It's going to take everything you have."

"I'm not sure I have much left," he replies, humbly, candidly.

"Now, now. There will be other water hazards."

The three of us who just tore ourselves away from the mineral baths (and its denizens) laugh and laugh.

Feeling fairly disembodied, I go over to shake hands with the Beer dude. He attempts to recapture some of his bravado and shakes hands as if we're arm wrestling.

"Coffee," he growls.

"Hey, man," I say. "Why so green? You become an environmentalist?"

"Beer Boy, I thought you were done," Wild Turkey says, also shaking hands.

"The bartender suggested I get some air," he explains.

"Hey, I've got your hole-in-one ball," Wild Turkey says.

"Oh, oh! Lemme see, lemme see."

"I've got it right here…" says Wild Turkey. "Now where'd I put it…?"

Wild Turkey pats the pockets of his pants, then starts searching what seem to be an infinite number of pockets in his golf bag. His search starts to get awkward. None of the balls he pulls out are Beer Boy's hole-in-one, asterisk-bespangled trophy ball. Beer Boy looks green around the gills.

"Are you sure I'm the one who held onto it?" Turkey asks, his voice a bit strangled.

" 'For safe-keeping.' "

"Dude," implores Beer Boy.

"I've got it, Beer Boy," Wild Turkey says, though he sounds unconvinced. "I can't believe how many pockets this bag has."

"Man, that bag of yours is an albatross."

"It's a black hole."

"I've always wondered what a black hole looks like," Single Malt says. "Now you know. It looks exactly like Wild Turkey's golf bag."

"Stand back! It might suck you into its black abyss and belch you into a parallel universe," says Single Malt.

"Maybe it already has," I say.

"Like the time it ate my putter."

"Some alien in a parallel universe just missed a two-foot putts with it."

"I liked that putter."

"Why?"

"I made some tricky putts with it in my living room."

"Remember the time your bag ate your car keys?" I ask.

"That bag's a cosmological menace," says Single Malt.

"Golf-mological, buddy," I say. "It's a golfmological menace."

Somehow we find this vaguely amusing. Not so the beer drinker.

"Never mind, Turkey," Beer Boy says, damp with cold sweat. "We can look for it after the round." Then he belches uncomfortably and lets one rip.

"Whoa!"

"It's here somewhere," says Turkey.

"You can't really have lost it, can you?" The Beer drinker asks despairingly. "They put me through a lot for that ridiculous shot." He tries to stifle another loud belch. "It's not even over." His flatulence is keeping pace, this we cannot deny.

"Boys," the cart sprite interrupts, "it's time to come back to unreality… er, I mean, reality. The fourth hole, which lies before you, is a 531-yard par-5. It has some changes in elevation, but it basically stretches straight on till dawn. Let's try to concentrate on hitting them long and strange, shall we? Long and straight!"

We stop looking for Beer Boy's hole-in-one ball, thinking it wise to give him his personal space. Play's the thing. We lurch away, careful to keep him downwind, turning our attention to Hole No. 4. The fairway is narrow, and falls away below us before rising steeply 200 yards distant. Trees loom on both sides. A well-struck first shot looks like it will carry to the far ridge. Powdered, it'll fly over and roll who knows where.

The tee shot that Beer Boy creamed ten minutes back caromed off the far ridge and kept on racing. Who knows? Maybe he'll be able to go for the green in two. Eagle opportunity.

As I tee up my ball, I ask my dear addled comrades to keep it down, especially the rhythm section (if he can help it). I coil with all my might and unleash a fearsome drive. I visualize my ball reaching the far hill and bounding over… It's a miracle… I drive the green! Nope. It flares right, toward the trees. We wait.

. . . Tock . . .

I've made contact. "Talking about 'coming back to reality.' I'm back to playing crappy golf."

"Chance for a woody par, Coffee."

"Woody par would be nice," I muster.

"You'll like the woods, Irish Coffee," says the nymph, "Don't be discouraged. I'll help you find your ball." I gaze at this inexplicable angel of mine and she's bathing me in smiles. Some people have all the luck. Wild Turkey and Single Malt both hit excellent drives and manage to find the fairway at the crest of the hill.

The libations nymph pats the seat next to her and we cruise downhill toward the dark woods. She seems to know right where my ball's landed. She skids to a halt with a little dramatic flair, steps out, and saunters toward the forest, poetry in motion. I follow. It's cool in the woods, the sunshine only breaking through in spots. It's quiet and dappled. Birds are quietly bemoaning my slice.

Sure enough, there's my ball, and it's not lying in too impossible a spot. It's on a slight down slope a club's length from a particularly ancient evergreen. There's a gap in the trees and with luck I may be able to shoot through it. (My luck's been extraordinary so far, let's face it.) I pull a 3-iron out of my bag and get ready to fire away. The nymph is lolling nearby, leaning against a big tree, balancing on one leg.

After giving her a grateful smile, I become all business. I see, upon closer inspection, that my ball is sitting next to a few twigs, a pine cone, a bundle of pine needles, and some dead grass. It's not as pretty a lie as I first thought.

Now, what's this…? There next to my ball is a four-leaf clover. Before I start playing pick-up-sticks with the detritus, I pluck the rare and lovely four-leaf clover, approach the cart damsel, and offer it to her without a word. She gives me her 1,000-watt smile.

I can't help but grin myself before returning to the shot at hand. I proceed to take relief (under Rule 23-1), carefully removing what I can of various loose impediments, being frightfully careful not to dislodge my ball, trying to avoid incurring a one-stroke penalty (under Rule 18-2a). I'm tempted to get a few more twigs out of the way of my ball but think better of it. Then I line up my shot, visualize a decisive swing and a low runner, and fire away, punching my ball cleanly through the little opening in the trees. It shoots back onto the fairway.

"Well, I must say, I'm terribly disappointed," the nymph says.

"Why? That was a pretty decent shot!"

"You didn't breathe a word!"

"When I gave you the four-leaf clover? It was a gesture."

"No, Coffee. That's not at all what I'm talking about. That was sweet."

"Then?"

"You removed living vegetation to improve your lie."

"Not at all. I very carefully brushed aside a few pine needles and gently extracted a twig."

"I'm talking about when you picked the four-leaf clover for me."

"Oh!"

"You really should have called a penalty on yourself."

"I wasn't trying to improve my lie."

"Rules are rules. That's a one-stroke penalty."

"Ah, the luck of the Irish."

"If you intentionally cheat, the consequences would be a lot worse."

"Golf was the last thing on my mind."

"I know, Irish Coffee, you romantic, you. Now go inform your friends."

"I promise I will. Pronto."

I wheel and rush to go after my ball, but I'm too hasty. I don't look where I'm going and I blunder straight into a briar patch. A bramble loops out and pricks me, clawing me right across the forehead. I stop short, naturally, reach up and carefully pull the thorns away from my skin. My fingers come away bloody. I realize I'm on the verge of falling into a host of blackberry runners. One is seriously catching at my legs. Tottering, I steady myself as best I can. Then I disentangle - dis-en-tan-gle - myself, but not before all those thorns leave tracks down my shins. The nymph's truly a stickler when it comes to the rules of golf.

Rule 13-2: A player must not improve or allow to be improved the area of his intended stance or swing by moving, bending or breaking anything growing or fixed.

Which is to say, a player, such as yours truly, may not gather living plants to improve his or her standing with the delightful cart nymph, even when said flora is as slight and symbolic as a four-leaf clover.

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.