'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Final Episode. The Turn

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the 15th episode, Irish Coffee barely avoided going down the drain. This is the 16th - and final - episode in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the Royal and Ancient Golf Curse.]

"Did I mention that this is an executive course?"

"It is?"

"Yes, it's a nine-hole curse," says the cart nymph. "Er… course. This, dear boys, is the final hole."

This gets the mental machinery working. If the course is only nine holes long, what's next? Will we be shown the way out? Can we go home? Back from whence we came? Will it be 100 years in the future when we get there? Can we stay and play for eternity?

"What's funny about these links," says our lovely guide, "is that even though it's an abbreviated course, you always have choices. You can play great and be in Hell. Or be in paradise, making quadruple bogies and three-putting."

"When I play great golf, I'm in heaven," says Wild Turkey.

"Not here, Turkey. That's not one of the choices."

"I've noticed that," he says.

"It's a bit the story of man's fall. You've known heaven. Then the next hole you three-putt and, well, you're in Hell."

"Let me get this straight, our choices are play great golf in Hell or play crappy golf in heaven?"

"That's right."

"I'd rather play well."

"I would rather play in heaven," I say. "Look at this hole. This is paradise."

It is spectacular. The course is bathed in rays of gold. The Pacific Ocean is sparkling. It's the time of day when ridiculously long shadows appear, and our silhouettes, prostrate at our feet, are stretching infinitely.

"If this is an executive course, does that mean we're going to get executed?" Wild Turkey asks.

"Don't kid," says the cart nymph.

"We're not going to be turned into shades ourselves, are we?" I ask, gazing every which way in wide-eyed wonder. "The kind of phantoms that wander the golf course but never get to play."

"We don't like the term 'executed.' We like to think of it as adding your absence to our bottom line," says Single Malt.

"We're wrong sizing you," says Beer Boy.

"Showing you the emergency exit," I say. "A routine fire drill, the 'you're fired' drill."

"Out to pasture," says Wild Turkey. "Moo. Move."

"Stop joking like that," the cart nymph protests. "Why paint the devil on the wall?"

"Just a little black humor. We played that game a few days ago. Fairly unexpectedly."

"How else could we play afternoon golf on a weekday?"

"Early retirement. The involuntary kind."

"Yep. Said they had to reduce 'head count.' Lopped off our heads and rolled them out the door like bowling balls."

"It's nice to play golf on a weekday, though," I say, trying to look on the bright side. "Not too crowded."

"True, but this track is a bit up-and-down for my taste."

"I find it mesmerizing."

"What I want to know," Single Malt says, "is whether this hole takes us back to the clubhouse. Those were some fine…"

"G-and-T's."

"Exactly. Some fine G-and-T's."

"We'll see," the golf nymph says quietly. "I would say it depends on how you play this last hole. Hole No. 9 is a par-4, 299 yards. And as you can see, the green is tiny and well protected."

"Oh boy, target golf."

"I'll make you a proposition," she says, giving us her warmest smile. "Love getting propositioned," Wild Turkey interjects.

"…if you all make par-or better-I'll take you back to the clubhouse. Drinks will still be on me."

"Will those cuties… I mean, caddies… still be there?"

"They're always there."

"All right, dudes," Single Malt cries, uncharacteristically agitated. "We can do this!"

"But, what if we don't…?" Wild Turkey asks.

"Best to think positively," says the nymph. "Si, se puede."

"What if we average par or better?" Beer Boy asks, trying to enhance our odds.

"That works," she says. "It's a deal."

After my toilet-bowl miracle putt on the last hole, I have honors, albeit supernatural and never to be duplicated. I fish out my driver and tee up my ball. It's perched as if floating in mid-air. I take a practice cut and try to visualize it running onto the green. Hell, I try to visualize making a hole-in-one! I've never made one, but I figure a short par-4 is another opportunity. Up to now my powers of visualization have far exceeded my powers of execution.

No time like the present. My friends make a lot of racket pulling out their clubs and taking practice swings. I try to tune them out. My last swing thought is: "Read the brand name on your ball." I look steadily at my motionless ball. I bring it into perfect focus. I read Noodle 1. I play the music of Strauss in my mind and swing as if dancing a Viennese waltz.

Boy, that sounded like a golf shot, and it felt like one, too! I follow the flight of my ball and it's fading slightly left to right and tracking straight to the pin!

"Go!" I cry.

And, boy, does it. Suddenly I feel kind of cocky and I think: "Eat your heart out."

What an unbelievably bizarre round of golf. One minute we're convinced we'll never get off this course alive. The next we're quaffing gin and tonics with some drop-dead gorgeous women appearing from God-knows-where. We've endured trials-and-tribulations galore, complex and hyphenated.

And, of course, there's the disturbing proximity of the bewitching cart nymph. (And my beloved wife at home.) All this is flashing through my mind as my ball lands on the green and rolls straight for the hole. For some reason, Wild Turkey's paying no attention whatsoever. He's missing out. He takes a long, fluid practice swing with his driver, follows through and hits me right in chest.

Oh, man!!

As I stagger back, I look up and see something awful. A bird as big as a California condor, as expansive as Flaubert's parrot-an albatross, a gigantic white sea eagle-is wheeling down out of the sky and diving toward me. My luck's running out. The great white sea eagle hits me and plunges it talons in my chest. I must look as if I've sprouted wings.

I cry out, I think. I must have. I've never felt such pain. I fall over backwards, fighting like a devil to save myself from this huge birdie. Is this really what I get for making a hole-in-one? (The cart nymph did warn us about playing great golf.) I slowly black out. Pain vanishes. Or if there's pain, I'm not the one feeling it.

As if gathering in a sable shroud, I sense the shades of people I've known, people I've loved and lost. One especially familial shadow, I'm sure it's my oldest brother, is there. He tries to comfort me. I hear his distinct, beloved voice clearly. He's telling me not to sweat it, I'm going to be all right, that all will be well. And then I surrender to the darkness that gives way to an infinite oblivion. I have a last half notion that it's a shame my brother wasn't playing with us today. Even with all the pitfalls, he would have dug it. He would have thought it was a trip…

When I open my eyes, I'm flat on my back, squinting into the white light of a drafty hospital room. The shadow of my brother is gone. I've broken free of the albatross. So much for the tantalizing and maddening golf curse. Wild Turkey, Single Malt, and Beer Boy are there at my bedside, looking older though not particularly wiser. Older definitely. I have so many tubes connected to me I could be a distributor cap.

"Irish Coffee's waking up."

"Hey…" I manage to croak, looking at each of my friends in turn, struggling to lift my head up. "Brothers. What's up?"

"You are, man."

"Hey, Irish Coffee, you're alive."

"Am I?"

"You're gonna be okay, buddy. The doctor said so."

"I'm not okay?"

"You are now. Back in the land of the living."

"With your golf bros."

"A little trouble with your ticker."

"Beer Boy gave you CPR. He frickin' saved you."

"Sheesh," I say.

"Hey, man, I told you not to tell him that!" whispers the Beer dude.

"Actually, that's B.S.," Wild Turkey says hurriedly. "Ha-ha. It was that nice gal, the starter, who revived you."

"She should be called the 'restarter,'" says Single Malt.

"She practically reincarnated you," says Beer Boy. "Turns out she's studying nursing. She was a frickin' pro!"

"I'm lucky," I say, closing my eyes, trying to remember.

"All told, it could have been worse."

"Yeah. Beer Boy could have given me CPR," I whisper. "Or I could be dead."

"You almost bailed on us at the turn, buddy," says Beer Boy. "Figuratively speaking."

"That was the world's all-time shortest round. You made a hole-in-one on the first hole, and then you kinda… well, you went and had a heart attack," says Single Malt.

"I was shocked," I say.

"All of us were."

"I want a rain check," I say, trying to make a joke.

"You got it."

"Nice… How long have I been out?"

"Quite a while."

"You wouldn't believe what we've been through," I groan.

"Oh, yes we would," says Single Malt.

"I saved your hole-in-one ball," says Wild Turkey.

"I deserve an asterisk."

"Oh, definitely."

"Or an exclamation point!" say Single Malt.

"When are we playing again?" I ask.

"You never could play," says Beer Boy. "You'll always be a wannabe."

"Thanks."

"Actually, the doctor said you should play when you get back on your feet. First thing we asked," says Wild Turkey.

"He said, quote: 'Regular exercise will be good for the old dude,'" says Beer Boy.

"Nice."

"One thing, though, he says you've got to cut back on all that queso fundido you've been putting away," says Single Malt.

"If he told me to get down on all fours and bark like a dog, I'd do it."

"That's the spirit, buddy," says Beer Boy.

There's a flurry of activity at the door of my hospital room. I turn and there's a nurse and… and look who's with her… the cart nymph, looking more resplendent than ever. Is she the nursing student who saved me??

The nymph stares at me wide-eyed, appearing shaken and grief-stricken, which I must confess I appreciate. As she flies into the room, she's smiling bravely, sympathetically, nodding left and right to my friends. She slides up to me. I feel the bed sag a little as she sits down and rests her hand on my chest. I'm sorry to have upset her cart like this.

"Irish Coffee, sweetheart, what happened?"

"My first hole-in-one ever. On a par-4."

"Really! Are you warm enough?"

"I'm okay."

"What can I do for you? What do you need?"

"A little CPR maybe?"

"Of course I'll give you CPR," she whispers. "When I get you home."

As she mentions "home," and I gaze into her eyes, her appearance shifts in a subtle transmutation. Quickly and steadily she changes into someone I really do know very well. It's my better half. I've gotten out of the golf curse and back to my Sweet Green Tea! (She is the one who saved me, all right. She saved me the day we first met.)

"No more holes-in-one, Irish," she whispers.

"The doc says I need exercise."

"No more shenanigans."

"We'll see."

"I mean it!"

"Did you drive?" I ask. "It must have been a long drive."

"Yes, baby. But I came as fast as I could."

"I'm glad," I say quietly. "I'm sleepy, darling. I'm way too tired for shenanigans."

"We'll let you sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up," she says. "I'll spell your friends. They've been here for hours."

"Beautiful," I murmur. "But please don't mention any spells. No more spells!"

"Just relax."

"Sweet Green Tea. You're my blessing.

"Darling."

"And my favorite playing partner."

"You're mine."

"And my wildlife refuge."

"You be quiet now."

"All right."

Having shored up things on the home front, I close my eyes and begin to fade into the arms of Morpheus, a last half-thought flitting through my mind: "Next time we play, I'm taking these guys down."

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.