Breakfast at the Victory by James P. Carse

Author:James P. Carse
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

FOR A PERIOD of five years my brother and I fell out of touch. We called each other a few times but never even talked about getting together. Neither of us understood why the events in our lives at the time had so distracted us. When we did finally meet, we saw at once how much we had needed each other in those years. The reunion was surprisingly emotional, hugging and kissing each other like lost children.

It was a phone call from my brother that started it. He wanted me to meet his new wife. We made elaborate plans. Of course, it included golf. I got out my old clubs, cleaned them of last year’s dirt, and flew out to meet him.

It was a cool November morning. The course was all but empty. When my brother set his clubs in the golf cart, I noticed for the first time that they were the famous brand used now by most of the pros, widely discussed in the sports magazines. Even their cost was famous. When he saw me admiring them he tossed a seven iron at me. “Here,” he said, “see what you think.” Maybe technology can make real advances, I thought to myself as I swung the club, amazed by the magical feel of it in my hands.

“You hit first,” Dave said. I was a little nervous as I teed up the ball, and wondered why. He knew I had hardly played all these years so I had an excuse for playing badly. It was not a fifty-four-year-old man, however, but a fifteen-year-old boy leaning over the ball adjusting the tee to a perfect height for the driver. The ball shot off with exciting speed and then, as though hit by a second golfer, it right-angled sharply off into the woods.

Dave said nothing. He lightly pulled the priceless driver from the golf bag and brushed a spot of dust from it. I think I began seeing what had happened to him when he teed his ball. It was a soft, almost balletic action. He leaned forward on one leg, the other balanced out behind, placed the ball delicately on the tee without adjusting it, and stood back in his position—all in one seamless move. There was a still center here, all right. He studied the top of the club for a moment, placed it behind the ball, and started his backswing. Then I knew for sure.

In the weeks afterward, reflecting on this moment, I had to admit to myself that the panic I felt as the club started back had to do with loss. First, I thought Dave was going to lose the club. He seemed to have nothing to do with it. It was attached to nothing. It would simply drop to the ground. Then I thought he had lost his swing, that he would never finish it. There was such indifference here that hitting the ball was the last thing he had on his mind; he would get to the top of the backswing and just forget.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.