Riverbank Tweed and Roadmap Jenkins by BO LINKS

Author:BO LINKS
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SIMON & SCHUSTER
Published: 2001-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Under the Streetlight

It was a long match, on a hot day, and there was more than a hint of frustration in Blimp Crawford’s voice as he walked up the 18th fairway. He had outdriven Squeak McGilvery for seventeen holes, pounding the ball past him by more than 100 yards on some holes, but all he had to show for it was a one-up lead in the finals of the Claremont Club Championship. Mongoose Patterson was on his bag and he too was breathing heavy coming down the last fairway. The Goose had been leaking oil the whole back nine and appeared to be hanging on, hoping his man could put the lid on the jar right then and there.

I was tagging along, watching the action with a large group of members and more than a few of the caddies. The caddies weren’t just out there for a suntan; most of them had money on the outcome and they were hanging on every shot.

I wasn’t attracted to the Blimp because he was pretty; I was glued to him because he could drive the ball huge distances. Watching him unload on that little golf ball was like watching a jackhammer go through cement. It was not a finesse operation. Blimp himself was one definite human specimen; he stood all of six feet five inches, weighed at least 300 pounds, and had a temper as big and ferocious as his body. When the cork popped on his bottle, you just hoped you weren’t standing too close.

The man he was playing against, Squeak McGilvery, was from another part of the universe altogether. Squeak was a little sparrow of a man, an accountant, a man who spent his days sorting through other people’s shoe boxes, trying to make sense of it all at the end of the year for Uncle Sam. He wore thick spectacles, the kind that can be used to start a fire when you ain’t got matches and the sun’s up there burning a hole in your neck. He was called Squeak on account of his golf shoes. They were the oldest pair in the club. The reedy little pencil pusher didn’t part with his money unless somebody pried it loose from him with a crowbar, and to save a few bucks on equipment, he took an old pair of his street shoes to a cobbler and had the man drill spikes into the soles. When he played in the morning, those clodhoppers tended to get waterlogged from the dew and all. Them cordovan brogans sang their own song as Squeak McGilvery made his way down the fairway. He was a pretty fair player, but that walking toothpick sure wasn’t ever going to take nobody by surprise from the rear, if you know what I mean.

Most of the boys in the club made fun of little Squeak, but the thing of it was, he could beat players twice his size without breaking a sweat. He did it with finesse, which is to say mostly with a wedge and a putter.

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