He swung and hit the ball with the trajectory turning right, just as the course dictated, landing on the green two yards from the hole. “I think that shot deserves some applause,” Tony suggested to his partners.
“Make the putt when it’s your turn again and we’ll give you a standing ovation,” Jack responded caustically.
Neil was next to tee off, but first decided to give a small sermon to his cohorts: “Boys, boys, you are not behaving yourselves. Remember this is just a golf game and not a comedy roast. Let’s not spoil our fun today. Just behave yourselves, okay?”
Rabbi Neil Bloom, the third player of the group, was nicknamed “Putz” by the other three, due to his dreadful putting. The term was also a friendly Yiddish term for “dickhead.” They met every Sunday at 8:00 a.m. for a round of eighteen holes. Usually the Rabbi played their final putts first. He had yet to finish the eighteenth hole without either landing in a sand trap or a water pond first. They think he’s a grand guy, but he had very beginner golfing skills even after all those years. He loved telling strangers he met on the course that one day he scored a seventy-two. He waited until they ooh’d and aah’d, and then added his regular punch line, “And then I got to the second hole.” This frequently resulted in some chuckles, but more often a few weak smiles as if they’d heard that one before.
Both men nodded their assent to the mini-sermon and assured him they would now conduct themselves with no further negativity. Bloom placed his green ball on the tee and struck it on the first swing, hitting it on the sweet spot of the wood. His drive flew straight approximately 125 yards right into a sand trap. He now had no more than three additional attempts to reach the green and putt the ball into the hole. He was not familiar with the art of getting a golf ball out of a sand trap and was almost paralyzed with thoughts of not getting out of the trap. He should have read Golf for Dummies, a primer on how to play all kinds of shots, like how to take a divot of sand out with the swing of the club. Even had he read that tip, he still wouldn’t have known which club to use.
Todd’s turn came next and he used a blue ball to tee off. If he did say so himself, he had a perfect backswing and hit the ball onto the green on the first stroke, approximately twenty yards from the hole, which also had a break with an uphill lie. Naturally, his ego soared like an eagle, just knowing that he could make the putt in two attempts and earn a birdie, meaning one under par.
He was so apprehensive about those two shots he had left that he didn’t want to permit Jack to go next again, but Jack cut in anyway, thereby blocking Todd’s attempt to finish the hole. With no caddy’s help, Jack had to decide for himself which club to choose. Having practiced on driving ranges so often, he had learned which club to use based on how far the ball landed from the green. He then marked each club in permanent black on the lower side of the head, which in a bag faces up if left uncovered. This gave him an advantage over the rest of them, who were still trying to figure out which club would be best for certain distances and lies.
He took the five-iron marked 130-150 on the underside of the head, speculating that a conventional swing with this club would get him to the green without a problem.
Todd said out loud, “Jack, these kind of markings on your clubs would get you thrown out of any major tournament in the U.S. According to the official rules, it’s called cheating.”
Jack looked back at him and gave him a wink. Expecting the club to do all the work, his modest swing failed miserably. He had a nice backswing, but the ball landed in the nearby woods approximately ninety yards to the right from where he struck it.
Only another hundred and eighty-five more yards to the green, and that’s if he can get out of the woods in one attempt, thought Todd.
“Shit, I have no luck today,” Green remarked with annoyance. “I should have stayed in the hospital and watched golf on TV At least there I can take a piss when I need to, not like out here. By the way, what’s the story with three of us getting shot at? I heard that you, Todd, were also shot at but didn’t get hit. Did you learn anything from the police?”
“No, I didn’t, and I don’t like it,” Todd replied. “Why would someone want to kill us? Jack, you got shot at twice and hit with the second bullet. They shot at me twice but only hit my house. Whoever was shooting saw me slide into my house before they could get a third shot at me. So why didn’t they come to my door to finish the job? I just don’t get it. You think we pissed off some nut case here on the golf course?”
“No, I don’t,” Jack said with firm conviction.
“Why not?”
“Because if we did make them angry here, as you so charmingly put it, they’d be after all four of us, including Tony; not just us three. I think it’s a serial killer who just has poor aim at times, thank God. Anyone in Arizona could be the next victim.”
Bloom interjected, “Think about it, gentlemen. This all happened within a couple of weeks of each other. There’s nothing to say that Tony may not be their next target.”
Todd, after making his birdie said, “Once we finish with this hole, I believe we should continue with this conversation where we won’t be such easy targets out here with no
