Playing the Field: Tee’d Off

Playing the Field: Tee’d Off By J.M. Snyder Greg Chennault has loved the sport of golf since he was a kid, when his parents lived in a gated community with its own small course for residents. Then, Greg’s backyard butted up against the fairway. On clear days, he would lie beneath the bushes, head in his hands, and watch the graceful swings of the golfers as they played through his line of vision. Whenever his father wanted to mow the lawn, Greg’s duty was to tramp through the grass in search of errant golf balls, which he kept in a bucket behind the shed. When he was twelve years old, he jumped the fence separating their yard from the course and trooped toward the club house, determined to get a closer look at the sport. Watching Nicklaus play on TV was one thing; feeling the springy grass under his feet and the cool breeze blow the sweat off the back of his neck quite another altogether. He stopped in mid-step to savor the feel of the sun on his arms and scalp, the scant wind across the open field, the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel and grass, the distant call of “Fore!” Closing his eyes, Greg raised his face to the sun, basking in its warmth. To his pre-teen mind, this was paradise. A man’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You busy here, kid? Or can I play through?” With a start, Greg turned to find he was no longer alone—an older gentleman leaned on his nine iron, a bemused expression on his face. He nodded in greeting, tipping the brim of his cap in Greg’s direction. A bag of golf clubs lay on the ground behind him. “Do you mind?” “What?” Greg asked. Then, realizing he was in the way, he jumped aside. “No, sorry!” The man gave him an indulgent smile. Quietly, Greg circled around behind him, watching intently as the man squatted to set his tee in the ground. Over his shoulder, the man asked, “Can you get me a clean ball? They’re in the front pocket of my bag.” “Where’s the one you were using?” Greg asked as he hurried to obey. The man made an off-hand gesture in the direction of Greg’s house. “Over there somewhere.” Brightly, Greg told him, “That’s where I live. I can go find it for you, if you want. My dad says I’m really good at finding all the stupid golf balls that wind up in our yard.” The man laughed as he took the new ball Greg offered him. “You’re something else, kid. You like golf?” At Greg’s eager nod, the man extended one gloved hand, which Greg shook eagerly. “I’m Trevor Johns. I got a boy myself, a few years younger than you, I imagine. I hope one day he’s as into the sport as you seem to be.” “I love golf,” Greg gushed. “This is my first time on a course. I came looking to see if they’d hire me on for something. Do you think I’m too young to get a job here?” “Probably a little,” Mr. Johns admitted. Greg’s face fell—his mother had told him he’d need a work permit, and he wouldn’t be able to get one for another three years. But a heavy hand clapped his shoulder, and when he looked up, Mr. Johns smiled again, a warm expression that lit his dark eyes. “I’ll tell you what. My usual caddy couldn’t make it this afternoon, and I’m left carrying my own clubs. It’s not the most glamorous job on the course, I’ll admit, but if you want to get into golf, you have to start somewhere. Would you like to caddy for me today?” “Would I?” Greg grinned so hard, his cheeks hurt. He heard the excited squeal in his own voice and clamped both hands over his mouth as if to stifle it. Then he nodded vigorously and, from between his fingers, said, “Yes, please, Mr. Johns. I’d like that very much.” Mr. Johns ruffled Greg’s thick mop of sandy brown hair. “You think you can lift the bag? It might be too heavy for you—” “It’s not,” Greg assured him. He didn’t care if it weighed a hundred pounds—he’d carry it to the club house and back, slung over his shoulder the way he’d seen the caddies do it on TV. * * * * Fifteen years later, Greg works at the Hermitage Country Club, an exclusive resort tucked away in the small town of Colonial Pines. The pay is good, the lodging free, and in his spare time, he has his pick of five different golf courses on which to practice his swing. He’s on staff as an “expert,” which is a far cry from the nervy kid who had jumped the fence looking to learn the sport. Greg owes his career to Mr. Johns, who hired him on as a full-time caddy despite his age and kept Greg on the fairway all throughout his teenage years. When Greg left for college—on a scholarship, no less, with the campus golf team clamoring for him to play—Mr. Johns gave him a gift he still treasures to this day: his own set of clubs. At the Hermitage, he has his pick of expensive clubs, nine irons and five woods by the best manufacturers on the market, but whenever it’s just him and the ball out on the green, he totes his own bag. During the last weekend in May, the Hermitage hosts its annual Mid-Atlantic Golf Tournament, a small event that attracts golfers from up and down the east coast. Greg spins into overdrive—he has to coordinate the lodging, the food, the entertainment. He hires mowers to trim the green down to a playing height; he brings in rakers to smooth out the sand traps, and divers to clean the ponds. He has to replace every worn out and ragged pennant on the fairway, and puts his employees to work repainting old golf balls until they gleam in the sun. He’s the one the concierge calls when the rooms are full and guests have to be diverted to another hotel; he’s the one who arranges for discounts at the Hilton Garden and Sheraton West. The week before the tournament begins, Greg doesn’t get a chance to hit the putting green on his lunch break—he doesn’t get breaks. He runs from sun up to sun down, trying to pull the tourney off without a hitch. Then the weekend approaches and the first guests start to arrive, and things really get hectic.