Toby Olson - Seaview

“Am I away?” Frankie asked Allen.

“Depends upon height,” he laughed, “but maybe so.” The other two refused any hint of curiosity, and when Frankie looked over at them, they did not look back. “I’ll hit then,” he said.

He used a seven-iron, hit his usually low, short iron shot, but he hit it too firmly. It landed on his side of the flagstick over the small trap, but it had a lot of roll in it, and it crossed the green and moved well into the rough on the other side.

“Shit,” he said, and rammed his club back into his bag.

Allen reached to his bag and selected a nine-iron; then he put it back and took out an eight. He put that club back and unbelted his entire bag from the cart. He slung it over his shoulder and started up the slope of the mound. When he got to the top, he slung his bag from his shoulder and rested it in the grass.

At its crest, the mound was still curving; and he could see that the massive totem pole had been set directly in its navel. He glanced down to where the others were waiting. He was about twenty yards to the right of the pole, and the three below him could see most of him. At the same time that he was about to suggest that one or more of them come up, he saw Steve bend over and talk sharply and briefly to Lou. He guessed the reason. Steve thought he might be partly out of sight when he found his ball, and he did not want him improving his lie. Lou jumped from the cart and trotted up the mound, slowing to a walk when he was about halfway up. This was the first time he and Lou had been alone, and he decided to use that. He knew that any prolonged talk between them up there would get to Steve.

“Hey, Lou,” he said, “good view from up here, huh?”

“Right,” Lou said, then quickly, “where’s your ball?”

“Somewhere over there,” he said, waving vaguely with his arm but keeping his eyes on Lou, and then looking past him to where Steve was sitting in the cart watching. He reached down and got a club out of his bag, a five-iron, and toyed with the grass at his feet while he talked. He figured Steve might think his ball was where they stood. He would surely wonder what he was doing with the club. He took a practice swing, not touching the ground.

“You like coming up here on an errand?” he said. He was surprised at Lou’s directness.

“Fuck no, I don’t like it! Come on, let’s find your ball.”

“We’ll find it. Let’s talk a little.”

“Look man, this is my livelihood we’re dealing with. You wanna talk, we’ll talk later, okay?” He had started his statement strongly, but there was a slight tone of pleading as he ended it. Allen could see that he had underestimated Steve’s pressure.

He also knew that Lou’s opening up in this way, though he may not have intended to, was a measure of disaffection. He felt himself wanting Lou out of this hole; he hoped that Lou’s putt was of sufficient difficulty when it came to remove decision from him. For a moment, he felt helpless in having no control over that aspect of what would follow.

“Okay,” Allen said, “I get it.” He turned away, his five-iron still in his hand, and walked up toward the base of the pole. About ten yards from it, to its right as he approached the crown of the mound, he saw his ball, a part of it visible through the low growth it sat firmly in. He moved on up to it to check his lie, but before he got to it something else caught his attention. He laughed to himself, visibly shaking his head as he came to the mound’s crest. Down on the other side, at the foot and running out a good thirty yards toward the green, was a sand trap. The trap must have been at least fifty yards wide; it covered a good portion of the green side of the mound, stopping on either side only a short distance in from the rough. Its size was remarkable, though it was on scale with the size of the mound and pole. More remarkable was its depth; its front lip must have been a good five feet high. He realized that had he played his shot a little longer or tried to clear the mound, he would have wound up in the trap, either by roll or on the fly, and he would have had one hell of a difficult shot to the green from there.

“The forces of evil will stop at nothing,” he said under his breath as Lou came up to him.

“What did you say?” he said.

“Not much to say about that,” he said. “That speaks for itself.”

He looked up from the trap to the green. He was about a hundred yards away from it, but it would play quite a bit shorter than that because he was well above it. From where he was he had an open shot to the pin, which was cut in close to the middle of the green, with an uphill slope between him and it. He walked back to his bag and got out his wedge. When he came back, he stepped up and addressed the ball, moving his feet and tamping them down, working to get a good stance. Before he got set to hit, he looked over at where Lou was standing and past him down to where Steve still sat, looking up. He motioned with his head a little, and Lou stepped back some and to the right, getting out of his field of vision.

He had to think of this shot as a touch shot; a full wedge would be too much. At the same time, his lie was airy, the ball would jump out a little ahead of the club, and he could not get any backspin on it. Also, he would have to hit a bit of the weed before he got to the ball. He figured that the slope of the green between him and the cup would slow the ball down some, but not enough; he would need more than that to get it to stop on the down side. The clipped fringe in front of the green was about four feet wide and looked well cared for and true. He figured he would need a little roll in that to slow the ball down. At the edge of the fringe, the longer grass of the fairway tucked in nicely. If he landed in the fairway, about three feet from the fringe, he ought to get a bounce into the fringe, a little slowing roll onto the green, and then the quicker roll up to the cup.

He picked a spot. He placed the club head, slightly elevated in the air, behind the ball. He elected a short backswing and a punch shot with very little wrist in it. The club came up smoothly, pausing a moment when its head was at a line near the top of his own, and then the head came down sharply and jammed the ball up out of the rough. His follow-through was abbreviated also, the club head finishing and stopping at the height of his left shoulder. He held that position as he watched the ball fly. He could see a wing on the side of the totem pole out of the corner of his eye. The ball hit close to where he had played it. It hit fairway and bounced once in the near edge of fringe, finishing the fringe on the roll. It had roll in it when it reached the shorter carpet of the green. It began to slow down halfway between the cup and the fringe. It quit no more than eight feet below the hole, a little to the left of it.

“Good out,” Lou said behind him when the ball stopped. He watched the ball sit there a moment, then he quit his position and looked at Lou. Lou was smiling at his own quiet understatement, and he smiled at Lou.

They walked back down the slope of the mound to the carts. Frankie was standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head and smiling.

“That was really something,” he said.

“Thanks,” he said. He expected nothing from Steve, but Steve nodded slightly as Frankie spoke. He got out of the cart and went to his bag for a club. He found what he wanted and stood away as Lou got ready to hit.

Lou’s shot was firm, but it drifted a little to the left, stopping about twenty-five to thirty feet from the hole, on the left, pin high, on the side hill. Steve went directly at the pin, but he was a little long and wound up fifteen feet above it.

WHEN THEY GOT TO THE GREEN, FRANKIE TOOK THE cart and went around behind it. He made a good shot from the rough. He was below and out of sight of the green from where he had landed, but he got the ball up to the fringe on a good line. The ball took an odd bounce — he had shanked it a bit — and it quit to the right of him, outside of Lou’s ball. He putted very close and tapped in for a bogey six. Lou lagged up to within a foot, and Steve told him to take it away for par.