A Game For Gentlemen
by Bill Kirton
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Two friends play a round of golf, respect its rules, pride themselves on the fact, then get back to normal.
_____________________________________________________________________
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with Maggie nowadays,’ said Sam, as they made their way to the eighteenth tee.
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Andrew.
‘I don’t know. She’s just … different. I’ve got a big investors’ meeting Thursday night in the Cally. Need to make an impression. I was counting on her to do some schmoozing. You know how good she is with punters.’
Andrew nodded.
‘The best.’
‘Well, she won’t come. Refused point-blank.’
‘Strange,’ said Andrew. ‘She not well or something?’
Sam shrugged.
‘With women, who can tell?’ he said.
‘I know what you mean. Bloody hormones,’ said Andrew.
Sam nodded. Neither man smiled. Women and hormones didn’t go well together. It was a fact.
They stopped at the side of the tee to look down the fairway. It was a par four dog-leg to the left, bunkers up the right hand side to catch you if you tried to open up the green, copses of birch on the left.
There’s a lot of fancy literature about cricket and the sound of willow on leather, but the way course designers plant trees creates an even greater evocation of the essence of golf and sends it echoing back down to members sitting on the clubhouse balcony. There’s the swish of the downswing, the crack of contact, the hush as the ball flies through the air and the hollow rattle as it clatters into their branches.
Swish, crack, hush, rattle, ‘FUCK!’ The sound of golf.
It was Andrew’s honour. He teed up his ball, swung a couple of times to loosen his shoulders, then stepped up and hit a beautifully shaped drive. In fact, it was too good, and the extra length he’d generated together with his natural fade took his ball into the light rough past the bunkers on the right.
‘That’ll be OK,’ said Sam.
He wasted no time in teeing up his own ball and sending it straight down the middle. Position A – he’d have a perfect view of the green.
As they strolled away from the tee, Sam poured out more of his worries about Maggie. Andrew made sympathetic noises. His own wife, Rachel, was a psychology professor and usually so wrapped up in her work that their domestic contact was at best sporadic.
‘Is she still thinking of joining the club?’ asked Sam.
Andrew shook his head.
‘Don’t know why she ever thought of it. She never has time for anything much. Let alone golf.’
‘She’d be a bloody good person to have on the committee,’ said Sam. ‘Talks a lot of sense. Shake ’em up a bit.’
‘Aye,’ said Andrew.
Their talk switched to the latest moves to expand access to the course for women and juniors. Neither of them was against it but they were in a minority. Scotland’s underlying egalitarianism still didn’t extend over the threshold of many of the clubs in the home of golf.
They stopped just past the apex of the dog leg and Sam watched as Andrew took a three iron and walked to his ball. The two had played together for years and each knew the other’s routines. Andrew stared at the green for several seconds, slowly raised the club in front of him and pointed it at the distant flag. He then lowered it, took two practice swings and stepped forward to address the ball. He looked up at the flag twice, drew back the club with a slowness that Sam always envied and swept the ball away in a high arc onto the green, where it rolled to within eight feet of the pin.
‘Great shot,’ said Sam.
Andrew just raised a hand, then watched as Sam went through his own familiar routines. His approach was right on line, just missing the pin and running twelve feet past it.
As they got near to the green, Sam said, ‘Birdie chances.’
‘Not for me,’ said Andrew. ‘Bloody ball moved as I addressed it.
‘Bastard,’ said Sam.
And that was that. Neither felt the need to comment further. No-one but Andrew had seen the slight half-roll of his ball as he’d addressed it but the rules said that if that happened, it was a one-stroke penalty. So he’d added a stroke to his score, which meant that he’d already taken three. He and Sam knew that there were guys in the club who not only ignored such things, they even nudged the ball to a better lie. But they were only cheating themselves. That was the beauty of golf. It was still a gentleman’s game. Always would be.
On the green, Sam took no time at all over his putt, stroking it home for his birdie as if it were a gimme. Andrew took a little longer but sank his for a par. They shook hands and made the usual satisfied and congratulatory noises. Andrew had lost by one stroke. That half-roll of his ball, unseen by anyone else, had cost him the match. They dumped their clubs in their cars and Sam went ahead into the clubhouse to buy the drinks. Andrew locked his car, leaned back against it, took out his mobile and dialled. As he waited he lifted his head and felt the warm sun on his face.
His call was answered almost immediately.
‘Hello darling,’ he said.
‘Hello, my love,’ said Maggie. ‘Good game?’
‘Great. Sam won. He’s away to get the drinks in.’
Maggie laughed her low, familiar chuckle.
‘What’re you doing Thursday night?’ she asked.
‘That’s why I’m phoning,’ said Andrew.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know Sam’s got a big investors’ meeting that night?’
‘Aye. In the Cally.’
‘Right.’
‘OK if I come round?’
‘What do you think?’
Andrew smiled.
‘I’ll be there around seven,’ he said.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Two friends play a round of golf, respect its rules, pride themselves on the fact, then get back to normal.
_____________________________________________________________________
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with Maggie nowadays,’ said Sam, as they made their way to the eighteenth tee.
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Andrew.
‘I don’t know. She’s just … different. I’ve got a big investors’ meeting Thursday night in the Cally. Need to make an impression. I was counting on her to do some schmoozing. You know how good she is with punters.’
Andrew nodded.
‘The best.’
‘Well, she won’t come. Refused point-blank.’
‘Strange,’ said Andrew. ‘She not well or something?’
Sam shrugged.
‘With women, who can tell?’ he said.
‘I know what you mean. Bloody hormones,’ said Andrew.
Sam nodded. Neither man smiled. Women and hormones didn’t go well together. It was a fact.
They stopped at the side of the tee to look down the fairway. It was a par four dog-leg to the left, bunkers up the right hand side to catch you if you tried to open up the green, copses of birch on the left.
There’s a lot of fancy literature about cricket and the sound of willow on leather, but the way course designers plant trees creates an even greater evocation of the essence of golf and sends it echoing back down to members sitting on the clubhouse balcony. There’s the swish of the downswing, the crack of contact, the hush as the ball flies through the air and the hollow rattle as it clatters into their branches.
Swish, crack, hush, rattle, ‘FUCK!’ The sound of golf.
It was Andrew’s honour. He teed up his ball, swung a couple of times to loosen his shoulders, then stepped up and hit a beautifully shaped drive. In fact, it was too good, and the extra length he’d generated together with his natural fade took his ball into the light rough past the bunkers on the right.
‘That’ll be OK,’ said Sam.
He wasted no time in teeing up his own ball and sending it straight down the middle. Position A – he’d have a perfect view of the green.
As they strolled away from the tee, Sam poured out more of his worries about Maggie. Andrew made sympathetic noises. His own wife, Rachel, was a psychology professor and usually so wrapped up in her work that their domestic contact was at best sporadic.
‘Is she still thinking of joining the club?’ asked Sam.
Andrew shook his head.
‘Don’t know why she ever thought of it. She never has time for anything much. Let alone golf.’
‘She’d be a bloody good person to have on the committee,’ said Sam. ‘Talks a lot of sense. Shake ’em up a bit.’
‘Aye,’ said Andrew.
Their talk switched to the latest moves to expand access to the course for women and juniors. Neither of them was against it but they were in a minority. Scotland’s underlying egalitarianism still didn’t extend over the threshold of many of the clubs in the home of golf.
They stopped just past the apex of the dog leg and Sam watched as Andrew took a three iron and walked to his ball. The two had played together for years and each knew the other’s routines. Andrew stared at the green for several seconds, slowly raised the club in front of him and pointed it at the distant flag. He then lowered it, took two practice swings and stepped forward to address the ball. He looked up at the flag twice, drew back the club with a slowness that Sam always envied and swept the ball away in a high arc onto the green, where it rolled to within eight feet of the pin.
‘Great shot,’ said Sam.
Andrew just raised a hand, then watched as Sam went through his own familiar routines. His approach was right on line, just missing the pin and running twelve feet past it.
As they got near to the green, Sam said, ‘Birdie chances.’
‘Not for me,’ said Andrew. ‘Bloody ball moved as I addressed it.
‘Bastard,’ said Sam.
And that was that. Neither felt the need to comment further. No-one but Andrew had seen the slight half-roll of his ball as he’d addressed it but the rules said that if that happened, it was a one-stroke penalty. So he’d added a stroke to his score, which meant that he’d already taken three. He and Sam knew that there were guys in the club who not only ignored such things, they even nudged the ball to a better lie. But they were only cheating themselves. That was the beauty of golf. It was still a gentleman’s game. Always would be.
On the green, Sam took no time at all over his putt, stroking it home for his birdie as if it were a gimme. Andrew took a little longer but sank his for a par. They shook hands and made the usual satisfied and congratulatory noises. Andrew had lost by one stroke. That half-roll of his ball, unseen by anyone else, had cost him the match. They dumped their clubs in their cars and Sam went ahead into the clubhouse to buy the drinks. Andrew locked his car, leaned back against it, took out his mobile and dialled. As he waited he lifted his head and felt the warm sun on his face.
His call was answered almost immediately.
‘Hello darling,’ he said.
‘Hello, my love,’ said Maggie. ‘Good game?’
‘Great. Sam won. He’s away to get the drinks in.’
Maggie laughed her low, familiar chuckle.
‘What’re you doing Thursday night?’ she asked.
‘That’s why I’m phoning,’ said Andrew.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know Sam’s got a big investors’ meeting that night?’
‘Aye. In the Cally.’
‘Right.’
‘OK if I come round?’
‘What do you think?’
Andrew smiled.
‘I’ll be there around seven,’ he said.
About the Author
Bill Kirton was born in Plymouth, but has lived in Aberdeen for most of his life. He’s been a university lecturer, presented TV programmes, written and performed songs and sketches at the Edinburgh Festival, and had radio plays broadcast by the BBC. He’s written three books on study and writing skills in Pearson’s ‘Brilliant’ series and his crime novels, Material Evidence, Rough Justice, The Darkness, Shadow Selves and the historical novel The Figurehead, set in Aberdeen in 1840, have been published in the UK and USA. He's recently started writing children's stories and the first, Stanley Moves In, has just been published. His short stories have appeared in several anthologies and Love Hurts was chosen for the Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 2010.
His website is www.bill-kirton.co.uk and his blog’s at http://livingwritingandotherstuff.blogspot.com/
His website is www.bill-kirton.co.uk and his blog’s at http://livingwritingandotherstuff.blogspot.com/