Some years ago when Casual Friday toiled for a daily
newspaper, he frequently played golf alone.
That was by necessity more than design. Most newspaper writers have
odd days off and work strange hours. Not too many of Casual Friday's
buddies had Mondays free, so it was off to a course alone most weeks.
Sometimes it was a solo 18 holes, other times Casual Friday would
be paired with another single or a double. It was a memorable time
either way.
The only people Casual Friday really felt uncomfortable playing with
were ministers, who seemed to have a lot of time on their hands on
Mondays. Catholic, Methodist, Presbyterian, they had a passion for
the links at the first of the week.
And the only reason Casual Friday didn't like playing with the ministers
is that he could not express himself as freely as he is accustomed
to doing, using the good old Anglo-Saxon expressions of four letters,
six, seven, 10 and up.
What the hell is golf without the occasional, or frequent, cuss word?
At least all the ministers were normal guys, mostly. I'm still wondering
about the Presbyterian padre who had those little plastic head covers
on his irons.
Most of the guys (and unfortunately it was always guys) Casual Friday
would be paired with were normal sorts. There were, however, exceptions.
There was the guy who joined your correspondent at the first tee
wearing red shorts, sandals with spikes, white knee socks and golf
gloves on both hands. Since Casual Friday is a pretty conservative
fellow (khaki is his favorite color), it took several holes for him
to shake off the ill effects of such attire.
Only once has Casual Friday been paired with a stranger for a round
of golf and then encountered that person elsewhere.
After playing with an elderly fellow at the university golf course
where he used to spend quite a bit of time, Casual Friday was surprised
a few weeks later to see the old guy moving into the vacant condo two
doors down.
Red, the new neighbor, was a retired FBI agent. Over the next few
weeks, Casual Friday learned that Red had spent World War II in Montevideo,
Uruguay working for J. Edgar Hoover.
Exactly what he did was unclear, but Casual Friday suspected clandestine
activities. Red could never stay on topic long enough to find out for
certain. Along the way, Casual Friday mentioned his neighbor to a friend
and was told he was also a member of his college's sports hall of fame
for football and baseball.
Being a doubter, Casual Friday looked it up and found out it was
true. This skinny old man with snow-white hair and a face full of freckles
was once a gridiron terror.
Red took up golf during the war, he said. He was left-handed and
was hard-pressed to find a set of clubs to play with in Montevideo.
Naturally, the urgent desire to play was to impress a woman.
After the war, Red was called back to the U.S. and his wartime romance
ended.
He never married.
And by the time he retired to Casual Friday's little college town,
he had spent many years tracking down people most of us would rather
not know about.
Unfortunately, as Casual Friday began to realize, Red was senile.
Soon after Red moved in there were early-morning calls to Casual
Friday because someone had broken in and stolen his clothes. Casual
Friday would help him find them in the kitchen cabinets. The fact that
his golf shirts were hibernating with the pork and beans never bothered
Red. He quickly moved on to other things.
Once he became convinced his television had a bomb inside, planted
there by Black Panthers, a group he had investigated during the 60s.
It took two hours to convince Red that he really didn't need to take
the TV down to the police station and have it destroyed.
Then there was the strange case of the footsteps overhead when Red
lived in one of the few one-story condos on the property. This went
on for some weeks before Casual Friday discovered that a squirrel had
chewed a hole in the attic louvers and was making himself at home.
Score one for Red.
In the meantime, Red continued to play golf nearly every day. He'd
come home, thumb through one of his books on Irish history, walk over
to the mall and eat dinner.
Occasionally men in suits came to visit him, younger FBI men who
had known him, Casual Friday supposed. Otherwise, there was only a
nephew a few hours away. That was the extent of Red's family.
It was a life played out on 18 holes and filled with strange and
imaginary dramas.
Casual Friday's daughter had been born during this time and as dear
as she was, she became even more so as he realized how very fortunate
he would be to have someone of another generation when he is old and
if, God forbid, the memories of what used to be become more than real.
DOUBLE CLICK
www.turnberry.co.uk
Why? It's the Senior British Open. It's Watson and Nicklaus revisiting
the greatest single golf tournament ever played.
