Jack and the MoJo Ball.


"Keep your head down, Son," Jeff said, for, what seemed like, the nine-hundred and ninety-ninth time.

"I know-I know," Jack said, for the ... well, you know.

"Can we go home now? I don't feel so good, and besides, it's my birthday."

"Yep, 14 years old today. We named you after Jack Nicklaus," he said.

Jack interrupted him before he could continue.

"Yes, I remember," Jack said. He'd heard that story every year since he could remember.

He putted into the seventeenth hole. His house was just over the mound. He could hear his dog, Tiger, barking and scratching at the window. Tiger got his name from Tiger Woods.

It was hot for June, and he was sweaty. He just wanted to lay down on his bed and let the fan blow cool air on him.

"We got one more hole. Buck up," his dad said. Jack climbed aboard and watched as his quiet place disappeared in the horizon.

Jack enjoyed playing golf - before the accident. Before he drove a golf ball into his dad's L 1 vertebra. He'd yelled "four" as loud as he could, but his dad couldn't hear him. The noise from the riding mower drowned out his waring. If he'd just practiced with the whiffle balls like his dad told him to do. Why had he picked up a hard ball? Why? If only...

Jack's dad was a pro golfer on the PGA tour before the accident. Now he was the golf pro at Greenhills Golf Club. Now, he ran the pro shop. Now, he pushed a wheel chair instead of a pull cart. Now, he gave lessons to kids and old ladies, instead of playing the Masters. If only...

"That'll be twelve dollars and fifty-cents," his dad said. Jack opened his wallet and pulled out the money.

Jeff Benson made Jack pay for every lost ball - two-dollars and fifty-cents a piece. Jack was in the habit of losing a lot of balls since the accident.

"It's a good thing you got a job," Jeff said. "Or you'd be dipping into your college fund."

Jack looked at his watch, he had one hour before Miss Morningstar showed up. If he hurried, he could eat a bit of lunch.

Miss Morningstar was the oldest member of the club. She played every Tuesday and insisted on walking. She said it kept her spry. Jack caddied for her - five dollars a hole. It was a pretty good gig a few years back. The old gal played nine holes. Now, maybe four, at best. The most he could hope for was fifteen, maybe twenty dollars.

One time Jack had made the mistake of asking her how old she was. She rapped him in the shins with her putter and told him it was impolite to ask a lady her age. Lesson learned.

Jack turned the corner and walked into the restaurant. Ms. M sat alone at the corner table. She stirred her martini with an olive on the end of a plastic pic. She said having a drink before golf loosened her up.

Her traditional garb was a long sleeve jacket, with the collar high around her neck, and a skirt that hung down to her ankles. Today was no different.

Just looking at her made Jack sweat. Her bonnet was in the seat next to her. She called it a bonnet. He called it a big straw hat.

"Can't be too careful in the sun. How do you think I maintain this beautiful face," she always say. Jack never knew what to say to this remark. He just mumbled yes, and cast his eyes to the ground. Miss M looked like one of them wax dolls you see in the museum. Kinda creepy.

He bought a bag of chips and a soda pop - lunch, and started for the door.

"Jack, I'll be out in a few," she called. "Just finishing up my lunch."

Jack sat waiting on the bench outside the clubhouse. Miss M showed up precisely at 1 pm.

"Back or front?" he asked.

"Today, I think we'll do 10-11 and then 18," she said.

Jack did the math in his head. Twelve-fifty to his dad for lost balls. Fifteen from Miss M. for three holes. Two dollars for a pop and chips. He'd be fifty cents to the good. Big whoop!

It took ten minutes to walk to the tenth tee box. Jack teed up Miss M's ball. Bending over was out of the question at her age. The last time she'd tried to tee her ball, Jack had to pick her up off the ground. It was embarrassing. From that day on, Jack teed-up her balls.

The old lady went through her own personal golf ritual and finally hit the ball - right down the middle of the fairway. She always hit the ball down the middle, maybe not far, but always down the middle. In all the years he'd been caddying for her, she'd never once slice, hooked, or lost a ball. Amazing.

"You playing in the Jr. league outing this year?" she asked Jack.

"Dad wants me too, but I can't hit a straight ball to save my neck," he answered back.

"How many balls you lose today?" she asked.

"Five," Jack answered.

"I'm gonna have to give you a raise, or you're going to have to work harder on your swing," she said as she chipped her ball onto the green. It rolled within two feet of the flag. "Lucky old duck," Jack thought.

They finished three holes and ended up back at the club house. Jack put her clubs in the rack and met Ms. M in the pro shop. "Take your pay," she said as she reached into the pocket of her jacket. When she pulled out the cash, a golf ball toppled out and fell to the ground. Jack picked it up.

"Whoops, forgot to put my Mo Jo ball back in my bag," she said.

She handed Jack a twenty dollar bill and the ball. "Here," she said. "Keep the change and the ball. Maybe it'll bring you some good luck on the links."

Jack held the ball in his hand. He recognized it. RPM was written on the side in magic marker. She'd been playing with the ball for the last few weeks. The letters were smudged and covered up with a bit of dirt.

He thanked her and helped her to her car. "See next Tuesday," she said through the open window. "Be sure and try that ball. It's got some magic mojo on it," she said as she pulled away. He could hear her laughter all the way out of the parking lot.

The next day Jack and his dad went out for his practice round at 7 am, sharp.

Jack pulled out Miss M's ball and tee'd it up. What the heck, he'd give it a try.

Jack ran his mantra through his head. "Keep your head down. Don't bend your elbow. Don't dip your shoulders, follow through....etc. etc. etc." Then he swung the club and hit the ball straight down the middle of the fairway, two hundred and fifty yards. He 7-ironed his next shot onto the green and putted in. He birdied the hole. His dad was flabbergasted. Jack was in total shock.

Jack finished the 9 holes two under par. It was the best round of golf he'd ever played, and he hadn't lost one ball. In fact, his dad owed him ten dollars for playing two strokes under. Sweet!

Jack went home feeling better than he had, well ... since the accident.

Instead of leaving the ball in his bag, Jack took it home and laid it on his dresser; right next to his Saint Louis Cardinals autographed baseball his Grandpa had given him on his tenth birthday.

For the next six weeks, Jack used Miss M's ball and played golf like a pro. He'd never seen his dad so happy, well .... since the accident.

"You got the trophy in the bag," his dad said at the dinner table over meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

Jack loved meatloaf and mashed potatoes. And Jack loved the game of golf, again. And all because of his magic ball. His secret ball. Well, him and Miss M's secret.

The only problem, Miss M was playing real bad. She'd started whiffing the ball and topping it. It must be making her sad, cause even her smile had changed. She only smiled with one side of her mouth and she'd started walking with a slight limp. She said her foot kept falling asleep.

Some days they didn't even finish the first hole. Jack thought about giving her back her magic ball. He even asked her if she wanted it back. "No, you keep it a bit longer," she said. "I don't feel so good these days."

Miss M failed to show up for her Tuesday golf the week before the tournament. Jack asked around, no one had seen or heard from her. She lived in the condo's facing the fifth-hole. He stopped by on his way home. The place was shut up tight. There was no answer when he rang the door. He walked home. Now, Jack was worried.

The day of the tournament, Jack reached for his lucky pants. They were not hanging in the closet. They were not on the back of his computer chair.

"Mom, you seen my green shorts?"

"Look in the clothes basket in the laundry room," she yelled from the kitchen.

They were folded on top. Jack dressed in a hurry. He wanted to get a jump-start on the day. Before he left the room, he reached for his lucky ball. Miss M's mojo ball.

It was not on the dresser. It was not next to his autographed baseball. He checked around the floor, nothing. Maybe Tiger had run into his dresser and knocked it off. He looked under the bed. Nothing. Maybe Tiger had picked it up thinking it was a toy ball. Jack was frantic. He had to find that ball.

"Mom, did you see Tiger with a golf ball in his mouth? I've lost my lucky ball," he said.

"No, but I did find a ball in the washing machine. You must have left it in your pocket. At least it's clean now!" she said.

"Where did you put it?" he asked, his voice reaching the high pitched level it had the year before. Before his voice had changed. Before the accident.

"I threw it into the bucket of balls you and your dad keep in the garage."

Jack ran to the garage so fast Tiger thought they were playing a game and chased after him. "Get back, Tiger," Jack yelled and swatted the dog away. Tiger yelped and ran back into the house.

"What the heck is wrong with you?" his mom asked standing in the doorway holding Tiger in her arms.

"I gotta find that ball! Where'd you put it?" he said, staring down into the bucket.

"I just dropped it in the bucket," she said with a quizzical look on her face.

He picked up one ball, then two, then three. None had RPM written on the side. He picked up a fourth ball and a fifth ball - and then it hit him. The letters had come off in the washing machine. That had to be it. That had to be the answer. But one thing he knew; the ball had to be on top of the pile. He cherry-picked the top layer - careful not to disturb the others. Ten balls covered the surface. Dang it! Ten balls. How could he decide?

He grabbed up his mom's pitching wedge and ran for the back yard. He'd try all the balls on the seventeenth green. It was the only way. And he did. He chipped all ten balls onto the green. Six of them failed the test, but four of them got within two feet of the pin.

But which one was his magic ball?

He thought about running to Miss M's house and seeing if she was home. Maybe she could put the mojo on one of the balls, but he could see her house was still shut tight. Why was this happening? Why now!

He couldn't let his dad down. He couldn't bear to see him go back to the way he was before the magic ball. They'd made plans. He'd get a golf scholarship at the U of I. He'd play the Masters. He'd get a green jacket and give it to his dad. The one his dad should have won if he hadn't disobeyed him. Yeah, It was all planned out. And now this.

He thought about pretending he was sick and not playing in the tournament. Heck, He wouldn't have to pretend. He was sick. He was sick to his stomach. He thought he might lose his pop tart and chocolate milk.

"Jack," his mom called out, "your dads on the phone, he said to get your hind-end up to the club - now!"

Jack pocketed the four balls and jumped on his bicycle. He cut through the course instead of taking the road. His dad was waiting for him. The other guys were readying themselves for the tournament.

"Jack, what the heck! I didn't think you were going to make it!" his dad said. "Now get your act together. You're gonna win this thing."

"Yeah, sure," Jack thought to himself, "Yeah, sure."

Jack's handicap put him at the end of the list for teeing off. He watched as the other boys, one by one, drove their ball down the fairway. Dread filled his heart.

Three more to go before Jack. Then two.

"Hey, Jackie ... good luck," he heard.

It was her. It was Miss M. He looked around and there she was ... in a wheel chair with some guy behind her. He ran to her with the four balls in his pocket.

"Miss M, where ya been? I been looking for you."

"Jack, this here is my son, Randal. I'm living with him now. I had a little stroke and...."

Jack was barely listening.

"You gotta help me, Miss M. I lost your ball, at least I think I did. It might be one of these four," and he laid the balls in her lap.

"Mom washed the letters off in the washing machine. Can you tell which one is the mojo ball?"

"What ball would that be Jack?" she asked.

"The RPM ball. The magic ball."

"Oh, Jackie...I found that ball in my back yard. There's nothing magic about it. I was putting the shit on you," she said.

"Nothing magic about it? You didn't put some mojo on it?" he said. "But I can't play with any other ball. It has to be that ball."

"The only magic is that you stopped worrying about everything. You started trusting yourself, again. That's the only magic here, Jackie. Now, go out there an win this tournament."

And then he saw it. He saw it for what it really was, there was no magic ball. But there was magic. He believed in that. Somehow someway, he believed.

"You're up, boy," his dad called out.

Jack leaned down and picked up the balls from Miss M's lap. Then real quick, before she could stop him, he kissed her on the cheek. And quick as lightening, she cracked him on the shins with her cane.

"Ouch!" he cried out.

"You're pretty fresh, young man, sneakin' kisses from a lady." she said. Lesson learned.