| General Fiction posted December 16, 2022 | Chapters: |
...17 18 -19- 20... 
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E.J. has a dream that casts doubts on recent events.
A chapter in the book Some Call It Luck
Some Call It Luck - Chapter 19
by Jim Wile
| Background A brilliant and beautiful but insecure, nerdy young woman befriends a going nowhere older alcoholic caddie. Together, they bring out the best in each other and collaborate on a startling new invention |
Recap of recent events: While caddying earlier today, E.J. found an old golf ball on the edge of a pond with the label Lucky 1. Later while his players weren't watching, he hit the ball towards a distant green 150 yards away and sank the shot. This was the first ball he had hit in 20 years.
E.J. Budrowski
Later that evening
July, 1986
I got home around 6:00 after a stop for a hamburger at the lunch counter of Greenfield’s Pharmacy, then a quick stop at Cowley’s Liquors where I purchased a fifth of bourbon.
I climbed the stairs to my little apartment over the Chinese laundry, opened the unlocked door—no need to lock it, as there was nothing worth stealing inside—and went in for the night. My apartment consisted of only one room with a small section walled off for the bathroom. My “kitchen” was just a sink with a small counter on each side, plus a stove and refrigerator, all in a line on one wall of the room. My “dining room” was a card table with two chairs set up on the opposite wall. An easy chair facing a cheap TV stand, a small bookcase, a footlocker for my clothes, and my bed over in the corner completed my meager furnishings.
Before doing anything else, I grabbed a flyswatter I kept handy and smacked a few cockroaches. This was pretty much a nightly event when I returned from work. Then I poured myself a glass of bourbon, flipped on the little portable TV, and sat down in my chair to watch the news.
After a minute when nothing happened, I remembered that the TV had quit working after I’d accidentally knocked it to the floor the other night when I’d tripped over the little stand it sat on. So, I picked up a book I’d bought from the paperback stand at Greenfield’s Pharmacy the other day and tried to read it. I got through a few pages, but my mind kept going back to the strange events of the day, and I couldn’t concentrate on the story.
I put the book down. I had no trouble getting through the bourbon though, and as I sat there, certain phrases kept going through my head—“dat ball landed right in da hole!”, “give golf another try”, “find the right shovel.”
I drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep right there in my chair, and these thoughts turned into a disturbing dream. It was similar to what had happened today, but different in key respects. In the dream, the ball I’d found was so worn and dirty that you couldn’t read the label anymore. When I hit my shot with it, it flew true and landed on the green, but there was no flagstick, no cup, and when the ball came to a stop, it was just sitting on the surface of the green. We could see it there from where we stood 150 yards away. A good shot that hit the green, but nothing special.
I woke up around 2:00 AM feeling deflated. I got up and stumbled to the bathroom then into my bed and tried to fall asleep again, but sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed and turned for about an hour then decided to get up and go for a late-night walk. Maybe it would settle me down again, and I could get some more sleep.
No such luck. I walked for a couple of miles through the darkened town, but I couldn’t get the dream out of my mind. The more I replayed what happened, or what I thought happened yesterday, the more agitated I became. Maybe what had really happened was like in the dream, and I’d somehow inflated it into something special. I had to get back home and call Rafe, but then I remembered that I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t know Rafe’s phone number or have a phonebook to look it up. And it was still only about 4:00 AM.
When I got back and started up the stairs to my apartment, I happened to meet my neighbor, Chuck Fraley, coming down the stairs. He worked an early morning paper route over on the east side of town and was heading down to his car to go get his papers and deliver them, when I had a sudden idea and made a snap decision.
“Hey, Chuck.”
“Hey, E.J. What you doin’ up so early?”
“Couldn’t sleep anymore. Thought I’d take a walk. Say Chuck, you work on the east side, don’t you? You think I could grab a lift with you over near the vicinity of Brentwood Country Club?”
“Yeah, sure. I don’t mind droppin’ you off, but it’s a little early to be going to work there, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I won’t be working right away; I’ve got something else to do first. Hey, could you give me just a minute or two? There’s some things I have to get inside.”
“Okay, but don’t be long. I’m already runnin’ a little late,” he called after me as I bounded up the stairs back to my apartment. I grabbed the Lucky 1, which I’d set on the TV stand, and shoved it in my pocket. Then I ran back down two flights of stairs, past Chuck, and into the basement, where I had a small storage unit for my junk. From there, I pulled out my old 7-iron from my dusty golf bag that had stood there in the corner unused for the last 20 years and ran back up the stairs to join Chuck. He looked at me kind of funny.
“You plannin’ to play some golf there today? I didn’t think they let the caddies play there.”
“No, I’m just planning to hit one shot. No one will ever know. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
I got into the front seat with him, and he started up the car. Soon into the drive, he asked me about the shot I was going to hit, but I told him I’d tell him all about it another time and changed the subject.
When we got in the vicinity of Brentwood, he looked at his watch and told me he would have to drop me off near the bus stop because he had only a couple of minutes before he needed to pick up his papers. I told him that was fine and thanked him for the ride.
I walked the half-mile or so up to Brentwood, up the long drive, past the clubhouse, and down onto the back 9. It was quite dark out. The sun wouldn’t rise for maybe 45 minutes, and I might have to wait around a bit before doing what I felt compelled to do. I was heading to the corner of the dogleg on 16, dodging my way through sprinklers, when a bright light appeared, coming straight toward me. It was the night waterman, Kirby Stuart, who drove up in his Cushman, stopped, and turned the motor off.
“E.J? Is that you? What are you doing out here at this hour?”
“Getting wet from your damn sprinklers! Just got shot in the back with one of ‘em.”
Kirby laughed. “Is that a golf club you’ve got there? You planning to play golf in the dark? I’ve known you to do some stupid things, but this is even a little weird for you.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve done stupider things. Hey Kirby, you won’t tell anyone about this little encounter, will ya? I get enough grief from the folks around here as it is. I just have one shot to make and I’ll be outta here. Mum’s the word, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, E.J. I know nothing!” he said in a Sergeant Schultz accent from Hogan’s Heroes, before starting up the Cushman, turning on his headlights, and driving off again. I watched him head up the 17th fairway, stopping every so often to move a sprinkler. I was stalling a bit to wait for some light to come into the sky. I needed at least a little to see what I had to see.
It was quiet and peaceful out here—just the sound of the sprinklers, the chirping of the crickets, and the unique smell of the Austrian Pines on a warm summer night to fill my senses. The warmth of the air at this hour portended another steaming day ahead of us. I walked slowly, just taking it all in, and made my way over to my destination on the 16th. I found the spot where Rafe and I had hit from the previous afternoon. I could just make out the divot I had taken with Todd Young’s 7-iron. I peered across to the site of the old 18th green and could barely make it out as there was just the beginning of light coming up in the eastern sky.
I waited a few more minutes for the light to grow and loosened up by doing some shoulder stretches and making a few practice swings. When I felt sufficiently loose, I looked over again at the green site. I could just make it out, although I didn’t see the flagstick. I searched all over, but there appeared to be no pin on the green. I began to get a sinking feeling in my chest because I remembered that there was no pin and no hole on the green in my dream.
What the hell was I doing out here anyway? Trying to re-create the same amazing shot that I had made yesterday, or at least thought I did? Why couldn’t I have just waited until I saw Rafe to ask him about it? But no, I was impulsive; I had to have the answer right away, and I thought if I was able to sink the shot again, that would prove yesterday wasn’t just my imagination. Stupid, huh? If I didn’t sink the one-in-a-million shot again, would that prove it hadn’t happened yesterday? What kind of logic was that? Man, my brain was a muddle. Well… I’d come this far. Might as well finish this ‘stupid thing’ as Kirby called it.
I pulled the Lucky 1 out of my pocket and set it on the ground near yesterday’s divot. I took aim at where I thought the pin was yesterday, for I still couldn’t see one today. And once again, time seemed to stop, and everything else besides me, the club, the ball, and the green just melted away. The air was dead still, and all sound ceased. It was surreal—like a dream itself—as I began my swing.
The entire sequence felt like it was in slow motion while I took the club back to the top, began my forward weight shift with my lower body, then swung down and into the ball and through to the finish. The ball rocketed away. I couldn’t really follow it or see where it landed because there still wasn’t enough light, but I knew it was a good shot just by the feel of the club contacting the ball.
Now for the moment of truth as this stupid plan neared its fruition. I made my way the 150 yards to the green in the woods to see what happened to the ball. As I passed through the little saplings in front, my heart sank. I didn’t see a pin, but I could see my ball clearly resting on the green—just like in my nightmare. Might as well call it that now. A good shot, maybe, but nothing particularly special.
I walked onto the green and bent down to pick up the ball, but I stopped suddenly because I noticed something peculiar. The ball was sitting right in the middle of the round plug of turf that filled in the old cup hole. I could tell from the edges that this plug was recently cut. I looked up and over to the right and there was the pin after all; I just hadn’t seen it in the dark with the flag hanging straight down because of the stillness. The hole was not over there yesterday; I know that for sure. The green was probably mowed and the cup moved late yesterday afternoon, which is the kind of thing the grounds crew did on Mondays. That meant my ball was resting exactly where it had flown into the cup yesterday—the exact place I had been aiming for! For all intents and purposes, a second hole-in-one on the same hole in two days!
I didn’t need Rafe’s confirmation anymore to know that something amazing had happened yesterday, as well as today! This confirmed it in my mind; I had a very special ball here that I proceeded to pick up and place in my pocket again. Lucky 1, indeed! I would never be without it again.
If you think two hole-in-ones is too incredible, remember that it took visits from THREE ghosts to convince Ebeneezer Scrooge to change his ways.
What exactly is this lucky ball that E.J. found?
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