Once Upon a Tee Time

Chapter 1

Only a thirty-minute drive from downtown Phoenix, Leisureville was a world away from the bustle and buzz of working America. Like countless other warm weather retirement communities, it was a haven for seniors who congregated to pursue hobbies, share stories of glorious younger days, and find compassion from others sharing the common ailment of aging.

Meticulous Spanish-style stucco homes, painted in varying shades of beige and roofed with deep red tile, lined palm-shaded streets. Each featured a rock garden in front, accessorized by the owner’s choice of bushes, flowers, and cacti.

A 10,000 square-foot clubhouse featured a ballroom to accommodate biweekly association meetings, movies, concerts, dances, and other organized activities. The building also had a library, exercise and game rooms, and space for sewing groups and other crafters. A swimming pool and tennis and shuffleboard courts adjoined it.

A regulation golf course served as the emerald core of the development. Ponds viewed as hazards by golfers provided habitat for fish and waterfowl. Hundreds of migrating Canadian geese and mallard ducks, referred to as “snowbirds” like many of the human residents, made Leisureville a winter stopover. An increasing number of the birds and people alike, all with tiring wings perhaps, made the peaceful setting a permanent home.

Beneath a predawn sky and the roof of one of Leisureville’s 760 homes, Ray Plumlee stirred between sheets patterned with the layout of the famous Pebble Beach Golf Course. The bedding had been a Christmas gift from one of four children, though which child or which Christmas might be hard to recall. The special sheets may have even been a birthday surprise. It was getting tougher to remember.

The alarm clock was set for 6:30, but he rarely needed its hum to wake him. He reached over, flicked off the alarm switch, and fumbled to find his eyeglasses on the nightstand.

“Here they are,” his wife whispered from the adjacent pillow. “You fell asleep watching TV last night.” Pat lifted the glasses from her own nightstand, handed them over, then pulled the covers back to her chin.

Ray climbed out of bed cautiously, testing a sometimes-stiff left knee. He felt no pain today, but favored the leg with a limp out of habit. After shaving and dressing, he collected the Arizona Republic from the front doorstep and extracted the sports page. He read over bland fiber cereal and the dish of prunes that his wife prescribed for breakfast. At 6:50, he washed and dried his dishes, returned them to the cupboard, and stood by the window to admire the sunrise.

The kitchen window faced east, just like that in his former home in Eagle River, Alaska. It had been the only feature he insisted upon when they shopped in Leisureville, although a fairway location would have been ideal. While the sun now rose over rooftops instead of snow-covered mountain peaks, the effect was still spectacular. He loved his old Alaska home, but didn’t long for it. He was living in the right place at the right time in his life.

As departure time approached, he refolded the Monday paper and delivered it to Pat’s nightstand. Then he placed a carafe of hot coffee and her personal cup beside it. She’d be up before the decaf cooled.

Entering the double garage in stocking feet, Ray caught a whiff of gasoline and tapped the door opener. His old Explorer had been odor-free, but since replacing it with a slightly-used Lincoln recently, the smell had become the norm. It was a minor inconvenience to endure after getting such a bargain on a luxury car with low mileage.

Sitting down on a piece of carpet, he began a five-minute exercise routine. A little stretching, a few pushups, and a handful of leg raises did the trick. His playing partners marveled at his ability to hit a first tee shot without warming up, so he never disclosed his home workout regimen. Why not let them marvel?

A dozen hats hung in a line on the wall, from darkest on the left to white on the far right. He went with red and the Phoenix Cardinals logo. He wore white on Saturday and the round hadn’t gone well. His putting game was deteriorating by the day.

He pulled the power cord from his golf cart and backed Birdie Chaser out of the garage. At the end of the driveway, he stopped abruptly. Something didn’t feel right. He looked down at his foot on the brake. No shoe. He’d forgotten to put on his golf spikes! With a quiet curse, he pulled back into the garage. Getting older had its downside. Like one of his friends often said, aging was a slippery slope.

With that in mind, Ray hurried back to the kitchen to swallow fish oil capsules. He tried to take two each morning because they reportedly enhanced memory, but often forgot to take them. Ironically, he always remembered his golf scores, information he’d rather forget these days.

Returning to the garage, he studied a neat row of golf shoes. He tied on brown and white saddles. Now he was running late.

Stepping back into the cart, he noted the empty space in front of his seat. Where were the two brown paper bags he brought each day? Left on the kitchen counter? One more delay.

Eventually off and whirring down the street, Ray reminded himself that there was nowhere he’d rather be, nothing he’d rather be doing. At the same time, he wondered why he had to remind himself. During his first years at Leisureville, he had plunged into every day like a kid on summer vacation. Now his days were becoming ... robotic?

To what could he attribute his malaise? Was it the erosion of his golf game? Was he so shallow that happiness was linked directly to his handicap? Would sagging play become intolerable at some point? Was there life after golf?

He tried to purge his mind of dark thoughts as he braked to greet Mrs. Flannery, out walking her tiny poodle. He reached into one of the brown bags, grabbed a Milk Bone, and broke it in half. The dog stood on its hind legs in anticipation.

When the black puffball made the catch, just like always, Ray said, “Nice grab, Shadow.”

The old woman scrunched her face into a raisin. “Her name is Michelle, Mr. Plumlee!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Michelle.” He stepped on the accelerator and forgave himself for the error. Dogs outnumbered people in the development. At least a couple had the Shadow handle.

A block later, he saw Harvey Green, tall and slender as a flagstick, standing at the end of his driveway. For the past two years, Ray had picked up his playing partner five mornings a week. Never, not once, had Harvey not been ready and waiting.

Lucy, his wife, walked out of the house in a long, white bathrobe. She carried a tall travel cup of her five-star coffee and handed it to Ray. “Good morning, Mr. Bailey!” She alone called him that because he reminded her of Jimmy Stewart, who played George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” She claimed the similarity was more in his voice than his appearance. “Did you remember to tell Pat that our bridge game is at my house today?”

Now that Lucy mentioned it, Ray remembered her request from yesterday. He lifted the cup to savor the aroma, and steam fogged his glasses. “You better call and remind her,” he said, forcing a grin. “I could be losing it. I drove away from the house without shoes on today.”

Lucy shook her head. “And you forgot something else. Your tooth is missing.”

Ray dropped the grin. It wasn’t just an upper front tooth that was missing, but two upper molars that were normally out of view. When the visible tooth fell victim to a popcorn seed a year ago, he remedied the problem with a partial denture that included all three missing teeth. Given that the prosthetic was half the cost of a single implant and killed three birds at once, it seemed like a fine idea at the time. Unfortunately, no one warned that it would be uncomfortable to wear and easy to forget.

“The dang thing is right where it belongs, in a glass by the bathroom sink,” Ray said. “I’ll go for comfort over looks today.”

Harvey slid into the cart beside him. “We can go back to your house for it. You don’t want to be teased the whole round, do you?”

Ray headed straight for the course. “We’re already late. I’ll just keep my mouth shut today.”

Before the men got far, Harvey whispered, “Speed Bump!”

Ray eased off the throttle. There were no actual speed inhibitors on the streets, but most Leisureville men knew the code name. It meant that Ingrid Samuels was out and about - slow down and savor the view.

Ingrid was a widow child in her late forties, fifty at the most. Her long legs looked no more than eighteen, and were always showcased by sundresses that revealed all but an inch of them. The men speculated that she had the only naturally unwrinkled face in Leisureville. Adding to her mystique, she was from one of the Northern European countries where all women were drop-dead gorgeous and spoke English in a way that made the language exotic. Because her deceased husband had been thirty years older than she, other women called her a gold-digger. The men figured if that were true, she’d be living in a castle, not a ranch home.

Ingrid disappeared through her front door and Ray sped toward the first tee. Cruising past empty fairways, the men inspected their playground. A small maintenance crew was mowing greens and raking sand. A scattering of rabbits grazed on the longer grass. Ducks rippled the large pond between Seventeen and Eighteen, and a bass splashed after its breakfast.

They had the earliest tee time because they loved the freshness of the morning, the splendor of mist rising from the greens as the sun rose, and the tracks of balls on damp grass for the first few holes, until the moisture evaporated. Beyond the aesthetics of early play, they also preferred to avoid the hottest sun and inconvenience of waiting for foursomes ahead of them.

At the first tee, Mulligan Wettman and Knickers Collins were warming up in their own unique styles. Knickers – Mickey on his birth certificate - knelt on one damp knee, like a batter awaiting his turn at the plate. Flexing broad shoulders, he twirled a Big Bertha like a Louisville Slugger. Mulligan, whose given name was Irvin, sat in the passenger side of Knickers’ cart, swilling coffee and puffing on his front-nine cigar.

With a wave of his smoke, Mulligan greeted the competition. “I was worried you might not show up after the whipping you got Saturday!”

Knickers added, “I was worried that after drinkin’ Old Arizona for three straight days, you might be throwin’ up!”

The standard wager between the competing pairs was twofold. The losers not only paid for the beer after the round, but had to drink Old Arizona - referred to as coyote piss - while watching the winners enjoy Sam Adams. The tradition was set in stone. The same group had been grinding out rounds and gulping beer, good and bad, for two years.

Prior to the inclusion of Harvey, the others had been playing together four additional years. Ray’s former partner, Tom Klein, had succumbed to a stroke while standing over a thirteen-footer on the seventeenth green. While his death had been a shock at age 71, he’d gone out in style. He was even par at the fatal moment, with an excellent chance for a birdie.

As Mulligan pulled out his driver, Harvey called out, “I hope you brought your wallet! There’s a scent of lemons in the air.”

The lemon reference was tied to Mulligan’s working career as a Ford dealer in Chicago. He referred to errant shots as lemons, like the occasionally troublesome cars that passed through his lot. However, his lemons were rare. Mulligan was a former Leisureville club champion, just as Knickers and Ray and the late Tom Klein had been. Over a five-year span, the succession of winners had been Tom, Ray, Knickers, Mulligan and Ray again. Due to their collective accomplishments, locals referred to the quartet as not a foursome but The Foursome. Much to Harvey’s delight, the group still enjoyed that recognition despite his own failure to win a title.

“I won’t be making lemonade today, Harv,” Mulligan said. “Although you’d probably prefer it to the piss you’ll be drinking.”

Always first to start a round, Mulligan teed his ball. At age 73, he was the elder statesman, at least by a few months. Like the rest of what he referred to as the Four-eyed Foursome, he wore bifocal glasses. Less than five and a half feet tall in spikes, he described himself as a short drink of water. The others joked that he was more like a shot glass because he never drank water. Mulligan’s persona, however, was larger than life. As head of the Leisureville Homeowner Association, he stood as the development’s best known figure. Although he ruled with a heavy hand, there were surprisingly few complaints from residents. He had a knack for explaining things.

A perpetual talker, Mulligan regarded the golfers’ code of whispery silence with disdain. He even mouthed off during his own swing. “Good morning, America!” Mulligan said, going into motion. He lurched into his swing with a ferocity that lifted both feet. The resulting drive ripped a trail through the grass and stopped rolling a hundred yards out.

“Good morning, worms!” Knickers responded. “That’ll teach those nightcrawlers to get back in the ground before your tee time.”

Mulligan already had a second ball on the tee and launched it far down the left side of the fairway, therein explaining his nickname. A mulligan, in golf terminology, meant the play of a second ball after a poor initial shot. The practice was normally reserved for novices, but The Foursome permitted a single mulligan a day, on the first tee only, and only for Mulligan. It was his way of warming up. No practice swings. No stretching. Just rock and fire - and then fire again.

“Way to give it the old one-two,” his partner quipped.

Knickers Collins enjoyed honored status because he spent his whole working life in a baseball uniform. As a catcher in the St. Louis organization, he played ten years in the farm system before a call-up to the majors that lasted fifteen days. Some said he had his cup of coffee at the Big Show, but Knickers called it an espresso - short but stimulating. In any case, he had two hits in the official record book, both singles. He played another four years in AAA before serving as a minor league bullpen coach for thirty-three years.

Perhaps in tribute to a lifetime of wearing pedal pushers, maybe in deference to golf tradition, or probably just to be different, he always wore knickers on the course. Because no one else wore them, he was especially recognizable.

Knickers was also the founding father of The Foursome. After retiring to Leisureville, his first order of business had been to recruit the most elite golfers as his playing partners. Competition was in his blood.

The old ballplayer with the oversized nose and belly teed his ball and deliberately assumed his stance, just as he had in the batter’s box. He held one of the long-shafted, huge-headed drivers that everyone used, but did so begrudgingly. To him, the new equipment was an insult to the essence of the game, just as the aluminum bat was to baseball. Still, he wouldn’t concede an advantage. He uncorked a nice draw that settled into the light rough.

Rough wasn’t really an accurate description of the area off the fairways. The grass was barely longer than the fairways themselves, the way most senior golfers liked it. Because of that and other characteristics of the layout, the men referred to themselves as “Leisureville scratch” golfers, meaning they could play their own course in close to par. Mulligan, Knickers and Ray had all shared the resident record of 67, a score each achieved in his youthful sixties, until the record recently fell to a punk early-retiree.

Harvey smiled as he took the tee, happy with life in general. A career teacher, then principal, at an Indiana high school, golf had always been his escape from the commotion of noisy halls, stress of parent conferences, politics of advisory school boards, and mediation of teacher power struggles. Now he played with three former champions and was dedicated to becoming one himself. His long, straight drive made him shiver. Could this be his day?

“Nothing but perfect,” Ray said, slapping Harvey’s shoulder. They were his first words. He’d been keeping the gap in his teeth hidden.

“You must have landed on a sprinkler head,” Mulligan complained. “No way that ball should have rolled so far, Ichabod.”

Ichabod was Lucy Green’s nickname for her husband. She used it only in rare moments of anger. At six-feet-four and 170 pounds, Harvey was indeed gangly. He also had a long neck and pronounced Adam’s apple. Toss in the fact that he was a teacher and there it was: Ichabod Crane. Harvey hated the reference. The other men therefore loved it and figured Lucy was a genius.

And Knickers was a menace. Not long after the nickname hit his ears, he arranged a surprise for the Greens. Returning from a weekend trip, the couple found a blaze orange sign in their front yard. Measuring four feet by six feet and supported by beams anchored in cement, it christened the home “Sleepy Hollow” in black, Old English-style letters. Although the sign was outside the boundaries of Leisureville bylaws, Mulligan was a dangerous sidekick for his prankster partner and approved the waiver. The sign and installation set Knickers back $1,200.

Upon seeing the sign, Harvey wanted to rent a chainsaw. Lucy stopped him, insisting he should feel honored to have a name for his estate. She later had a spotlight installed to show it off at night.

Ray limped to a spot between the white markers. Unlike the others, who wore jackets in the chill of an October morning, he was in short sleeves. Life in Alaska had thickened his skin. While the others played golf most of their lives, Ray never picked up a club until he was fifty. Most folks in his home state grew up with fishing rods or shotguns in their hands. Outside of hunting and fishing, his only outdoor pursuits had been playing softball and coaching Little League. However, when the growing Alaska tourism industry led to development of a local golf course, he was one of the first to give it a go. He felt comfortable with his first swing and the game became a passion. Within five years, he had played a round in par.

Knickers always paid special attention when Ray addressed a ball. While most golfers had something to worry about during each swipe - the position of the head or an elbow, the pressure of their fingers on the grip, the turn of hips and shoulders - Knickers was convinced Ray thought of nothing. His swing was free and easy as a big leaguer’s during batting practice. Mulligan called Ray a machine. Harvey referred to him as a natural. In any case, Ray never had to fish a ball from the water or poke around in the bushes. He played as straight as a desert highway.

Ray’s drive was routinely center-cut. He slid behind the wheel of Birdie Chaser with dreams of a great round and turnaround. His game had been slipping. A gut-wrenching 77 on Saturday added a new frown line. Would he ever make a putt outside of three feet again?

And off they went. Four kids in their seventies, dressed in flamingo pink, lemon yellow, olive green and powder blue, lost to the world for another four hours.

On the sixteenth green, Harvey reclined on elbows and knees, squinting at nine feet of grass between his ball marker and the cup. “It’ll break two or three inches to the right,” he said to Ray, who stood behind him, surveying the situation.

Mulligan and Knickers were uncharacteristically silent. Normally, Mulligan would have commented about the underwear label that was visible above Harvey’s belt, maybe asking if he just flipped the same pair day after day. Knickers might also be messing with Harvey’s fragile psyche, but not today. He stood at two under par. His best score ever was a two-under 70.

Harvey’s game was the most erratic. While his partners made a few bogeys, they carded a nearly equal number of birdies. Double bogeys were rarer than rain. That was why, even with their games trailing off in recent years, they maintained handicaps of only a few shots. Harvey hit his driver a mile and launched towering irons, but there was no place on a scorecard for style points. Accuracy was his issue. That and dealing with adversity. He wanted to excel so badly that excitement often got in his way.

The addition of a six-handicapper to The Foursome had been a result of divine intervention; Ray’s wife dictated it. Harvey’s Lucy was her best friend and bridge partner and the future of The Foursome had been decided across a card table. With his new partner, Ray was paying for bad beer almost every day, but didn’t seem to care. Therefore, Mulligan and Knickers didn’t mind either.

On the plus side, Harvey was smart and added depth to conversations. He loved keeping score, a task the others happily delegated. Beyond that, he spent forever on his computer, tallying statistics from The Foursome’s results. For any given hole, he could tell each player his average score, how many birdies he made, and his success rate for hitting the green in regulation. The others surmised that the former principal was accustomed to compiling numbers like student test scores, graduation rates, and so forth. His enthusiasm was infectious.

When Harvey finally rose to his feet, Ray whispered that it was a straight putt. “Just knock it in, Harv. This will be your best score ever!”

Lightheaded, Harvey stood over his ball, focusing on stiff wrists and pendulum shoulder action. He hadn’t felt the same since standing in the delivery room, watching the birth of his first child. The memory got him thinking of the importance of proper breathing. Yes, take a deep breath and push. He pushed the putter and closed his eyes. The sound of his ball striking the bottom of the cup reminded him of Harvey Jr.’s first cry. He raised his arms in triumph.

“Three under par,” Ray exclaimed. “None of us has shot a score like that in years.”

“You had that sixty-eight almost two years ago,” Harvey said, recovering his ball. “That’s the best round anyone played since I joined the group.”

“Just par out for your personal best,” Mulligan said. “I’ll have a victory cigar ready for you.”

“We’ll all be watchin’ you on the Champions Tour if you keep this up,” Knickers added.

Back in Birdie Chaser, Harvey reached into the brown bag his partner brought exclusively for him each day, the one with the Oreos. He popped the last of what had been a dozen into his mouth. “This is turning into one of the best days of my life.”

The declaration inspired Ray to consider his own top day. Was it the day he got married? The day his first daughter was born? The day he bought his first and only business license? The day the Little League team he coached won a state championship? Or possibly the day of his first Leisureville title? There had been lots of best days. The glow of those memories made him more excited for his friend.

At the tee to the par-three seventeenth, Ray tried to keep Harvey calm. “You own this hole. Remember your drive here on Saturday? Best shot of your round.”

As Harvey addressed his ball, twitching his shoulders and shuffling his feet, Ray got an uneasy feeling. A good golf swing was all about repetition and rhythm. His partner was taking too much time. He glanced at Mulligan and Knickers. Both shook their heads.

Harvey squeezed the grip of his iron and unleashed a too-wicked cut. He then turned into a mannequin, frozen in his follow-through, watching his ball soar far to the right, toward a pond that was normally out of play.

No one spoke until the last ripple disappeared. Ray cleared his throat first. “You can still make a four. Hell, you can birdie the last hole and still shoot sixty-nine!”

Five minutes later, Harvey stood zombie-like in the bunker in front of the green, where his third shot landed. The others waited behind the green, heads bowed for the funeral.

Harvey took another anxious swing, lifted his head too soon, and saw his three friends dive and duck as his ball rocketed straight at them. The white missile zipped by, glanced off Birdie Chaser’s roof, cleared shrubs that usually protected the Olson residence, and came to rest on a chair on the rear patio.

Harvey dropped his wedge, picked up the rake, and silently smoothed the sand. After finishing, he recovered his club and transformed from Jekyll to Hyde. Spitting profanity, he took five running strides toward the pond, whipping the club around his head like a helicopter rotor. When he let go, the club spun in a high arc before splashdown. Then, without looking back, he stomped off in the direction of Sleepy Hollow.

“Total meltdown,” Knickers said.

“That was hard to watch,” Mulligan agreed, glancing back at the tee. “I’m glad no one else saw it. You think he’ll be okay?”

Ray nodded. “He’ll be right back out here tomorrow. Last time something like that happened, he invited us all out to dinner. Remember?”

“Hell,” Mulligan grunted. “He shouldn’t act as if his house burned down!”

Knickers stared after Harvey, who seemed to pick up speed with each long stride. “Give the guy a break, Mulligan. If his house burned down, he could build another one. He’ll never have that round back. They don’t sell insurance for that kinda thing.”

“That’s an excellent point,” Ray added, thinking of the scorecard in Harvey’s rear pocket. “What are the chances he’ll ever be in that position again?”

“Okay,” Mulligan conceded. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with still feeling passion at our age. I was just worried his heart was going explode like a grenade. I’d hate to lose two friends on the same damn hole.”

“Which reminds me,” Knickers said. “There’s somethin’ I want to talk about with you guys. Let’s just pick up our balls and go over to Tom’s Bench.”

“Tom’s Bench” was a fancy redwood seat under the large mesquite tree behind the green. After Tom Klein’s death, his widow disclosed her husband’s wish to be buried somewhere on the golf course. Unfortunately, even Mulligan was unable to get approval for a burial forbidden by township zoning ordinances. Instead, Mrs. Klein purchased the commemorative bench with a brass plaque on the backrest that read: In Loving Memory of Thomas Klein, Always a Leisureville Club Champion. Mulligan, Knickers, and Ray had filled a Sam Adams bottle with some of Tom’s ashes and buried it beneath the bench. They scattered the rest in the very sand trap that Harvey just raked, so their friend would always be in play.

Knickers motioned the others to sit while he paced in front of them. “I have somethin’ serious to talk about, and this seems like the right time and place.”

Ray and Mulligan sat at attention. They often joked that an x-ray of Knickers’ entire body wouldn’t reveal a single serious bone. He was the class clown.

“We never talk about money,” he began. “I think we all assume that nobody’s worried about it. Is that a fair assumption? Do we all think our lives are okay?”

Caught off guard by the subject matter, the men nodded tentative agreement. Was Knickers setting them up for a gag?

“Last night the wife and I were watching ‘Wizard of Oz’ on TV. Bess was saying how The Foursome reminded her of the characters.”

Mulligan’s eyes narrowed. “This is the serious stuff you wanted to talk about? I swear, if you say I’m Mayor of Munchkinland, I’ll deck you. Enough with the short jokes! I was beating you by two strokes today.”

Knickers still held his putter and lifted it to threaten Mulligan. “I know it’s hard for you to listen for more than a second, but shut up, will you? Anyway, Mulligan is the lion, king of the Leisureville jungle.”

Mulligan smiled, then blurted, “But not cowardly, right?”

Knickers raised his club again. “Are you gonna listen? As the lion, you always talk a good game and generally lead the community in the right direction, but you seem terrified of those old witches on the Leisureville board.”

“That’s politics,” Mulligan shrugged. “You wouldn’t understand. Sometimes I make concessions so I’ll have their votes when it really matters.”

“Well,” Knickers continued, “I thought honorin’ Tom’s wish for a proper burial on the golf course really mattered.”

Mulligan quickly stood. “I’m telling you for the hundredth time, it was against the friggin’ law!”

Ray said, “Besides, you figured out a way around the problem, Knickers. We did bury Tom on the course, at least in our own way.”

Knickers stared Mulligan back to the bench. “And Harvey’s the tin man. He’s a true-blue friend and would go to war for you. At the same time, he can be high maintenance.

“Ray’s the scarecrow. His golf swing’s so loose and easy, it’s like he’s made of straw. He’s so good natured that he’s gone through his whole life with a smile painted on his face.” Knickers grinned. “I came up with the straw thing. The painted smile was the wife’s idea.”

Ray laughed and nudged Mulligan. “If I only had a brain, right?”

Mulligan shook his head. “If you weren’t missing your damn tooth today, you’d at least look a little smarter.”

The lion turned to Knickers. “Who does that make you, Dorothy or Toto?”

Knickers coughed. “I’m the wizard, of course. I’m here to coach you all into bein’ heroes . . . the best you can be!”

Mulligan and Ray both chuckled. How had Knickers delivered that line with a straight face?

“This is the serious stuff you wanted to talk about?” Mulligan asked again. “One minute you’re talking money and the next you’re skipping down the damn yellow brick road.”

“No,” his friend replied. “It’s what you call an introduction. Up to now, our golden years have been all about golf. We spend half our time playin’ and the other half talkin’ or thinkin’ about it. Well, I can’t speak for you, but the game is losin’ a little luster for me. How long will it be before we’re takin’ half swings and chasin’ our balls a hundred yards at a time like some of the old farts around here? I don’t want to go out that way. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

Ray was looking past Knickers, watching the next foursome hit drives, but listened closely. The words could well have been his own.

“You really think we’re getting old?” Mulligan asked.

Knickers nodded. “I think it’s a proper time to build what my wife calls a legacy. What if we can do more than just amuse ourselves? What if we can actually help change the world in some great way?”

The listeners twitched on the bench. Their legacy? Change the world? It was all coming out of left field. There had always been an unspoken rule on the golf course: No talk of politics, religion, philosophy, economics, or anything else of substance.

“Now, back to money,” Knickers continued. “Bess and I have been talkin’ about what we’re gonna do with ours. We’ve been talkin’ for two years now, ever since Tom passed away.

“Mulligan, you have a couple kids. You’ll leave your estate to them. Harvey has two children, so same goes for him. Ray, you have so many kids and grandkids that you probably can’t remember their names. Bess and I have nobody to leave our money to.”

The others knew that was a difficult subject for Knickers. His only son, Mickey Jr., died in a car accident on the night of his high school graduation.

“So, what do we do with the money? Leave it to charity, right?” Knickers looked at his friends for a show of agreement, but they stared blankly.

Ray realized he had never given the subject any thought. His children would get everything, like Knickers suggested.

Mulligan was about to joke that Knickers could leave the money to him, but bit his tongue. His friend was in serious mode, just as advertised.

“Our problem is that after two years of talkin’, we still have no idea what charity would be the right choice. I’m gonna make The Foursome into the directors of my charitable trust or whatever you wanna call it. Together we’re gonna decide where the money goes.”

“What about your wife?” Ray asked. “Doesn’t Bess have an equal say?”

Knickers shook his head. “She’s tired of the whole damn discussion. She says the money is my doin’ and my problem. If I’m happy, she’s happy.”

“The opposite of my wife,” Mulligan laughed. “She’s only happy when she’s making me miserable. How much money are we talking about?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Knickers whispered, aware that the next group was nearing the green. “We’ll get together tonight and I’ll explain more. Don’t say nothin’ to the wives.” Knickers winked at Ray, who understood the subtle message. It wasn’t Pat who posed a problem; it was Mulligan’s wife, Mary. She was a wonderful lady, but a networker. Very little happened in Leisureville that she didn’t know about or freely discuss.

Knickers headed toward his cart. “I’ll go check on Harvey now. I think this news will cheer him up.”

After his friends drove off, Ray headed to the driving range, where he had business to transact. Only four people occupied the range under the noon sun. Tommy, the young man who maintained the facility, was filling divots with sand. An elderly fellow in Bermuda shorts and a broad-brimmed straw hat lounged on a chair in the shade. The new club pro, whose name Ray couldn’t recall, was giving a lesson to Gladys Beckerman.

“Tommy, how you doing?” Ray whispered. He didn’t want to distract the Beckerman widow, who was taking wild hacks just a few yards away. She was a small woman, but her swings would beat the pattern off a rug.

“Hey, Mr. Plumlee,” Tommy returned. “How they hangin’?” He greeted all the men the same way.

“Lower all the time,” Ray answered. He pulled out his wallet and withdrew a ten-spot. “I have a favor to ask.”

Tommy smiled at the bill. “Let me guess. Mr. Green lost a club in the water again.”

“You make it sound like a regular occurrence. It only happened once before.”

Tommy grunted. “It’s about the fourth time, but who’s counting, right? Where do I swim today?”

Ray described the location of the wet wedge as best he could. Tommy was familiar with the entire layout of the course, especially the hazards. He spent lots of time recovering lost balls from the ponds and hedges, which he sold for a quarter each. It was an excellent supplement to low wages in a locale where errant shots were common, energy for finding them was limited, and most folks appreciated a bargain. Tommy agreed to drop the wedge off at Sleepy Hollow on the way home. Everyone knew where Harvey lived.

Behind him, Ray heard the pro telling Gladys to slow down her swing and relax her grip - always good advice. Suddenly the widow shrieked. If Ray hadn’t turned his head to the sound, the flying three iron may have brushed harmlessly past his ear. It was the warning that doomed him. The blade caught him flush between the eyes.

Seconds later, Ray found himself on his back, staring into the blurred face of the club pro. “Can you hear me?” the pro asked. “Can you see me? Are you okay?”

Ray heard hysterical crying and wailing. “I killed Ray Plumlee! Oh, I’ve killed Ray Plumlee!”

The pro looked at Tommy and asked him to console the old lady, or at least shut her up. He walked her to a nearby chair.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” the instructor told Ray. “You took a hard blow. Your forehead’s cut and you lost a tooth.”

Ray’s head was clearing. He wasn’t going to any hospital, not in the back of an ambulance. And his mouth felt fine.

“I’ll be okay,” he muttered, hoping it was true. He couldn’t see very well, but never could without his eyewear. “Do you have my glasses?”

The pro shook his head. “I’m afraid they didn’t make it.”