Once Upon a Tee Time

On Monday morning, Eagle Optics Marketing Director Mark Roarke waited outside the owner’s office, his head buried in a newspaper. After finishing the feature story on Jingles’ day at Sunland, he turned to the Ernie Wilson column, Jingles Turns Back the Clock.

Yesterday was turn-back-the-clock day, the end of Daylight Savings Time. It’s the one day of the year when we all get to go back an hour in time.

Obviously, no one told 72-year-old Ray “Jingles” Plumlee about the one hour thing. He opted to turn his clock back 40 years instead.

Jingles’ age minus 40 would be 32. That’s when most golfers are in their prime.

It’s an age at which a few, as in maybe one in a zillion, could walk onto a regulation golf course and shoot a ridiculous 15-under-par 57.

Funny thing about Jingles, though, in addition to his nickname, is that he did that very thing at Sunland yesterday. He did it front of 8,000 incredulous spectators, including me. His game is beyond that of golfers in their prime. His game is beyond belief.

Like the others who watched, I wanted to see an optometrist afterward. Unlike the others, who dreamed of finding the same magic Jingles did after getting new contact lenses, I just wanted to make sure I saw what I thought I did.

Jingles plays a different game than mortals. He puts the ball on the green when he should, but makes putts when he shouldn’t. Thirty feet away with a two-foot break? No problem. Forty feet up a hill and then back down? Why not? Under the windmill, up the ramp, and through the clown’s nose? Probably just as easy. For Jingles.

These are scores for his last five rounds: 62; 60; 61; 64 and 57. That’s not the sports story of the year. It’s not the story of the decade. It’s the story of forever.

Why, you ask?

Who is your personal choice as the best golfer of all time? Snead? Hogan? Palmer? Nicklaus?

Now answer this: How was his game at the age of 72?

Ray “Jingles” Plumlee. The story of forever.

Roark saw Herman coming down the hall. He stood to greet him. “Good

morning, sir. I have lots of good news.”

Herman waved him into his office. “You better.”

“Did you see SportsCenter this morning?” Roarke asked, taking a seat in front of Mr. Winston’s desk.

Herman shook his head and shouted to his secretary. “Martha, where’s my coffee?”

“Well, I suggest you turn on your television.” He pointed to a wall-mounted flat screen. “Go to ESPN.”

“Spare me the drama,” Herman muttered. “Just spit it out.”

Roarke held out the sports page. “Jingles put on a show yesterday. Eight thousand people watched him shoot a fifty-seven! ESPN covered it! Jingles talks about his contact lenses on their national news. Says they changed his whole view of life.”

Herman snatched the paper from him. 57? Impossible.

“Like you asked,” Roarke continued, “I put together a file with all our financials and emailed it to eleven companies that could conceivably have interest in acquiring Eagle Optics. I included data on last week’s order volume and our long-term agreement with Jingles Plumlee. That went out Friday evening.”

Herman nodded as he read. “You got Plumlee all signed up?”

“Not yet. He’s hard to reach. His wife finally answered the phone on Saturday, but she cut me off right away. She took my phone number and said they’d get back to me soon.”

“The hundred grand didn’t impress her?”

“I never got to the money part. I mentioned a promotional deal, she asked for my number, and then she hung up. She wasn’t all that friendly.”

Herman lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Go to Plumlee’s house. Knock on the door. Show him the check. Get his name on the dotted line.”

“She said they’d call …”

His boss cut him off with a glare. “If he isn’t home, sit in your car and wait for him. Don’t come back here without a signature. That clear?”

The secretary entered with two cups of coffee. Herman glanced at Roarke, who was still sitting in a chair. “Martha, he won’t be needing that. He was just leaving.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Winston,” Roarke said. “I haven’t told you everything. I got three responses to my email already. The companies all requested a figure. I’d suggest you start the bidding at around thirty million.”

Herman opened a drawer and grabbed the TV remote control. “I’d suggest you start by getting that contract signed. Without that, I’m nowhere. You told me that yourself.”

Home provided no sanctuary for the Plumlees on Monday morning. The phone had been unplugged since the previous night, but well-wishers started beating a path to their door at breakfast time. The solution had been to station Jingles on a lawn chair throne in the driveway. Pat served coffee in foam cups while he talked to admirers and fed biscuits to their dogs.

“Jingles, did you see SportsCenter this morning?”

“No, haven’t had the chance yet.”

“What did it feel like to shoot a fifty-seven?”

“Like I was watching someone else play, that it couldn’t be me.”

“Are you going to play on the Champions Tour?”

“As soon as cows fly. Seventy-two-year-old cows.”

“How does our Leisureville course compare to other places?”

“It’s fantastic. Mulligan does a great job of staying on top of it.”

“Will you autograph this?”

“Sure, but remember I’m just your neighbor.”

“Would you consider becoming the club pro at Leisureville?”

“Maybe after I retire,” he joked.

Two hours into the impromptu reception, Pat was pouring the last cup from her twelfth pot of coffee when a car pulled up. The driver introduced himself as Mark Roarke of Eagle Optics, the company that made Jingles’ contacts. He asked for a word in private.

Excusing himself from the neighbors, the famous golfer went inside with Pat and Mr. Roarke, who was all suited up and carried a briefcase. Jingles had thought about calling the company many times, but what would he say? Thank you for the defective lens? Bless you for screwing up?

Jingles shook Roarke’s hand vigorously. “I can honestly say that Eagle Optics changed my life. Thank you so much.”

Roarke set the briefcase on the kitchen counter, opened it, and took out the contract. “Don’t thank us yet. We want you to sign an endorsement deal with us. We’ll make all your contacts for you for the rest of your life.”

Pat interrupted. “Didn’t Mr. Pruh from the bank call you? We gave him your number.”

“We didn’t hear from anybody. That’s why I’m here. This is a matter of some urgency to us.”

“How did you get through the gate?” she asked. “We didn’t get a call.”

“I followed another car through when the bar lifted,” Roarke admitted. “Like I said, this is important.”

Pat started to object, but remembered her phone was disconnected. Calling hadn’t been an option.

The visitor looked to Jingles. “We’d like you to advertise our contacts so that others will be aware of them and can benefit like you have. We’re prepared to pay you very well.”

Jingles laughed at his comment. How could anyone else benefit like he had? “You don’t have to pay me. People already know my contacts came from Eagle Optics. It was right in the newspaper.”

Pat, standing behind Roarke, shook her head angrily. Jingles rolled his eyes.

“I know your intentions are good,” Roarke replied, “but other companies might want you to try their lenses. As the original producer of yours, we deserve due credit. It sounds like you agree with that, right?”

Jingles watched his wife shake an angry finger. “I need to talk to Pat for a second. Would you mind?” He led her to their bedroom.

“What are you doing?” she asked impatiently.

“I can’t take their money. My right contact lens was a mistake.”

Her eyes bulged. “A mistake? That lens you keep under your pillow is a mistake? You seem to value it more than life itself!”

“I showed it to Sid Wexler. He explained that it was defective. There’s a bubble trapped inside, something like that. For some odd reason, it just works for me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that? What a silly secret to keep!”

“Sid told me not to wear it. I thought you’d say the same thing. Wait, what am I talking about? You did try to take it from me!”

Pat shook her head. “Stop with the whining. You’re the one who came home in tears, complaining about how much it hurt. Obviously, it’s not a problem anymore.”

He nodded. Wearing it for short durations had proven to be the solution.

“Think a minute,” she continued. “If Eagle Optics made your lens, who’s most likely to make you more just like it? If you show it to them, maybe they can duplicate it. You won’t have to worry about losing or breaking the one you have.”

Jingles decided that made perfect sense. He kissed her forehead and returned to the kitchen. “Mr. Roarke, if I brought a lens to your company, do you think you could copy it exactly?”

Roarke chuckled at the odd question. “Yes, of course. I guarantee it. We have all the best equipment and staff.”

Pat smirked at her husband, then turned to the visitor. “How much money are you offering?”

Roarke took the check from his breast pocket and showed it to Pat. “Jingles,” she cried out. “It’s a hundred thousand dollars!”

Her husband barely heard. He hadn’t understood modern technology at all! Eagle Optics could duplicate his lens. The rest of The Foursome would be able to see like him. He could give them all bubble lenses for Christmas.

Pat’s mind flashed to Knickers Collins. Was he sitting in the car outside, laughing at the Plumlees again? She looked out the window. Wait, Knickers was out of the country. Her new convertible was real. The check from Larry Weinstein was authentic.

Roarke spread four pages on the kitchen table. “The contract is right here. I’ll be happy to go over it with you. You can sign and take that check to the bank.” His hands were shaking. His whole body shook. Please, let this happen!

“Well,” Pat said, her eyes shifting back and forth between the check and the contract, “we won’t sign anything until Oliver Pruh approves it. He’s at Phoenix City Bank.”

Roarke laughed nervously. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about the contract. I can summarize it for you in seconds. Jingles doesn’t actually have to do anything.”

“Do you know where the main branch of the bank is?” Pat asked. “I’ll call him now and try to set up an appointment.”

Roarke saw resolve in her eyes, the set of her jaw. She wasn’t going to change her mind. He said, “It’s important that that I see Mr. Pruh immediately. I’m not authorized to extend this offer past today. Popularity can be a fleeting thing.”

Pat reconnected the phone and dialed a number. Oliver answered his cell.

“Hi, Oliver. It’s Lady Jingles,” she said, winking at her husband. “There’s a Mr. Roarke from Eagle Optics at our house. His name was one of those I gave you yesterday. He has a contract that he wants us to sign …”

The two men watched Pat nod, listen, and nod some more. Finally, she handed the phone to Roarke.

“One o’clock should be fine,” Roarke said. “Herman Winston and his attorney will probably be with me, just to let you know. See you then.”

Oliver pocketed his cell phone, looked at the time, and called his secretary on the intercom. “No more calls this morning. And cancel my eleven-thirty and the lunch reservation. I have some people from Eagle Optics coming at one. Allow an hour for that. And thank you.”

The bank president glanced at the brass clock on his desk. 10:38. Four hours of his workday had already disappeared. He felt guilty for ignoring the Plumlee’s personal business even that long, particularly in light of his own good fortune. The chairman of his board, high on all the Jingles publicity, advised Oliver that he would recommend a $300,000 bonus for the president at the annual meeting. Oliver’s annual salary was $1.65 million plus a Desert Springs membership, but the bonus was nothing to sneeze at. He had Jingles to thank for it.

Oliver already enlisted a public relations company to manage the coming exhibitions, starting Saturday. The tab would be $25,000 per event, but things would go more smoothly, especially for him. Money was no longer an issue.

After waking at five, Oliver had watched an early edition of SportsCenter. The video was fantastic. Eight thousand spectators looked like even more. Jingles was charming and humble, looking great in his PCB cap. A couple of top PGA pros weighed in on the old golfer, calling his putting confounding and other-worldly. To their knowledge, no one had ever made three hundred and twenty feet of putts in a single round. Not even close. The broadcasters seemed to love presenting the story.

One thing was clear: Jingles needed a top agent immediately. He was about to be blitzed with attention that he may not want, but would be foolish to turn away. The growing publicity would create major financial opportunities – not chickenshit deals like those with Weinstein Cadillac and his own bank. A top agency would not only negotiate deals, but find more of them. Professionals would also help the Plumlees handle the pressures of fame that were only beginning to surface. Oliver knew it was time to make some calls.

At 1:00 p.m., Oliver’s secretary announced the arrival of the Eagle Optics people. The banker met Herman Winston and two other gentlemen at the door. “Always a pleasure, Herman. Good to see you.” Oliver shook his hand.

Herman’s face was all business. “This is Stanley Wilhelm, my attorney,” he said, nodding to his right. “And my marketing man, Mark Roarke.” Oliver offered them seats.

Herman allowed his associates to sit, but he remained on his feet. “Oliver, when did Phoenix City Bank start consulting on business like this? We simply want to sign Plumlee to a promotional deal.”

The bank president put on a disarming smile. “Jingles is a friend, Herman. He asked for my help. It’s all a little new to him.”

“My company is a major client of Phoenix City Bank, as are my wife and I,” Herman said. “I hope you view us as friends too. As you know, we made Plumlee’s contact lenses. Now we’re prepared to pay him for the privilege. We’re offering him a hundred thousand dollars to sign on with us, all in the hope it will help us sell more lenses.” Herman looked to Roarke, who passed the contract across the desk to Oliver.

“Give me two minutes,” the banker said. Two minutes was more than enough time to get the drift. Eagle Optics wanted limited rights to his name and likeness for advertising for the next ten years. During that time, Jingles’ sole obligations were to wear their lenses exclusively and promote no other prosthetic eyewear; that and wear a hat with their logo whenever he played golf. Basically, he didn’t have to do anything but accept a check. Jingles would receive full payment upon signing.

“Your contract looks fine. I just don’t have any feel for reasonable value. In fairness to everyone concerned, I’m going to pass this matter on to Jingles’ new agent. I may have found one to recommend. Have you heard of the Quinn Group in Los Angeles? They represent lots of sports figures.”

Herman scowled. “That won’t do, Oliver. I want to sign Plumlee today. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. You know full well that his popularity can disappear as quickly as it came.”

“Why are you trying to lock him in for the next ten years?”

“That’s the trade-off for us. We’re prepared to pay him in full right now. If he dropped dead tomorrow, his family would keep all the money. We want the time in case his popularity endures.”

Oliver nodded. “I’m sorry. There’s no way for me to know if the money’s right.”

“The money is right!” Herman shouted. “The Plumlees were ecstatic when Roarke gave them the figure! They wanted you to look over the contract, that’s all. If you’re going to interfere, I’ll have to consider finding a new bank for our accounts.”

Oliver didn’t appreciate the threat. At the same time, he knew the conversation represented a conflict of interest for him. “Okay, Herman. You counsel me. I’m sitting here wondering what the bigger companies in your business might pay Jingles to wear their lenses. Could it be five or ten times that amount? If he takes your offer, he’ll never know.”

The banker had said exactly what Herman feared hearing most. Verbatim. If the negotiation went to an agent, Eagle Optics would be left in the dust. There would be no grand payday for him. He glared at Oliver. “And how much is Phoenix City Bank paying Jingles? Are you paying him as much as Wells Fargo would? How about Bank of America?”

That was different, Oliver thought. The bank got into the game early. Very early. Five whole days ago. He said, “I can’t divulge the terms of our contract with Mr. Plumlee.”

“Here’s the deal, Pruh,” Herman replied, almost spitting the banker’s name. “Tell Plumlee he can have half a million if he signs the contract right now. After that, there will be no offer, no more deal.”

The much larger offer surprised Oliver. On the one hand, a brand new $400,000 came into play out of nowhere. That was exciting. On the other hand, the game must be bigger than he thought. Half a million was a big number for a relatively small business like Eagle Optics.

Herman’s attorney spoke for the first time. “Mr. Pruh, you will call Plumlee and convey this offer right now. It’s your fiduciary responsibility. If you don’t, you can explain to the Plumlees how you lost them so much money. You won’t have to explain the loss of dozens of large Phoenix City Bank accounts that I will orchestrate. I’ll bring that to the attention of your board myself.”

Oliver considered the lawyer’s message. Things were getting ugly. The Plumlees had been prepared to take a fraction of what was now on the table. They’d be elated with the windfall. On top of that, Eagle Optics was a local business, employing local people. Most importantly, if something happened to Jingles or he lost his touch, the money would be his regardless.

He picked up his cell. Pat answered instantly. “Oliver here. Is your husband available?”

“No. He’s over at the course filming commercials for Larry Weinstein. Are you calling about the contract?”

Oliver knew Pat was the lead Plumlee on financial matters. “Yes. I’m here with company representatives. I have no objection to the contents of the contract. It would basically keep Jingles wearing their lenses for the next ten years. He doesn’t have to do anything other than wear their hat.”

“What does the hat look like?” she asked.

Oliver sighed. “I’m sure they’ll come up with a hat that meets your approval.”

“What about your bank hat that he wears now? How many hats can he wear?”

Oliver had to chuckle. “He won’t have to wear ours anymore.”

“What if something happened to him in the next ten years? We aren’t getting younger, regardless of what my husband may think.”

“It wouldn’t matter. You get to keep all the money.”

“Well, it sounds like we’re going to get that hundred thousand! I can’t wait to tell Jingles.”

Oliver had been waiting for this moment. “Actually, the figure has been adjusted. It’s now a half million.”

She was silent so long that Oliver grew concerned. Was she lying on the floor? Finally, she said, “I don’t know what to say.”

“How long will Jingles be? I need him here at the bank as soon as possible.”

Herman interrupted. “Tell her Roarke will be at their house with the contract immediately. I’ll need to go downstairs and move some money around.”

Oliver conveyed the message to Pat, then said, “I have one request. Would you consider opening an account with Phoenix City Bank?”

Late Wednesday night, Jane Friend sat alone in her room at Eagle River’s Last Frontier Motel, pecking away on a laptop. Her two days in Alaska had been a whirlwind of interviews and amazing scenery footage, enough prize material to fill an hour show. Now it was decision time. How could she best tell the Jingles story in twenty-two and a half minutes?

Where should she begin? How about a photograph of little Ray at age ten, holding up his first trophy, a Canada goose? Jingles’ first birdie? No, probably not. Some viewers might be offended. Why not a look at the snow-covered golf course where he hit his first tee shot at age 51? A cow moose and her calf had been browsing on a fairway. True Alaska. Or maybe a vista of the rustic Plumlee home would work, white mountains towering in the distance.

At a Tuesday night reception in that house, Jane met the four Plumlee children, their spouses, eleven grandchildren, and even a couple of the great grandkids. Jingles had called from Arizona, visiting for an hour as the family passed the phone. Their eyes twinkled with affection for the family patriarch. The reaction to his sudden stardom was joyful disbelief.

A community reception and potluck took place at an elementary school gym, where the town turned out in force. She sampled smoked and pickled salmon, salmon caviar, trout, halibut cheeks, and even moose stew. She also got a taste of local perspectives on the man known only as Ray.

A former golf partner, considerably younger than Jingles, shared some background on his friend. “Ray was a five or six-handicap at the time he retired and moved to Arizona. Once he got to playing all the time, he improved in a hurry. I remember playing with him when he visited five years ago. He shot seventy-three. Due to his age, or so I thought, his game started slipping last year. I beat him by a couple strokes. Had I known he was a blind man, I wouldn’t have taken his money. What’s happened to him is a miracle, but it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Ask everybody here and they’ll tell you the same.”

One of Jingles’ former teachers, now 90, had vivid memories of her student. “Ray was always a good boy. I remember when he just started driving and had that rusty blue pickup with a blade on the front. After every snowstorm, he’d plow everybody’s driveway because he thought it was fun. As a student, he wasn’t the sharpest tack in the bulletin board, but I always passed him. Who wouldn’t pass a boy that plowed their driveway for free?”

Another friend appreciated his sense of humor. “Ray had a joke for every occasion. Well, he knew a few jokes and used them all the time. The one I heard a hundred times was about his custodial business. He’d say that for him, being a janitor was the easiest job in the world. He could clean up a room just by leaving it.”

And there were many who applauded his generosity. An old acquaintance said, “When any group of kids needed a donation or sponsorship, Ray was there for them. If the cheerleaders wanted new uniforms, he was first to put money in the hat. Every soccer, basketball, hockey, or baseball league had a team sponsored by The Cleanery. When it came to Little League, he’d always coach the team too. He coached kids for thirty years and not a one of them will ever forget him. Just ask around. I’ll bet a dozen of his former players are in this gym right now.”

One of those former Little Leaguers said, “Coach Plumlee had a special way of teaching us patience at the plate: he could never throw a strike when he pitched batting practice! In all fairness, though, he taught us to play the game the right way. There was never any fooling around. He taught us that the best way to have fun was to play well. The best way to play well was to take practice seriously. He called it ‘serious fun’ and it was.”

“Jingles,” Jane said aloud, smiling at the sound of the nickname. Pat told her the story of its recent origin. Now that was irony. He caught the name because he was complaining about a declining golf game. The very next day, his game turned around and then some. Maybe that should be the lead to the show.

Jane believed the story could vault her career. WAZA had been marketing Jingles footage to other stations and continued to do so. Newswatch.com had six million hits in the last week. That number would really take off after the special. She wanted it to be perfect.

Before shutting down the computer, she checked her e-mail. The only new message came from Oliver. Hope your trip is fulfilling and fruitful. I couldn’t be more envious. I can only imagine how excited the family and hometown friends must be. Look forward to hearing all about it on your show.

Interesting. The Oliver she thought she knew would have asked only about the potential of the story, the business side of things. Jingles was having a notable effect on the staid banker, bringing out a softer side of him. His growing affability was rather charming, as was the gift that awaited her in the motel room when she first arrived. The bottle of peppermint schnapps on her nightstand had a note attached: Something to keep your toes warm, Oliver. The thought of it warmed her heart.

Musing about life, she considered the domino effect of a single event. A woman accidentally tosses a golf club, noteworthy only because it sends a man to see an optometrist. Corrected vision reveals a talent no one could have imagined. A whole senior community is energized. Newswatch airs a novel story. Millions parade to have their own eyes examined. Larry Weinstein moves Cadillacs like hot dogs at a ballpark. Jingles banks rewards. She winds up in Alaska, of all places. A brick of a banker discovers he has a heart. The dominos just continued to fall.

Tapping Reply, she wrote: Alaska is breathtaking. We’ll have to come here on vacation someday. Warm regards, Jane.

We, she thought. That ought to knock him for a loop! Maybe even more than the thought of a vacation.

She turned off the computer and prepared for a nap. A wake-up call was scheduled for 3:30 a.m. After an early drive to the Anchorage airport, Pat and she would fly to Seattle together. From there, she would return to Phoenix while Pat flew to Los Angeles to meet her husband and his new agent.

Jane slipped into her new flannel nightgown – a gift from Pat. She crawled into bed, switched off the light, and considered more creative openings to her special.

The Alaska State flag had seven gold stars in the formation of the Big Dipper, all on a field of deep blue. She’d start with the image of the waving flag, then fade to the actual constellation in a star-filled sky. The screen would track to the North Star, to which the Big Dipper pointed, and zero in on that. Finally, the star would turn into a smiling image of Jingles. Her technician could do all that in half an hour. Why not? Jingles was the North Star.

And then there was North Pole, Alaska. The name Jingles reminded people of Christmas. Why not start with a map of Alaska and zoom in on the town of North Pole? She could say, “Christmas came early for Jingles Plumlee, when Santa delivered new contact lenses.” Too corny? There was so much to think about. So many choices.