Once Upon a Tee Time

Ray blinked awake five minutes before the scheduled alarm and reached to the nightstand for his glasses. Fortunately, he didn’t find them. They were part of the old Ray, a fellow he wouldn’t miss one bit on the golf course.

In anticipation of a special day, he had selected his attire last night: yellow shirt, matching socks, and white slacks, all bright and celebratory. After dressing, he winked at the image in the mirror.

Tiptoeing back to the bed, he reached under his pillow for the case with the bubble lens. He felt nothing. He lifted the pillow to confirm it. Nothing! Dropping to his knees, he felt around on the floor. The case was gone.

A flicker of movement on Pat’s pillow caught his eye. Had her eyes just opened and closed? Studying her face, he decided she was wide awake beneath those twitching eyelids. Her words from yesterday came back to haunt him: Good luck with that! When she barely spoke the rest of the night, he presumed she was angry at him for having a friend like Knickers. That wasn’t it at all. She had discovered the case was missing from her purse and found his hiding place. Impressive. His wife was a worthy adversary. Always had been.

He left the bedroom, closed the door, and took his panic to a chair at the kitchen table. It was crunch time. He had to think clearly. Could she have disposed of the lens? Would she flush it down the toilet or something? His gut said no. She’d want to return it to the doctor for a replacement or a refund. The lens was somewhere in the house.

Could he discuss the matter with her? Could he convince her that his new plan for its use might eliminate problems? Could he simply demand that she return it? No to all three. He had burned those bridges when he lifted the lens from her purse.

Wait, who was he kidding? There had never been a bridge. That’s why he’d been so sneaky about reclaiming the lens in the first place. Once she made up her mind, that was it. The only way he could win an argument was to avoid it.

He thought back to when he was twenty-one, married for less than a year. He returned from a week’s fishing trip with a cooler full of trout and a new smoking habit. The sight of Marlboros in his shirt pocket infuriated his new bride. He recalled Pat’s exact words: “I didn’t marry a smoker and I won’t be married to one now.” When he reminded her that many of their friends and even her mother smoked, she looked at her watch and gave him ten seconds to decide. The smokes hit the bottom of a waste basket at the seven-second mark.

Confrontation was out. His only hope was to find the case, and do it fast. Where would she put it? If it was under her pillow or elsewhere in the bedroom, the game was over. She’d know he was searching and that would be the end of it. His only prayer was that she stashed it somewhere else, a place he’d never think to look.

He stood and walked straight to the “War Room,” the smaller of two guest bedrooms. Pat gave it the name because it was the operation center from which she waged the battle of tracking and servicing birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, and holidays for an ever-growing list of recipients. Buying and mailing gifts and cards had become a full-time job for his wife. It consumed half of their annual budget.

He eased the door shut behind him and turned on the overhead light. The queen-size bed served as a work table. It was covered with wrapping paper for all occasions, tape, markers, and stacks of priority mailboxes in various sizes. Along one wall, dozens of gifts were assembled. Toys, computer games, CDs, boxes of candy, and clothing boxes. Every item had a yellow Post It attached, with the name of the future recipient.

Gawking at the sheer volume of stuff, he remembered that Lucy once criticized him for not helping his wife with the task. He felt no guilt at all. Pat didn’t play golf. What else did she have to do? Besides, he did all the housecleaning.

Her desk with the computer, printer and other accessories stood by the single window. He didn’t know how to turn on a computer and had no interest in learning. Quietly, he began sliding drawers open. In the bottom one, the contact case sat front and center, smiling up at him. Unbelievable! The bubble lens and his right eye were meant to be together.

After shoving the case in his pocket, he drew a smiley face on one of Pat’s little yellow sheets. Beneath it, he wrote: Don’t worry. Everything will be just fine. Thank you for hiding it in the first place I looked. Love, ... he started to write Ray, but decided on Jingles. He placed the note where the case had been.

The Greens awaited him at the end of their driveway, waving a greeting. Harvey saluted and said, “Hey there, Jingles, top of the morning to you!”

Ray remembered the dog’s name and laughed. “I’m going to be Jingles all the time?”

Lucy held out his coffee. “It has a nice ringle to it, don’t you think?”

Harvey was unusually chatty on the way to the course. “We went to the movies last night with Mulligan and Mary. All he talked about was your golf yesterday. Well, that and your car. You think you’ll be okay today?”

“I think so, especially if you drive the cart. I’m going to try taking that right lens in and out while I get used to it.”

“Sounds like a pain in the ass,” Harvey grimaced. “That’s why I never bothered with contacts.”

Knickers was talking to Mulligan at the first tee. He nodded to the new arrivals, but kept on. “Anyway, the dentist tells me I need to brush my teeth religiously. What kind of talk is that? What does brushin’ your teeth have to do with religion?”

Harvey chuckled. “Your dentist meant you should brush them every Sunday, whether they need it or not.”

“Or maybe you should use holy water,” Mulligan suggested.

“And do it on your knees in front of the sink, like you’re kneeling at the altar,” Harvey added.

Ray’s mind was on golf. “Religiously means regularly, Knickers, that’s all.”

Knickers tossed up his hands. “Since when?” The others could only laugh.

On the tee, Ray performed his regular ritual of envisioning the drive, the approach, and the single putt. Through two good eyes, the fairway was vivid green and sparkling after light rain during the night. His swing was relaxed and rhythmic. The contact was pure.

“What a surprise,” Mulligan shouted. “Right down the middle.”

“Way to make the big dog bark,” Knickers chirped.

When Ray returned to his cart, a string of jingle bells was hanging from the rearview mirror. “It feels like Christmas over here,” he called out. And it truly did.

Ray already had his five iron on his lap when Birdie Chaser drew even with his ball. Instead of walking to his Titleist, he jogged. The view of the pin was better than ever. His target was ten feet in front of the green. A few bounces and some roll should carry his ball another thirty feet. The shot was true and hopped as expected. Only fifteen feet left for birdie.

“Some kind of wonderful,” Harvey said, chuckling at another dog track reference.

Ray removed his sunglasses and reached for the contact case. He made the right lens transfer and was off to the races.

After nine holes, three of the men wandered off to the restroom and soda machine. Ray sat in the cart, holding his head in his hands. His eye felt fine and he was three-under-par. He should have been walking-on-a-cloud ecstatic. Why wasn’t he? Worse yet, why was he acting glum in front of his friends, who were cheering him on like his biggest fans?

He tried to lift his spirits, to be as gleeful as the day warranted, but his mind wouldn’t cooperate. Despite his score, he wasn’t living up to the potential of the bubble lens. He wasn’t holding up his end of the deal.

On all but a single hole, there had been birdie opportunities. After leaving a fifteen-footer short on the fifth hole, he’d missed makeable putts on the next three: a push; a pull; and one that hit the back of the cup and popped right out. His right eye always said yes, but his faulty mechanics shouted no too often.

Knickers handed Ray a Diet Coke. “Hey, Mr. Ed, why the long face? You’re takin’ me and Mulligan behind the barn today. I can’t decide whether to slap you or kneel at your feet.”

“Jingles, you getting a headache again?” Mulligan asked. “I hope so, because you’re giving me one.”

Ray considered an appropriate response. What would they think if he told the truth? What if he admitted that he should be making every putt? “I’m just worried about the back nine,” he said, forcing a smile. “How long can luck like this last?”

As The Foursome moved through the final nine holes, conversation slowed, then stopped altogether. Ray’s luck didn’t continue; it got a whole lot better. Putts that looked like they should drop, did drop. When he slapped in a thirty-footer for birdie on the final hole, Harvey raced to the cup to secure the ball as a souvenir. After all, he had watched his best friend birdie seven of the last nine holes and post a score of 62! He had the scorecard to prove it.

Knickers had been silent since the twelfth hole, when Ray dipped to six under and put the Leisureville resident scoring record in play. Over decades in baseball, he’d seen many improbable things. There were batters struggling so badly that they could hardly make contact, who suddenly homered twice in a single game. There were pitchers near the end of their careers, barely hanging onto their jobs, who walked to the mound one day and tossed a miraculous no-hitter. Jingles had played a near perfect game at the age of seventy-two. Improved eyesight alone couldn’t be responsible for that. He was just in the zone.

Mulligan dashed off to the clubhouse, eager to tell the club pro about the score. “Sixty-two,” he shouted as he ran. “Jingles Plumlee just shot sixty-two!”

Harvey hugged his partner. “Today a story has been written: The Legend of Jingles Plumlee. I didn’t think it was possible to shoot a score like that. Not for someone our age.”

Jingles looked up into a cloudless sky. He had led a rich life, full of satisfaction and pleasure, but today surpassed every other. Golf might only be a game, but it was his game.

Knickers grabbed Ray’s shoulder, ending his reverie. “Let’s go have the best beer of our lives, Jingles. I’m buying.”

“And today we’re all drinking the good stuff,” Ray exclaimed.

In the Nineteenth Hole, Harvey, Knickers, and Ray sat at their regular window table. Mulligan rushed through the doorway, his face red with excitement or exhaustion. He went straight to the bartender. “Nick, you better send us a round on the house! Jingles smashed the course record with a sixty-two!”

“Who’s Jingles, Mr. Wettman?” the bartender asked. Nick was always polite to the association president, regardless of what he said or did.

Mulligan nodded to the table. “Ray Plumlee, of course.”

Nick eyed Wettman’s friends, Knickers Collins in particular. The old baseball player had a reputation for screwing around. Hell, Nick had witnessed it firsthand.

Four years ago, Knickers had Plumlee get him some fresh whole salmon flown in from Alaska, guts still in them. He got old Sam Isaac to sit beside the pond on the seventeenth hole with a fishing pole and a stringer of the twenty-pound salmon in the water in front of him. Old Sam couldn’t talk or hear, so nobody could question him. With all the golfers passing by, seeing the old fella and the huge fish, it wasn’t long before a hundred people surrounded the pond, some in wheelchairs even. They casted every kind of lure and snagged nothing but each other. It all topped off when a guy wearing an Arizona Fish and Wildlife uniform showed up and started issuing tickets for fishing without a license. He said it was a $100 fine. The officer was a fake, of course, but the people didn’t know that. They all started running like hell to avoid the fine. Nick had seen funny things in his life, but watching old folks try to run for the first time in ages was prime entertainment.

Yes, the bartender had seen that drama unfold right in front of him. Knickers, Ray, and Mulligan had been sitting right there, by the same window, watching the whole thing and laughing it up like high school kids. Ray Plumlee shot a 62? That story smelled worse than those fish must have smelled after soaking in the warm pond for hours.

Nick yelled to Knickers. “Would you like some fresh-caught salmon with those free beers?”

Knickers grinned at the memory. “Are you saying you don’t believe he shot sixty-two?”

The bartender shrugged. “Let’s say it sounds like another fish story.”

“Tell you what,” Knickers said, getting up from the table. “You’re a young guy, maybe forty or so? I hear you’re a damn good golfer too. I’ll tend the bar while you go play Jingles for a hundred bucks a hole right now.”

Nick was aware that Ray, or Jingles, or whatever he called himself, had been the club champion a few years back. Glancing at the list of winners on the wall, he saw Plumlee’s name twice. Still, he thought about calling the bluff. He was a scratch golfer and Plumlee was no spring chicken.

“What are you waiting for?” Knickers asked. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

“I’d do it, but you’d give away all the booze while I was gone.”

“Then bring us a round of Sam,” Ray intervened. “I’ll be picking up the tab.”

“And a bottle of Old Grand-Dad,” Knickers added. “It’s a day to remember!”

Four more golfers hurried over to Ray when they entered the bar.

“What did you shoot today, Plumlee?”

“We saw you knocking down putts from everywhere!”

“Never saw anything like it!”

“I can’t remember you missing a putt!”

Ray had played more slowly on the back nine. The following group saw the action from the fairways while waiting for each green to clear.

“He shot ten under,” Harvey announced. “Sixty-two.”

Four jaws dropped. One of the men asked, “Is that even possible?”

The next hour passed like a minute for Ray. He drank one beer after another to cool the sting of the whiskey. Mulligan tried to convince every new arrival that the course record had been shattered. A few golfers congratulated Ray and some nodded politely. Most looked at Mulligan with understandable skepticism. They assumed their association president was drunk at midday and were a little disgusted.

Annoyed, Mulligan finally returned to the table and sat down. “What’s with these people? They look at me as if I claimed to be having an affair with Speed Bump!”

Harvey laughed. “If you had missed the round today and I told you Jingles shot that score, would you believe me?”

“And Harvey is very honest compared to you,” Knickers added.

Mulligan rolled his eyes. “I saw it and can’t believe it. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, though.”

Ray had drained four bottles and an equal number of shots, giving birth to a stranger. The stranger stood and addressed the entire room. “It’s not right that you don’t believe my friend Mulligan. He’d never lie about golf. I’ll do the same thing tomorrow.”

“We don’t play tomorrow,” Harvey said, stunned by Jingles’ behavior. “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

Knickers glanced at Jingles and laughed. Through all the drinking and talking, he’d been thinking more about the morning round. With the new contact lenses, Jingles was a new man. The round had featured good luck, but was more like a transformation. Improved vision had uncaged a beast of a golfer.

Knickers stood beside Jingles. “I’ll bet every one of you and every other resident of Leisureville that Jingles here will shoot sixty-five or better on Friday. Nick over there is going to take your names. Let’s say each wager is ten bucks in bar credit.”

Nick nodded happily. The bar was a winner either way.

One of the patrons objected. “You guys said he shot sixty-two. Why is the bet for a sixty-five?”

Knickers raised his palms. “Would you have believed he shot sixty-five?”

“No way!” a dozen voices yelled out.

“There you have it,” Knickers declared. “I’ll cover every name that’s on the list by the end of the day tomorrow. Give Nick your money to hold. And be sure to tell your friends.”

“Leave it to Knickers to put some extra shine on a day,” Mulligan said. “Friday’s going to be our most entertaining round ever.”

Knickers smiled as a line formed at the bar to record bets. Mulligan was right. Friday’s round would be the best.

Harvey stared at Knickers in disbelief. “How can you do that to Jingles? That puts ridiculous pressure on him.”

“What pressure?” Mulligan asked. “It’s Knickers’ money to lose and our free beer to drink if he wins!”

“You’re missing the point. Jingles doesn’t want to cost Knickers all that money.”

Jingles filled a shot glass, spilling bourbon on the table, and pushed it toward Harvey. “Sissty-five is no problem. Don’t worry, Icha ... Ichabod.”

Fifty-seven-year-old Clancy Schmidt had been observing the commotion from a corner table. A former hedge fund manager from New York, he had taken Leisureville by storm two years earlier, when he and his young wife arrived in a yellow Corvette. Once a collegiate golfer at Duke, he owned the resident scoring record that had allegedly been eclipsed. Knickers Collins was no friend of his. For two years running, Clancy had knocked the goofball out of the club match play tournament. On both occasions, Knickers had refused to shake his hand at the end of the round.

Clancy stood and shouted across the full tavern. “Hey, Collins! Why don’t we spruce up the bet between the two of us? Let’s make it a thousand.” The bar fell quiet.

Knickers grinned at the one resident he despised. During their matches, Knickers had seen Clancy nudge his ball into a better lie on the fairway when he thought his opponent wasn’t watching. Strictly against the rules. Every time Schmidt marked his ball on a green, it wound up several inches closer to the hole when he replaced it. It had been no surprise to learn that Clancy was forced into early retirement due to “irregular” business practices, a tidbit Harvey discovered on the internet.

“I’ll tell you what, Clancy,” Knickers said across the room. “Let’s you and I do better than that. If Jingles shoots sixty-five or better Friday, you strip naked and jog the whole course right after the round. If Jingles doesn’t do it, I’ll do the same.” The patrons stared at the former Major Leaguer, eyes like golf balls.

“Let me get this right,” Clancy answered. “You’re going to strip to your skivvies and run around the whole course?”

“Who said anythin’ about skivvies? I’m talkin’ bare to the bone naked.”

One old fellow pounded his table and yelled out, “Streaker! Streaker!”

Others picked up the chant. The chaos in the Nineteenth Hole was unprecedented.

Clancy held up his hands for quiet, but had to shout over the din. “I think that’s illegal. I don’t want you breaking the law.”

Mulligan jumped up in support of his playing partner. “Legal, shmegal! If the police show up, I’ll tell them it’s a sponsored Leisureville event!”

“And if there’s a fine, I’ll pay it for you,” Knickers added.

“Everyone will assume the streaker’s senile,” someone yelled. Others shouted agreement.

Clancy stared at all the nodding heads in disbelief. Did they really want to see Collins naked? So be it. “I hope you won’t mind if I don’t watch.”

“I want you there for the whole round,” Knickers said. “Watch Jingles closely to make sure he doesn’t cheat.” He glared at Clancy in search of a reaction, but got none.

“I wonder what Jingles would say about all this,” Harvey said. He pointed to his friend, who snored softly, his head resting on his arms on the table. “Looks like he had a little too much fun.”

“How much did he drink?” Mulligan asked.

“Maybe four or five beers,” Knickers guessed. “That many shots too. He was real thirsty today.”

“He was entitled,” Mulligan said. “But let’s get to you, Knickered Wonder. You can’t think Jingles could ever putt like that again. Do you have an angle? Or you just want to dangle?”

“Dangle,” Harvey chuckled. “Are you an exhibitionist, Knickers?”

“Hell, no. My naked body wouldn’t get an ‘R’ rating. I just have a feelin’ we haven’t seen the last of Jingles. He’s a completely different golfer with his contacts. He must’ve been playin’ blind before.”

“I honestly don’t know what to think,” Harvey said. “Betting all that bar money will put unfair pressure on him.”

Knickers took another long swallow of beer. “I don’t think it matters. He barely knew we were on the course with him today. He was in another world.”

“Look at it this way, Harv,” Mulligan added. “You and I can’t lose. Jingles either puts this place on its ear or bares Knickers’ rear. That’s a good day either way.”

Harvey nodded happily, then dropped the smile. “We’ve got a problem. If Pat sees Jingles like this . . . well, she can’t see him like this.”

“We’ll take him to my house to sleep it off,” Knickers said. “I’ll have Bess make up a story and call Pat.”

By late afternoon, Ray started to come around. After using Knickers’ shower, he swallowed a couple Advil and gargled until his gums went numb. When his friends assured him that he really shot the record score, the headache subsided. “Thanks for everything, guys. It was the best day I can barely remember.”

Back in his own garage, Ray searched for a place to hide a contact lens case. He couldn’t risk having Pat find it again. His life, as he wanted to know it, depended on that. He lifted the cover from his putter, placed the case atop its large metal head, and replaced the cover. Never in a million years!

Entering the kitchen, he found Pat sitting at the table. She looked as though she’d been there for hours.

“It’s the most amazing thing,” he said, walking to the refrigerator and looking inside for nothing in particular. “My eyes have never been better.”

She said nothing.

He took out a bottle of cranberry juice and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, feeling her eyes on him all the while. “Would you like some?”

Still, she was silent.

Ray approached her and dropped to one knee, which made him dizzy. “Here, look at my right eye. It’s just fine.”

A tear appeared beneath her left eye. Another started to form under the right. “You scared me to death, Ray Plumlee! Bess called and said you ran off to celebrate. I was sure they took you to the hospital ... that something serious happened to your eye. You never just go off like that without calling me yourself. Never! I could only assume the worst, especially when the whole afternoon passed and I never heard a word.”

“We were celebrating my round of golf. I shot a sixty-two. Can you believe it?” His wife stared at his right eye, indifferent to the news.

“Listen, Pat, I shouldn’t have taken the contact from your drawer, but I figured out how to use it without causing any problem. I wear it only to putt, then ... pfft, right back out. I know you didn’t want me to hurt myself. I love you for that.”

“Both your eyes are bloodshot,” she said, concern wrinkling her forehead, “but your right eye does look better than yesterday.”

Ray kissed the tear on her right cheek. “Let’s do something fun tomorrow. Tell me whatever you’d like to do and we’ll do it.” Her smile told him he was off the hook.

The phone rang and Pat answered. “Hello, the Plumlees. Yes, Emily.”

Pat’s smile flipped over. “Your husband saw Ray being what? Carried out of the Nineteenth Hole?”

Ray hustled straight to the garage for an escape in his cart. He could hit some balls at the practice tees, maybe have a burger for dinner at the clubhouse.

He hit two buckets of range balls before it grew too dark to see where they landed. As many as a dozen people gathered behind him to watch. That was a first. Word of his round was leaking out.

On the drive home, he faced reentry to a world of chilly reality. Why couldn’t Pat just be happy for him? He played the round of his life and drank too much. Big deal. All he did was doze off. Where was the harm in that?

He returned tentatively to the kitchen, where Pat surprised him with a hug. She led him straight to the table. A plate of spaghetti and meatballs and a tossed salad awaited him - his favorite meal.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t offer you any wine,” she giggled. “Irv Wettman called right after you left. I asked what happened at the Nineteenth Hole and he told me everything.”

Ray drew a deep breath. “Everything?”

“Yes. You were caught up in the moment because you did something no one thought was possible. He called you Superman and said your kryptonite was too much beer on an empty stomach.”

Leave it to Mulligan, Ray thought. All the women loved him. It wasn’t just because he was an incredible ballroom dancer, which he certainly was. It wasn’t about his natural charm, which he had in spades. It was mostly about what he did for his wife Mary. A dozen years ago, she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Doctors in Chicago said the disease had been discovered too late and there was no way to save her. Unconvinced, Mulligan sold his car dealership and took Mary on a worldwide odyssey to find a cure. The search ended in Zurich, Switzerland, where doctors reported success with a new form of treatment. Two and a half years later, her cancer was in full remission. With most of a substantial fortune gone to medical expenses, they chose Leisureville as an affordable place to spend the rest of their lives together. In the eyes of the ladies, Irv Wettman walked on water. The men were impressed too.

“He asked if we were going to the dance on Saturday night,” Pat said, begging with her eyes. “You know it’s Leisureville’s biggest dance of the year, right?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Ray said, eager to jump into the meal. “I’d love to be your escort to the dance. More than that, I’ll actually dance with you.” On the few occasions Ray attended dances in the past, he spent the night rubbing elbows with Knickers and Harvey while the women took turns doing the waltz, cha-cha or samba with Mulligan and other happy-footed men. Now, all the sudden, he felt like dancing too.

On Thursday morning, Ray was replaying the previous day’s round in his sleep when the phone rang. He picked up the clock and held it close to his face. 9:15.

Pat shouted from the kitchen. “Are you awake in there? Tim Scott’s on the phone for you.”

Tim Scott? Didn’t ring a bell. “Who’s that?” he asked, rolling across the bed toward the phone on Pat’s nightstand.

“He’s the club pro ... the new one,” she yelled back.

Ray picked up. “Morning.”

“Do I call you Ray or Jingles?” Scott asked. “Irv Wettman says it’s Jingles.”

“Just call me thankful. I appreciated your help when I got hurt last week … not my best moment.”

“Well, according to Mr. Wettman, yesterday was your best moment. Sixty-two?” The pro knew Ray was one of the top resident players, but the reported score was probably bullshit. There was no shortage of bullshit in Seizureville.

“I made a few more putts than usual,” Ray explained.

“Well, congratulations. I noticed you didn’t have a tee time today. I’m off too and wondered if you’d like to play Flowering Cactus with me. I’ve got free privileges if we start after two o’clock.”

Ray’s heart bounced in his chest. The exclusive course was one of the best around, and therefore way beyond his budget. “Flowering Cactus? I’ve always wanted to play there.”

“Let’s do it then. I’ll pick you up at 1:30.”

The club pro hung up, rolled over in bed, and nuzzled the neck of his sleeping girlfriend. Playing with the old fart might be good for business. If Jingles Plumlee had suddenly become half as good as Wettman said, he would get mileage out of word that he spent an afternoon giving the old guy pointers. Maybe more Leisureville residents would sign up for lessons, his real bread and butter.

After setting the phone down, Ray realized he had a problem. He had promised Pat they would spend the day together, doing whatever she wished. There had to be a reasonable solution.

He found her sweeping the sidewalk out front. Still in his pajamas, he stuck his head outside. “Pat, on the bulletin board at the clubhouse, there’s a sign advertising ballroom dance lessons.”

“I know,” she said, looking up. “The lady that teaches lives a few blocks from here.”

“Maybe she could teach me a thing or two for Saturday night … so I can sweep you off your feet.”

Pat held the broom like a dance partner and spun in a circle. “That’s the best idea ever! I’d like to learn more too. I’ll call her right now.”

“Just one stipulation,” Ray said. “Not a word about this to anyone.” If Knickers got wind of it, he’d be teased forever.

Within minutes, lessons were arranged for the next two nights. The instructor would bring the music.

With his wife all giggles and grins, Ray sprung the news of his chance to play at Flowering Cactus that afternoon. She gave him her blessing, just as he hoped.

Watching her husband dance off to get dressed, Pat lauded his attempt at manipulation - obvious and amateur as it was. After all, she taught him everything he knew on the subject over the past five decades. Still, she had to chuckle. She knew so much more and was so much better at it. Her hair appointment was already scheduled for one o’clock. Nails at three. Shopping for a Saturday night dress after that.

On the road home from Flowering Cactus, Ray was aglow. The ritzy country club course had been everything he dreamed it would be. Beyond that, he felt as if he truly belonged in the lush, manicured surroundings - at least his game did. How could he play Leisureville again after such an awakening?

The men hadn’t kept a scorecard, but Ray knew he played the course in five under par, beating the teaching pro by at least seven strokes. His right eye had a mind of its own now. When he stood over a putt, the eye did the talking and his body just listened.

After the first few holes, Ray noticed that Scott started copying his new open putting stance. On the back nine, the pro had even borrowed his putter.

Ray knew the only thing holding him back was distance. More accurately, his lack of it. There had been several holes he couldn’t reach in regulation, not even with two solid shots. Unfortunately, there was no remedy for a lack of length at his age. Even Viagra couldn’t help that.