“The forces of evil will stop at nothing,” he said under his breath as Lou came up to him.
“What did you say?” he said.
“Not much to say about that,” he said. “That speaks for itself.”
He looked up from the trap to the green. He was about a hundred yards away from it, but it would play quite a bit shorter than that because he was well above it. From where he was he had an open shot to the pin, which was cut in close to the middle of the green, with an uphill slope between him and it. He walked back to his bag and got out his wedge. When he came back, he stepped up and addressed the ball, moving his feet and tamping them down, working to get a good stance. Before he got set to hit, he looked over at where Lou was standing and past him down to where Steve still sat, looking up. He motioned with his head a little, and Lou stepped back some and to the right, getting out of his field of vision.
He had to think of this shot as a touch shot; a full wedge would be too much. At the same time, his lie was airy, the ball would jump out a little ahead of the club, and he could not get any backspin on it. Also, he would have to hit a bit of the weed before he got to the ball. He figured that the slope of the green between him and the cup would slow the ball down some, but not enough; he would need more than that to get it to stop on the down side. The clipped fringe in front of the green was about four feet wide and looked well cared for and true. He figured he would need a little roll in that to slow the ball down. At the edge of the fringe, the longer grass of the fairway tucked in nicely. If he landed in the fairway, about three feet from the fringe, he ought to get a bounce into the fringe, a little slowing roll onto the green, and then the quicker roll up to the cup.
He picked a spot. He placed the club head, slightly elevated in the air, behind the ball. He elected a short backswing and a punch shot with very little wrist in it. The club came up smoothly, pausing a moment when its head was at a line near the top of his own, and then the head came down sharply and jammed the ball up out of the rough. His follow-through was abbreviated also, the club head finishing and stopping at the height of his left shoulder. He held that position as he watched the ball fly. He could see a wing on the side of the totem pole out of the corner of his eye. The ball hit close to where he had played it. It hit fairway and bounced once in the near edge of fringe, finishing the fringe on the roll. It had roll in it when it reached the shorter carpet of the green. It began to slow down halfway between the cup and the fringe. It quit no more than eight feet below the hole, a little to the left of it.
“Good out,” Lou said behind him when the ball stopped. He watched the ball sit there a moment, then he quit his position and looked at Lou. Lou was smiling at his own quiet understatement, and he smiled at Lou.
They walked back down the slope of the mound to the carts. Frankie was standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head and smiling.
“That was really something,” he said.
“Thanks,” he said. He expected nothing from Steve, but Steve nodded slightly as Frankie spoke. He got out of the cart and went to his bag for a club. He found what he wanted and stood away as Lou got ready to hit.
Lou’s shot was firm, but it drifted a little to the left, stopping about twenty-five to thirty feet from the hole, on the left, pin high, on the side hill. Steve went directly at the pin, but he was a little long and wound up fifteen feet above it.
WHEN THEY GOT TO THE GREEN, FRANKIE TOOK THE cart and went around behind it. He made a good shot from the rough. He was below and out of sight of the green from where he had landed, but he got the ball up to the fringe on a good line. The ball took an odd bounce — he had shanked it a bit — and it quit to the right of him, outside of Lou’s ball. He putted very close and tapped in for a bogey six. Lou lagged up to within a foot, and Steve told him to take it away for par.
Steve took a lot of time in studying his position. It was clear that he was trying to lock into the putt, but he could not keep himself from looking up, briefly checking the other ball and the man who had hit it. When he came around to the front of the green to check his line from that side, he said, “Mark yours,” and there was no request in his voice.
He’s locking in incorrectly, Allen thought. He’s used to giving orders; he didn’t mean to offend this time. He went over and marked his ball with a copper Danish krone he carried with him. The small, etched mermaid of the harbor nestled down in the close-clipped grass. He liked the sense of respect for occasion the coin gave to his game, respect for the green, its difficulties, and its social forms. The game could be compartmentalized that way into various forms. There were tee forms and fairway forms for iron shots and longer woods. The tee and green forms were the most social, and the codes of behavior for the green play were the most distinct and separate. Coming to the green was like a group of people arriving at a cocktail party or, depending on the kinds of events that got them there, like souls arriving at shelter in a storm. Once over the apron and onto the putting surface, there was room for some talk about modes of arrival, breakdowns, and sights seen on the way. But there was a time, very soon after the gathering in that circumscribed space, when that talk had an appropriate ending and the brief and intense party began.
There were responsibilities on the green, and there were space limitations and injunctions, and though these things could be seen from a distance only in physical movements and tasks, they were all social, matters of good taste, posture, and manners. Steve glanced up at him as Allen marked his ball and lifted it, then he went around to the other side of the green again, looking the putt over, plumbing it, checking to see in what direction the grass grew. Lou was standing on the back apron, his hand on his hip, one foot planted casually in front of the other. Frankie anticipated the task of replacing the flagstick in the hole when they were finished. He stood well away from Steve’s lines of study, but he would be quick to reach for the pin when the putting was over. These two had putted out, and having done that they thickened the social atmosphere.
Before anyone putted, the imaginary lines running from where the balls rested on the green to the cup were multiple and complex; they dictated where one might walk, and this in turn dictated who might stand by whom. There was little if any talk from one side of these lines to the other. Each player was intent on his own line and the study of the possibilities of break and pacing. As each putted and got down, he was free to give full attention to the putts of those who followed him. The limitations on movement in the physical area diminished as the amount of attention given to each putt increased. There were exceptions to this rule, but most often the last to putt was he who was in the position of winning the hole if his putt fell in, and it was he whom the others, freed from any concern with putts of their own, were watching with various unspoken desires and wishes.