Jake started with his driver, topping his first two shots and slicing the next three before finally crunching one right down the middle. He kept hitting drives until he was consistently blasting them 230 to 240 yards in the general direction of where he was aiming them. He then dialed in his fairway woods, his long irons, and his short irons until the entire pyramid of balls was gone.
"Ready to do it?" Greg asked.
"I'm as loose as one of Matt's girlfriends," Jake said, making Celia giggle.
Chapter 7b
They headed over to the first hole, a picturesque but tough looking 430 yard par four with a narrow fairway that had a creek running across it at about 210 yards from the tee blocks.
"This one is a bitch," Greg said as he pulled a tee from his pocket. "It's the number three handicap. You gotta be sure to hit a solid drive or you'll end up in the creek."
"Or you could lay up like I do," Celia suggested.
Jake and Greg both scoffed at this.
"Laying up is for pussies," Jake said.
"Here here," Greg agreed.
Celia simply rolled her eyes at them. "I smell testosterone starting to simmer here."
"Funny you should mention that, C," Greg said. "I was just going to ask Jake if he'd care to make the game a little more interesting."
He was talking about a bet, of course. "That depends on the terms you offer," Jake said.
"Well let's see," Greg said, thinking. "You told me you're a twelve handicap, right?"
"As of the last time I posted," Jake said. "And you're a scratch golfer, as I recall you mentioning on a few occasions."
"Lately I've been playing a two handicap," Greg said.
"He's been sandbagging," Celia said.
"Shhh," Greg said. "Don't give away my strategy."
Jake laughed politely, as one did on a golf course when someone told a joke that wasn't all that funny.
"So anyway," Greg said, "I propose a one thousand dollar Nassau, match play of course, automatic press per nine when three holes down and automatic press for the eighteen when five holes down. I'll give you a stroke on the number one through ten handicap holes."
"I haven't played in months," Jake said. "I need at least fourteen strokes for that kind of money."
"I can't go fourteen," Greg said. "How about twelve? That'll assume one up on your handicap and one down on mine."
"Deal," Jake said, adding up the potential losses in his head. They would be playing hole for hole instead of stroke play. A thousand dollars would be paid to whoever won the most holes on the front nine, the back nine, and the entire eighteen as a whole. The automatic presses would come into play if someone fell behind by three holes on the front or back or five holes on the entire eighteen. That meant if Jake played poorly and Greg did not, Jake could lose as much as six thousand dollars.
Jake decided not to worry about the money and simply enjoy the day. It was easy to do. He quickly found that he enjoyed playing at a country club as opposed to a public course. The grounds were beautifully groomed and maintained. Each fairway consisted of rich, uniformly cut grass that allowed a golf ball to sit nicely upon it no matter where it landed. The rough areas were marked by a distinct border and provided a significant challenge if one landed there. The greens were immaculately sculptured landscapes nearly as smooth as a billiard table and nearly as fast as concrete when one putted upon them. Iced water dispensers were located at the tee blocks of every hole and bathrooms with actual indoor plumbing were located every third hole. The course was also not as crowded as a public course since only members and their guests were allowed to play there. There was no waiting between holes, no waiting on the fairways or at the par threes for other golfers to clear the area. What he enjoyed most of all, however, was the privacy. Though he did get the occasional snooty glare when crossing paths with some of the members no one came up to ask for his autograph or to tell him he was a sinner or to tell him about this great band they were in and offer to give him a demo tape.
Jake also realized by the third hole that if he didn't get his shit together, and soon, he was going to end up owing Celia's fiancé a cool six grand. He double-bogeyed the first hole after muffing his drive while Greg neatly and effortlessly sank a two-foot putt for par. He bogeyed the second hole while Greg once again put his in for a par. And on the third hole, though he managed to tie Greg for a push, that was only because he got a stroke there. He had another bogey and Greg tapped in neatly for his third consecutive par.
"You warming up a little bit?" Greg asked him as they mounted the tee block for number four. "You seem like you're getting a handle on your ball."
"I think I am," Jake said, looking out over the 168-yard par three. The tee blocks sat before a large canyon and the green was a small island on the other side.
"This one's easy," Greg said, "as long as you don't choke."
"I always choke here," said Celia, who had so far shot nothing better than a bogey and had already lost two balls in the scrubland that surrounded each hole. "I'm just gonna go up to the edge and throw my ball in now and save myself the trouble of hitting it in there."
"It's all in your state of mind, darling," Greg told her. "Don't think about the canyon. Just think about putting it on the green."
"Be the ball," she said, making Jake chuckle — he understood the reference she was making — and Greg look at her in confusion.
"Anyway," Greg said. "I believe I still have the honors?"
"I believe you're right," Jake said.
Greg mounted the tee block and put his ball in the ground.
"So how goes the recording process?" Jake asked, as Greg picked up grass to check the wind and checked his yardage one last time.
"It's the usual grind," she said, speaking softly. "We're spending about sixty hours a week trying to get the new album put together. I may be a crappy golfer but it's nice to get away from that underground dungeon for awhile."
"Did they let you record any of your songs for this one?"
She smiled. "I used every ounce of rebellion I had in me and more than a few of those temper tantrums we Latin types are so famous for and, as a result, they agreed to let me record three of my original songs."
"That's better than the last album, isn't it?"
She withheld her answer for the moment as Greg was finally addressing his ball. They watched as he smoothly swung and launched it into the air in a clean ballistic arc heading directly for the green. It landed less then two feet from the pin but there was enough backspin on it to bring it back almost five feet."
"Nice," said Jake.
"It's on the dance floor," Greg agreed, his tone implying that he should have done better.
"Anyway," Celia said as Jake pulled his golf ball and a tee from his pocket, "it wasn't quite the victory I was hoping for. The producer didn't like the heavy acoustic guitar rhythm of the song and converted all the melodies into synthesizer and piano dominated pieces. They're not bad, but they're not what I envisioned either."
"I told her she should just tell them to take their album and cram it up their ass," Greg said. "It's disgraceful how those executives manipulate her music and package it into something they think will sell instead of what she wants."
"I'm the first to agree with you there," Jake said, mounting the tee and putting his ball in the ground. "Although it's not that easy just to walk away. Not the way they write those first time contracts."
"They pretty much own my soul," Celia said.
"You guys need a guild like we screen actors have," Greg said. "We're the ones with the power in our industry, not the producers and the movie studios. I got paid eight million dollars for my last film. I'm negotiating to get eleven million for my next one. And I'm just a character actor who's not even in the top ten. Meanwhile Celia, who is the primary talent behind the most popular contemporary band in the United States, a woman who has been nominated for more than six Grammy awards, is losing money with each new album she puts out. A recording artist's guild would put an end to all that exploitation."