Ch . 43 In The Rough
An excerpt from Ch. 43, Andrew is confronted by John Palmer on the golf course about his whereabouts on Friday when he was supposed to be watching him pitch.
Andrew pushed the studs of his golf shoes into the soft green to stop himself as he fought the urge to pop Ted in the mouth. Ted had a look of concern for a moment, like that moment when a father first realizes his kid can take him. But when Andrew stopped walking, Ted regained his confidence that Andrew wasn’t going to swing at him and shifted back to being angry and frustrated. When it came to their standoffs, Andrew usually took the higher road and tried to keep the peace, but he had had enough today.
Andrew unclenched his fist and instead ripped the Velcro fastener on his snug golf glove to loosen it. He glared at his father. “You know what? I’ve had a fucking hell of a week, and I don’t need to take this shit from you.”
Andrew turned and walked away. He picked up his putter and pinched the shaft under his armpit as he pulled his glove off with his other hand.
Ted yelled to Andrew’s back, “Where the fuck are you going?”
Andrew went to the back of his cart, shoved the putter in his bag, and yelled, “I’m done with you and your attitude!”
Incensed, Ted strode over. “No, goddamn it. You don’t get to walk away. You finish the round. You always finish the round.”
Andrew looked at his seething father and calmly said, “Well, not today.”
Ted squinted his eyes, glaring at his son, and then his eyes got big as if something popped in his head as he threatened, “You walk away, and I won’t play with you and Ron Davis and Matt Grayson! You can kiss your Bulldogs contract goodbye!”
Andrew huffed, “So it’s like that, huh, Dad?” Andrew crossed his arms tightly in the hope that the rage building in his belly would be trapped there.
Ted growled, “You always finish the round.”
As the two entered into their stare-down contest like two MMA fighters, a strong but feminine voice called out, “Mister Ted Beck!”
Andrew and Ted turned their heads simultaneously to acknowledge the voice. They saw a crew of people approaching the green on the ninth hole. There were bodyguards complete with dark glasses and earwigs, a young woman furiously checking her phone while giving instructions to a man carrying an absurdly large camera.
Next to her was Mr. Donohue, Davey Redbank, Mr. Westbrook the club president, and Edward R. Collinsbury IV, a Greenwich blue blood and political donor whose family came over on the Mayflower. They all flanked Senator Theresa Mann in a semicircle as she took confident steps towards the Beck men.
Senator Mann was a full-bodied woman in her early sixties and fully dubbed up, head to toe in Epic Golf gear. She had on mauve golf slacks, pure white golf shoes, and a white logoed golf shirt covered by a matching mauve golf vest to stave off the morning chill. Whether she could play golf or not was a mystery, but she certainly dressed the part.
Ted went into “fan-greeting” mode and was ear-to-ear smiles as Mr. Westbrook made the introductions to the Senator and Collinsbury. Ted shook hands and said hello to fellow club member Redbank. Andrew hung back and marveled at Ted and the senator.
Ted and Senator Mann had both mastered the game of smile, handshake, and maintaining eye-contact while not giving a shit about the person in front of them. Oh, they would listen, and nod in the affirmative, but it was mainly so they could interject their own narrative.
Andrew saw Ted pointing at Redbank and with his other hand Ted gave Redbank his version of the Vulcan nerve pinch as he jested to the senator how Redbank almost stole the traditional Beck opening day tee time. Ted was able to poke fun at him while ingratiating himself to the senator and assuming the “alpha” position in the dogpile with verbal and physical dominance. Ted used an unassuming voice so masterfully that he was able to disguise an emasculating dig as a good-natured ribbing. It made him the terror of the PGL. When other golfers got paired with Ted Beck, they knew they were in for a long day with Ted’s belittling comments disguised as helpful advice from a Masters Champion. And no other golfer talked bad about Ted in public because the fans, reporters, and sponsors adored him.
But the senator was no rookie. She knew exactly what was going on and spun the situation. “Oh, Ted, don’t get mad at Davey. It was really all my fault.” She looked soulfully into Ted’s eyes, closed the distance between them, placed both hands on her chest, which was bursting through her vest. “But I just had to meet Ted Beck in the place where he began his road to greatness: the Greenwich Country Club.” She extended her arms to the golf course and twisted from left to right for maximum effect, which garnered smiles and golf claps all around.
In one soundbite and body movement the senator scored points and saved face for all the powerful men surrounding her. This was how she survived, and thrived, in the full-contact, male-dominated sport of politics. She knew how to get what she wanted while not damaging the frail male egos that controlled her world.
Andrew looked down at his shoes, slapping his hand with his golf glove in a rhythmic fashion and tried not to shake his head at the level of patronizing going on when he heard, “And who is this handsome young man?” from Senator Mann.
“Andrew, come over and meet the senator.” Ted motioned for Andrew to join the dogpile.
Andrew knew the drill; he had been doing it since he was a boy. Stand up straight, smile, maintain eye contact, firm handshake, don’t look directly into the camera, and most importantly, remember the lines:
“I love watching my dad play, he’s the best!”
“I’m going to be a pro golfer just like my dad. I only hope I can make him proud.”
“I work hard and practice every day. I’m really lucky to have him not only as my dad, but my golf coach too!”
Andrew took a deep breath, pushed the charm button in his brain, and walked into the maelstrom. After a few more minutes of small talk and chatting, the photographer tried to organize the unruly party into a group photo. It was herding cats as he directed the overprotective security guards to step out of the picture and he assured them that at 9:18 a.m. on a Sunday morning in April, on the ninth hole of the Greenwich Country Club the chances of finding any assassins or Democrats were slim and none.
When the photographer completed his mission impossible, another round of handshakes and bro hugs ensued. A young woman offered a basket of pastries, bagels, and muffins to the group. Andrew smiled politely at the young woman and declined anything from the breakfast basket.
Andrew’s phone rang again; Ted shot him a dirty look as he stepped away from the crowd.
The caller ID said John Palmer. He answered the phone and used an upbeat tone, saying, “Hey JP! What’s up? You’re up early.”
John replied dryly, “Yeah, well I couldn’t sleep, so I was catching up on some emails and I got the strangest email from William, the pilot over at Signature Aviation.”
“Oh?” Andrew felt his stomach tighten.
“Yeah, he said that he understood that my guest had to handle a medical emergency, but the airline and the FAA frown upon midflight course changes.” John’s matter-of-fact tone changed to anger, “So you never even made it to Miami! What the fuck, Doc!”
“JP, JP, I’m sorry. You’re right. I had a medical emergency. A client was in serious trouble, and I had to go back to New York.”
John was incensed, “You lied to me. You promised you’d be there for me. That you’d be watching me…” John became emotional.
Andrew pleaded, “John, I have no excuse. I’m really sorry. I’ll pay for the flight.”
John shot back, “I don’t give a fuck about the money, Doc!” He sniffed. “How, how, how could…”
Andrew knew he was in hot water and declared, “Okay, I fucked up, I’m sorry.” He could hear John taking some deep breaths, but he didn’t answer for a few seconds. Andrew called out to him gently,
“John? John, you there?”
John sniffed and his voice cracked, “Yeah, I’m here.”
Andrew pleaded again, “Let’s talk about this next week when we are face to face, not over the phone. Come on, John, I’m sorry.”
John snapped, “Yeah, you said that. Look, I gotta go.”
“John, come in next week, let’s talk…” But John hung up. Andrew squeezed his phone and clenched his fist as he looked up to the clear blue sky and shouted, “Fuck!”
The crowd of people turned their heads briefly but then went back to their conversations as Ted took a big bite out of an uncut bagel and his eyes shot daggers at his son.
Sandra was right. He should have called John right away to come clean. Just one more misstep, one more bad decision, one more instance where Fate was calling his cards at the poker table, and beating him over, and over, and over again.
Pulling at his hair, he plopped into the seat of the golf cart. He was glad the cart didn’t have a rearview mirror because the last thing he wanted to see right now was his face. Ted left the group, got in his cart, rode up next to Andrew and mumbled, “You ready?”
He swallowed the big chunk of bagel, took a swig of Coca-Cola, and pointed at Andrew’s phone. “And turn that fucking thing off, no more phone calls! And watch your language, you fucking embarrassed me in front of the Senator.”
Andrew put his phone on silent mode and put it back in the cupholder. He took a sip of some red Gatorade, lifted the brake, hit the accelerator pedal, and passed Ted’s cart as he said in a sarcastic tone, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”