The Prodigy

A glimpse into the early childhood of Andrew Beck and how being great at something does not always lead to being happy.

This is the 1st installment of free previews from my novel Headcase: Shock & Denial (Book 1). Free subscribers get the first 7 chapters for free, and Paid subscribers get the full ebook and access to The 2nd book in the Headcase Series, titled The Inevitable, which will be serialized.

Read by P.J. Ochlan

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PROLOGUE

1984

At the Greenwich Country Club in Greenwich, Connecticut, pro golfer Ted Beck was at the driving range with his two boys, Brandon, age seven, and Andrew, age five. Ted received a round of applause as he entered the range, managing to wave to the crowd while also struggling to move his two boys along and carrying some kid-sized clubs.

A week ago, Ted had just placed 18th in the Master’s Tournament in Augusta, Georgia. He had been in third place at 5-under par going into the final round when he took some big risk shots that his caddy advised against, surprised his opponents, and gave his agent indigestion. His errant shots dropped him fifteen places on the leaderboard, but the fans loved him for it. Ted went for the flag, but often landed in the water or the sand. His purse dropped from $35,000 to $8,000.

Greenwich was his local club. Ted shook hands with some of the golfers and talked about his play. Andrew had wandered away into the nearby pine trees and found a nice-sized stick. It was just the right thickness and length and with one small branch to hold onto as the pistol grip, and it had a nice-sized nub from a broken-off branch to use as the trigger. It was the perfect stick machine gun, which he was happy to be shooting the monsters coming out of the towering pine trees that lined the driving range.

Ted was giving Brandon some early golf lessons and had a child-sized 9-iron for Brandon to swing. Ted set up the ball on the tee for his boy and crouched as Brandon approached the ball. Ted gave the 7-year-old instructions that were probably better suited for a 15-year-old. Brandon was confused, but he was so happy to get some attention from his famous dad that he nodded his head enthusiastically with each instruction and grinned ear to ear. Brandon took a swing, holding the club like a hockey stick, his hands far apart. He totally missed the ball. Hiding his frustration, Ted asked the over-excited Brandon to slow down his backswing and put his hands together.

Brandon nodded again, but he did not understand a word his father said. He swung again. His club thumped the ground two inches before the tee, taking out a massive divot. The reverberation in his hands stung, and he immediately dropped the club like it was electrocuting him.

Ted was embarrassed by the hole his son had just made and quickly stamped the ripped-up grass and dirt back in place. He tried going behind Brandon, and together they swung the club. With Ted’s help, the ball went off the tee this time. Brandon almost cried because he was so excited. Ted then told him to try again on his own, now that he had shown him how to do it.

Once again, Ted took a crouched position, gave his boy some words of encouragement. Brandon had a determined look on his face. But he was more determined not to disappoint his father than he was determined to hit a little white ball off a small piece of wood sticking out of the ground.

Brandon swung and missed and then quickly swung again before Ted could say anything. But he missed again. His third attempt was so cautious, that he was able to tap the ball. The ball slowly rolled down the tee box into the grass just a few feet below. Ted grew frustrated and again gave technical directions to fix Brandon’s swing.

Brandon’s eyes watered as he didn’t understand a thing his father was saying about “addressing the ball” or “having a fluid backswing.” Brandon exclaimed in a flurry of questions, “How do I know what address to put on the ball? Our address where we live? And what is a backswing? I thought I had to hit the ball forward, not backward?”

A couple of the men nearby stifled their giggles at Brandon’s questions and turned away so Ted could not see them. Ted covered his face and tried not to lose his temper in front of his fans. He looked down at his 7-year-old. Brandon’s face was red and flustered, his eyes watering and chest heaving. His shallow breathing sounded like a hiccup. Ted looked around to see who was watching, but the men had gone back to hitting their balls. He quickly crouched down to Brandon’s eye level, and Brandon calmed when his father’s hand landed on his shoulder, in what he thought was going to be a reassuring pat. “C’mon Brandon, don’t cry. You don’t want everyone here to think you are a baby, do you?” The encouraging caress became a fierce, firm squeeze—painful. “Just take your time and swing through the ball.”

Brandon swallowed hard, wiped his eyes so no tears could be seen, and then he pictured in his mind his club splitting the ball in two as he “swung through it.” Brandon swung again. He hit the ball, and it skimmed along the ground about 10 yards. Brandon was just so happy that he didn’t miss. He watched the ball roll on the ground until it came to a stop in the two-inch grass. Ted didn’t share Brandon’s happiness as he looked at the ball and shook his head from side to side. Brandon took another ball from the bucket and tried teeing it up on his own, but he couldn’t get it to stay on the tee he had pushed over like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Ted smacked Brandon’s small hand away and straightened out the tee. Huffing, he backed off and watched Brandon set up. As Ted watched, he kept hearing this spitting sound and then another high-pitched sound, like a dying bird.

Ted looked around for the sound and saw Andrew running around happy as can be, shooting at all the other golfers with a stick. Andrew had grown bored of shooting the imaginary monsters coming out of the pine trees—he wanted some live targets to shoot. Some of the men and older kids turned their clubs around and playfully shot back. “You missed me!” Andrew yelled.

Ted called, “Andrew, stop that! You’re bothering these men!” The men all said for Ted not to worry about it, but Ted was adamant. But so was Andrew at finishing his target practice. More machine gun and shooting sounds came out of his mouth as his spit left a big saliva stain on his blue Cookie Monster shirt.

Ted yelled out, “Andrew, I’m not going to tell you again, stop that crap right now. These men are trying to play golf!”

Andrew looked up at his father. He pursed his lips, his light and fluffy curly blonde hair flapping in the wind, and his crystal blue eyes squinting as he filled with little boy rage. He stopped shooting, then marched up to an empty driving range stall, took his stick/ machine gun, and with the thickest bottom part, swung the stick as hard as he could at the little white ball while yelling out at the top of his lungs, “Poopy golf!”

The ball sailed off the tee. The other men stopped in amazement. He hit that ball 15 yards in the air with a stick! Ted watched as the other men all looked on, grinning and laughing. Ted looked at the ball, then at his angry 5-year-old. Without another thought or word or look, he took the club out of Brandon’s hands and walked towards his youngest son. When he did, it was as if he ripped Brandon’s heart out along with the club. The feeling of dejection struck Brandon at the deepest level. He burned from the rejection, embarrassment, and being outshone by his little brother.

Ted handed the club to Andrew. But Andrew didn’t take it. His little arms were crossed right over Cookie Monster’s neck, his cookie-munching mouth and googly eyes joined in Andrew’s protest.

Ted ordered, “Andrew, take this club and hit the ball again! Now!”

Andrew let out a grunt and took the club. Ted set up another ball and Andrew swung and hit the ball again at least 25 yards. Ted moved Andrew’s hands closer together and said, “Do it again.” Andrew hit another and another, and the men stopped practicing and gathered around to watch this 5-year-old torque his body and smash a little white ball a little farther each time.

Brandon sat on a bench, head in his hands, tears dripping down, but he wiped them away as fast as they came. He saw his little brother through the gap in one of the grown-ups’ legs and bit his lip hard enough for it to bleed. He spun around on the bench, sticking his legs out, dangling them in the air. He didn’t want to see everyone standing around clapping for his little brother. Then he covered his ears with his hands so he wouldn’t have to hear all the claps, the “amazing,” and the “good job buddy” comments from Ted and the other men.

After a few more balls, Andrew turned to his father, “Dad, can I stop now? My hands hurt.”

Ted looked at the other men before he answered his son. Their faces were beaming, and their chins nodded fervently, like they were witnessing the second coming—but of what it was too soon to say.

“You got quite a little golfer there!”

“Never seen a little boy hit a ball like that!”

“Chip off the old block.”

There were other comments, but all Ted could see was a protégé in the making. He would bestow all the knowledge and experience he had on Andrew. Unlike his father, who cursed him for playing a “silly game for drunkards and playboys.” Samuel Beck had forbidden Ted to play golf. Not only did Ted disobey his father as a boy, but golfing became his profession. Although he was just scraping by now, someday he’d be making the big bucks and show his father he’d become rich playing this game. And now, to top it all off, he had a son who could play golf. Ted swore to himself he would do everything in his power to make Andrew a champion. And together, they would show Samuel Beck what a real father and son relationship should be like! He would dedicate his life to making his son a winner. Just like himself!

The two boys sat in the back of Ted’s 1979 red BMW 320i, with a football-sized dent by the rear wheel and an engine that sputtered at red lights. Andrew was strapped in a primitive child seat while Brandon sat a few feet away, seatbelt-free. As they drove to their modest two-bedroom home in Old Greenwich, Ted rambled on and on about golf swings and training and getting a set of clubs that would fit Andrew’s pint-sized body. Brandon reached across and took Andrew’s stuffed Curious George monkey away from him, and when Andrew let out a bellowing cry that would shake the paint off a wall, Ted yelled at Brandon to give it back. Brandon threw it, hitting Andrew in the face.

Andrew yelled at his brother, “Why you’d do that? I didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

Brandon hissed, “You always ruin everything!”

Andrew stuck his tongue out at his brother and looked out the window, hugging Curious George and whispering, “I don’t even like golf.”

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