Bradford tried to concentrate but it was impossible. He could hear Ken reminding him that it is vital to have a routine under pressure; something that your mind and body can fall back on. Dave tried. He teed up the ball, stepped behind and looked at his target He needed to be just to the left of the two trees at the end of the fairway. He tried to visualize the shot landing in the fairway. He stepped forward and addressed the ball, checked his alignment, took one easy practice swing and started. His only thought was to maintain a slow rhythm and not overswing. Ken was adamant that too many swing thoughts were counterproductive. The mind locks up and the muscle memory developed from hitting countless balls on the driving range is lost.
Bradford tried, but at the top of his backswing the pictures of Mary flashed through his mind and his emotions took over. He felt the anger and rage mixed with helplessness. After that he wasn’t sure what happened. Ken says you can usually tell what you did wrong by the flight of the ball. Well, in this case you couldn’t tell much because there was no ball flight. He hit a low duck-hook into the bushes, just left of the women’s tee box, 90 yards from the tee and 320 yards from the green.
Buzz gave him questioning look as he stepped to the tee. Last week he had blocked his ball into the trees lining the right side. Today he hit a perfect drive down the left center of the fairway, leaving him only 145 yards to the green.
“Try it again, Mario. That wasn’t bad. Just try to relax and let the club swing.”
Mario tried again with the same result. After eight months of lessons, he still had a wicked slice. A good drive went 200 yards, but most went 170-180 yards and ended up in the right rough. Despite an occasional score in the mid 80s, Mario would always be a 20+ handicap. “Buzz, I just can’t seem to get it. Is there any hope?”
Buzz thought for a minute before answering. Mario had been taking weekly lessons for over six months and was a good tipper. Assistant golf pros depended upon club members like Mario to make a living and he couldn’t afford to lose the business. “Mario, you’ve improved quite a bit since we started working together. Your short game is excellent. I won’t lie to you. You will probably never be a scratch golfer, but I think we can get you shooting in the 80s. That’s not too bad for someone that just took up the game a few years ago. The average golfer doesn’t break 100.”
Mario was pleased. Every golfer wants to improve and this gave him some hope. “Okay, Buzz, I’ll see you next week. By the way, are you interested in earning a little money on the side? I’m throwing a party Saturday and need a second bartender. It’s mostly wine and beer and Jerry will handle any crazy mixed drinks. Interested?”
“Sure. What time, and what’s the dress code?”
“Talk to Jerry. I think he is setting up around six and probably has an extra tux you can borrow. I’ll see you Saturday.” Mario shook Buzz’ hand and slipped him $50. Not a bad tip for a 45-minute lesson.
Dave’s ball was in a bush and unplayable. He took a drop and was laying two over 300 yards to the green. His only choice was to lay up in front of the lake that protected the front of the green. He topped a 5-wood, almost missed it completely, and was fortunate to get a good roll off the hard fairway. He was out of the hole unless Buzz made a major error.
Buzz didn’t. His 8-iron found the center of the green 20 feet from the pin
Bradford took two deep breaths, trying to regain his composure, and establish his routine. He could feel his club go back too far and his left side collapse, causing his body to turn too soon. To compensate, he hurried his swing. The result was a fat divot three inches behind the ball. The ball went about 30 yards into the water and he conceded the hole. The match was even, but Bradford was in no condition to continue.
Buzz joined him as they walked to the 11th tee.
“Calm down, Dave. Keep it together. We have only eight more holes. You can’t afford to lose your composure.”
Mario’s party was a blast. There was a small combo playing island Reggae music. A few people danced around the pool, but most just enjoyed the free food and liquor.
There must have been over 200 people, a mixture of Mario’s friends, business associates, politicians and a host of girls that Buzz suspected were mostly working girls. Buzz seldom experienced what others might call a dry spell. Women were never in short supply for golf pros in Miami, but even Buzz was impressed with the quality. They all were beautiful, and available. By 1:00 AM a half dozen were in the pool sporting only half of their bikinis and the best boobs that money can buy.
Buzz was doing a little of everything; backup bartending, cleanup of empty plates and glasses and waiting on people too lazy to come to the bar. He was good at names, but had met so many people that only half of the names stuck. He remembered one person distinctly and not because of the $100 tip. Mario introduced Buzz to Romano Montoya, describing him as a friend and business associate. Buzz shivered when he remembered the cold eyes. Mario later told him Romano had a profitable business in South America and was in position to do a lot for people he liked and trusted. Mario didn’t spell it out, but Buzz could guess the business Mr. Montoya was in.
The following week Mario asked Buzz if he would be interested in taking a little vacation and making some extra money at the same time. “Sure, Mario, whom do I have to kill?”
“It’s nothing like that, Buzz. Remember that fellow I introduced you to at the party, Romano Montoya? Well, he and two friends are in a golf tournament in San Jose and need a ringer. Interested?”
“Sure, I hear Costa Rica is beautiful. I’ve never been there. When’s the tournament?”
They won the tournament and had a good time. It was a 4-man scramble and the team came in 15 under par. Buzz had four birdies and an eagle on his own ball. Romano wasn’t a bad golfer and putted well, slamming down two long putts of over 30 feet. Romano was ecstatic and slipped Buzz a $500 tip.
Buzz took a couple extra days to golf and white water rafted on the Reventazon River just South of San Jose. He was packing to leave for Miami when a friend of Romano’s came to his hotel room with a request.
“Romano asked if you would do him a favor and deliver this package to a friend in Miami. Just throw it in your golf bag and someone will pick it up from you tonight. Romano would be grateful.”
It was an offer you can’t refuse, and the start of two years of acting as a courier for a major drug smuggler. At first Buzz pretended he didn’t know what was in the packages, but after awhile he stopped deceiving himself. He took Romano’s money and enjoyed the mini-vacations and the large tips. His cover as a golf pro was perfect. He gave private lessons to a dozen or so wealthy people in addition to playing tournaments throughout the Caribbean and South America. The money kept rolling in, but his conscience was gnawing at him and after six months he told Mario he wanted out.
“I wouldn’t recommend it, Buzz. Romano can be friendly to people he likes, but can be a dangerous enemy.”
Buzz got the message and decided to bide his time until he had an opportunity to break with Romano. He finally got his break when the club was sold to a Japanese consortium that brought in their own staff. Bill Martin, the club’s former owner, gave Buzz the bad news. “Listen, Buzz. You’ve been a good employee here and I know you would like to do something more than be a golf pro the rest of your life. Our company is looking for a Regional Manager of golf and real estate operations. It would mean relocating to Tampa. Are you interested?”
“When can I start?” Later he realized he had forgotten to ask about salary or benefits.
Two weeks later Buzz moved to Tampa. More importantly, he and Romano severed their business relationship on a friendly basis. Romano agreed this was a great opportunity and wished him luck. Buzz was relieved that this phase of his life was finished.
Buzz couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Chapter 11
Par 5 – 530 Yards
Buzz and Ken