Authors: Roberta Isleib
"That's why I called," said Joe. I didn't like the note of sheepishness that had crept into his voice. "I'm not going to be able to get there until later in the week. Three guys withdrew from the PGA championship—that puts Mike in. I feel like I really need to be there with him. I'll try to get over to Venice on Thursday, Thursday night at the latest."
"Shit," I said. "Thursday is likely to be too late. You know the cut's on Wednesday."
"You know what to do, Cassie," he said. "And Laura will be there with you. I'm thinking it might even work out better if I'm not around—too many cooks spoiling the broth and all that."
"Fine," I said. "That's just great. Tell Mike to hit 'em straight. I'll see you later."
"Come on, Cassie ..." I heard the pleading in his voice as I slammed down the phone.
The
plane circled over Sarasota and slid to a smooth landing. I collected my duffle bag and golf clubs from the baggage claim area without incident. The Ben Hogan nine-iron I carried with me on board—-everything else could be replaced, but I'd freak if I lost my lucky nine. While I waited in line to register for a Rent-a-Wreck, I dialed into my cell phone to retrieve three new voice mail messages. With any luck, one would be from Jack.
The first was from Joe, firm but at the same time apologetic. "I know you're disappointed. But you'll understand and forgive me when you think this through," he said. Always the optimist. "This is a big deal for Mike. My being there could really make the difference—" I hit the delete button. He couldn't really believe this wasn't a big deal for me, too.
The second message was Sheriff Pate. I try not to make a habit of judging people by either their voice or their appearance—what God gave a man shouldn't be held against him. Even so, this guy's gravelly bark rated him one, with Katie Couric at ten, in terms of friendly first impressions.
"Pate here. I'll look for you at the Plantation this afternoon. Stick around until I find you."
The third message was Joe again. "I didn't get a chance to tell you that I've put in a couple calls to some friends about Bencher. I'll let you know what I hear. And remember what we've been talking about—don't worry about how you're playing on the practice rounds, you're just getting a mental picture of the layouts—" I punched delete. Son-of-a-rotten-bitch.
I knew Mike's first appearance in a major championship was a pivotal moment in his career. He could either handle the pressure well and set the table for even better performances in future majors, or choke, and color upcoming events in a negative way that would be difficult to override. You saw it over and over with golfers on the Tour. If they played well in one event, their confidence mounted and they tended to do well again the following year. Same with a big collapse—deep in some primitive part of the brain, the failure got connected with the tournament or golf course where it had occurred, making future wins there a lot less likely.
I also knew that since last summer, Mike had grown to rely on Joe. He hadn't said much about it, but I'd seen how Joe helped him get a grip on his nerves, and how that translated to his improved putting. If Joe could keep him from blowing up, no contest—anyone would rate that as more important than holding my hand through the Q-school practice rounds.
The bare-bones facts about Q-school were brutal. Hardly any of the girls who tried made it through to the LPGA Tour on their first attempt. From what I'd heard, you were supposed to learn a lot your first time out, maybe realize that with a little more work you belonged in this elite company. Then you'd come back the next year, maybe with a better putting stroke or nerves of titanium rather than linguini.
But there would be no second chances for me. I'd allowed myself one shot. The stakes were too damn high. No way would I accept handouts from Odell and my other backers for a second chance at humiliation. Besides which, the girls who returned over and over didn't have Mom and Dave nagging in the background about how it was time to just grow up and get a real job. I needed every advantage I could muster to give this try all I had. So with Joe bailing out, I felt as low as I could remember feeling since Mike told me he'd found another caddie and I wasn't welcome back. I tended to take rejection hard, another of Dr. Baxter's favorite refrains.
"Outside your conscious awareness," he'd told me more than once, "when someone important to you leaves, your mind will make the automatic connection to your father. You may feel more distressed than the current situation really warrants. You'll need to work hard to separate out the two circumstances."
So, Baxter would have had me say, Joe wasn't abandoning me, merely arriving a day or two late. It felt a damn lot worse than that. I wished Laura could have come down earlier. I knew I should be grateful she was coming at all—lots of the girls competing wouldn't have a caddie. And unless I managed the unlikely coup of finishing in what little prize money the LPGA offered, Laura's compensation for the week would be zero. Ten percent of nothing was still nothing, no matter what accounting procedures you used. She was already paying her own expenses to Q-school—-I could hardly ask her to give up the proceeds from a weekend of lucrative golf lessons in August, the Connecticut high season, as well.
I pulled my rented Pontiac out onto Interstate 75. Even if I'd been set down blindfolded, I would have known instantly I was in South Florida. No mistaking the flat, flat landscape and shimmering heat. Not to mention my brand of haute cuisine at every rest stop—Waffle House and Cracker Barrel—homestyle Southern cooking that the rest of the country was just beginning to discover. I loved it here. After four years of college at UF, I called this crazy, mixed-up state loaded with retirees, itinerant wanderers, and rabid environmentalists my second home.
Forty-five minutes down the road, I arrived in Venice and at the Starlight Motel, recommended by the volunteers running Q-school and insisted on by Odell. "The week will be hard enough without spending the nights in some fleabag," he told me. "You pick some nice place and send the bill to me."
The lobby was big on "faux"—faux green marble floor, faux Impressionist paintings behind the desk, and a big island of faux palms decorated with cafe lights in the middle of the space. Even the desk clerk, with false eyelashes and Mary Kay foundation applied by trowel, seemed a little unreal. A young woman carrying her clubs arrived in the lobby just after I approached the counter. She and her mother were dressed in matching Liz Claiborne golf outfits. I watched them as the clerk processed my reservation.
"Look, Becky, they have a stamp machine right there," her mother said, The older woman pointed to a dispenser near the breakfast nook in the corner. "You can get that postcard to Daddy into the mail today." Why the hell would she be sending postcards from Q-school?
"Dear Daddy, Having a great time, wish you were here. Love, Becky"? Too weird.
I knew from the pit in my stomach that I felt bad about the mother thing too. Not that I'd want my own mother here this week. What a disaster that would be. But I wished I had the kind of mother I could have traveled with. Without Joe or Laura, I felt really alone. And seeing this girl's mother had only served to grind that in.
I checked into my room: two queen beds, a kitchenette, a fold-out couch—more than enough room for me, and Laura, when she arrived. I stashed my duffle in the closet and the nine-iron under the bed and went downstairs to investigate the other features of the motel. The charms of the swimming pool were limited—it wasn't much bigger than a one-car garage and fronted directly on the Interstate off-ramp. I used my room key to get into the exercise area—not much happening there, either. Three aerobics machines lined the far wall: a wobbly stationary bike, a stairstepper powered by genuine Atlas shocks, and a treadmill with a prominent "out of order" sign. The rest of the room contained one Nautilus knock-off and a hodgepodge of free weights. Jogging it would be.
The black vinyl seat of my rented car singed my thighs during the entire five-mile ride to the golf course. Finally, a large banner marked the entrance to the club: "Plantation Golf and Country Club Welcomes LPGA Qualifying School, August 17-21. Spectators Welcome!" The last two words in particular gave me the willies. As Mike's caddie, I'd grown used to crowds watching every move we made. But this time, I'd be the one hitting the ball. I crossed a small wooden bridge over a dyed-blue pond and walked until I saw a hand-lettered sign identifying the LPGA office. With my gut doing cartwheels, I could tell the competition was finally beginning to feel real.
"I'm here to register for Q-school?" My voice veered off into a question mark, sounding small and scared.
A short, stout senior citizen with thick glasses and a friendly smile greeted me. "I'm Bunker," she said. "And this is Divot." She pointed to a petite woman behind the desk. "You need to check in over there. We're in charge of all the volunteers. Let us know if we can help you in any way this week." Divot nodded vigorously. Little people named Bunker and Divot? I wondered if I'd walked into golf's version of
The Wizard of Oz
—I braced myself in case they burst into song. Or began a soft-shoe with their partners, Fairway and Chip Shot.
When no song and dance developed, I thanked the ladies and stepped in line behind two Asian women. One was in tears, the other argued in broken English for an exception to be made for her friend's lost application.
"That's why we spell it out on the form," said the woman behind the desk. She was dressed like a golfer— white polo shirt, khakis, sensible shoes, and a short hairstyle that would stand up to a brutal travel schedule and a parade of golf visors. She pointed to the paper in front of her and began to read aloud. "
'Late or incomplete entry not acceptable,' "
she said. " 'Deadline for entry means time of receipt at LPGA Headquarters. Entries should be submitted early to allow ample time for delay or error in transmission.' " The Asian player continued to sob. "I'm sorry," said the woman. "If the application turns up, you'll be able to play in the California tournament." Add
brisk
and
firm
to the list of adjectives that described her.
I was shaking when I approached the desk. "Cassandra Burdette." I offered her my sweating hand.
"Alice MacPherson," said the woman. The crushing handshake confirmed my first impression: no nonsense tolerated. Alice inclined her head in the direction of the weeping girl. "You feel bad about that, but there are rules." I nodded. "You're all set," she said, after pulling my record out of a stack of papers on her desk. "Here are the times we have available for practice rounds. For tournament play on Tuesday and Wednesday, you'll have one round on the Panther course, one on the Bobcat. Both rounds after the cut will be played on the Bobcat. So I'd suggest you try them both. The informational meeting for all players is Monday, eight in the morning. Attendance is not optional." I nodded. "Mandatory, in other words. Don't miss it." I nodded again and scheduled two practice rounds, one on each of the courses I'd be playing. Alice handed me a fat packet of materials.
"Read through this," she said. "Welcome guide, list of nonconforming drivers, rules of play, yardage books for both courses. Pairings for the first round will be posted Monday. Good luck. Let us know if you need anything."
I shook her hand again, my mouth bent into a weak smile. I stopped outside the office to peruse the players' bulletin board. Someone had tacked up the list of non-conforming equipment and a copy of the local rules of play. I also noticed a handwritten sign announcing a get-together the next night at "Joanne and Nicki's" condo. "Come for a time of fellowship and friendship. You will find what you need, if you follow in the way of our Lord," the notice read.
I needed something all right, a way to get out of my own head—and maybe into someone else's brain. But I doubted that either Alice MacPherson or even Jesus himself could help me with that. Second best would be to get to the range and work on grooving my swing—the only place I might get relief from the thoughts swirling in my mind.
"Leave enough time to get acquainted with both courses, but not so much you get stale or panicky," Joe Lancaster had told me. Good advice, but way too late, at least in the panicky department.
The practice range was supplied with Titleist balls, scuffless and sharp white—better quality than most of the balls the customers at Palm Lakes used. I leaned my clubs against the bag stand and stretched. Hard to believe I was really here. Another piece of advice from Joe Lancaster came to mind.
"Try to stay away from thinking about the big picture," he'd said. "Your mind can run on a thousand tracks, but your body can only reasonably handle one shot at a time. So, when I ask what you're thinking, I don't want to hear, 'How am I going to beat all these girls who are better prepared than me and have more experience and who will probably kick my ass and ruin my dream of competing on the Ladies Professional Golf Tour?' Okay?"
I'd laughed hard when he put it that way a couple of weeks ago. Today, that run-on thought was as real as the grass in front of me, and not the least bit funny. I couldn't stop thinking about the Asian girl, whose chances for qualifying this week had been torpedoed by the U.S. Mail. Or maybe, to give the mail service the benefit of the doubt, some office clerk had screwed up and misplaced her application. Ouch. Or, suppose the girl's ambivalence about competing had subconsciously sabotaged her to the point where she "accidentally" threw the thing out herself. I laughed. I'd obviously spent too damn much time lately in the presence of headshrinkers.
I pulled out my wedge and set up to hit short pitch shots to a red flag fifty yards out in the range. I wasn't going to make the cut as a long ball hitter, if Kaitlin was representative of the other players in the field. I'd have to depend on accurate approach shots and lots of putts dropping. After shanking two balls out to the right, I put the wedge away and retreated to easy swings with my nine-wood. It was hard to hit a bad shot with a club that forgave almost anything.
"Your backswing looks a little flat."
Some poor chump getting last-minute advice, I thought. Let's hope it helps.
"Miz Burdette, in my experience, with a backswing that flat, you're goin' to tend to a big banana slice." Now I recognized the gravelly voice.