Loopy (6 page)

“Not at all, go right ahead.”

Larry teed up a ball and took the driver from O'Hara. He completely missed the golf ball on his first attempt, but before Tim could say anything, O'Hara murmured gently, “Go
on.
Try again. This time, remember what you did the last time and swing
easy.
”

This time Larry made a good connection. Clubhead struck ball with a resounding click. Like the seventy he had taken in Sunday's match, the ball seemed to hang in the air forever. The only difference was that this time the sky was blue and the wind was blowing directly into his face. He remembered not to look up as he hit the ball, but when he eventually did, he saw that the two men were following the flight of the ball in stunned silence. Still airborne, it disappeared over the corner of the graveyard.

Tim was first to speak, in a strained voice. “I-I-I'm not absolutely certain, but I think it carried the second wall.”

O'Hara took the club from Larry before muttering, as if to himself, “If it did, it's more than likely on the green.”

As the trio walked down one side of the ravine and made the steep climb up the other, Tim Porter confided to Larry, “That is the longest drive I have
ever
seen. Quite honestly, I wouldn't have believed it was possible unless I had seen it with my own eyes.”

The effort of descending, then moments later climbing back up the steep path leading out of the ravine, reduced all three to silence. Larry felt the weight of the bag for the first time that day, and it caused him to limp even more. If either of the two golfers noticed this, they made no reference to it. Having reached the top and walked along the fairway, they still could not see where Larry's ball had finished because the first of two stone walls that formed the corner of the graveyard cutting into the fairway obscured their view of the green. Tim, ignoring his own ball and O'Hara's effort even farther back toward the tee, strode purposefully to a spot from where he could get a proper look.

He called back to the other two trailing in his wake, “I think I see something on the green, but I'll walk on a bit to get a better look.” He strode briskly right up to the front of the green. “He's on all right—about ten feet from the hole!”

This ten feet was, of itself, significant because the flagstick was at least another twenty yards farther back in the green, making Larry's drive even farther than Joe Delany's effort all those years ago. Furthermore today's drive was
into
a stiff breeze—a point not lost on the other two.

After further oohing and aahing, O'Hara lifted the ball off the green and handed it to Larry. “Keep this for the rest of your life because there's only one first time for anything.”

Tim protested loudly that Larry should have been allowed to hole the putt, but his playing partner would have none of it, explaining, “Larry doesn't know how to putt yet. Believe it or not, that's only the second time he has ever hit a golf ball. The rest of the game is still ahead of him, including how to putt.”

Tim nodded, still thunderstruck by what he had just witnessed. “Yeah, I suppose you're right if that's the case. Still, it's a new record, duly witnessed by two playing members. Wonder what Joe Delany will say to this?”

O'Hara chuckled. “The first thing he will do, I expect, will be to try to get that loop out of Larry's swing.”

Tim was less certain about this. He asked Larry, “Where does that loop at the top of your swing come from?”

“Dunno, sir. I take the frees for the Trabane Gaels, so maybe it's a hurling swing or something.”

O'Hara slapped his thigh in excitement. “That's it,” he cried, “the bloody GAA have a lot to answer for, by God. That's where the loop comes from all right. They nearly killed the lad last Sunday, by the way.”

Again it was Tim's turn to be surprised at the many facets to the young person carrying the schoolteacher's golf bag. “So you're the young fella that got the belt of a hurley just as the referee blew for time. I heard there was nearly a riot afterwards—typical GAA if you ask me. Some of those fellows would get a year in jail if they did on the street what they get away with on the hurling pitch. And what does that fine body of men, the Gaelic Athletic Association, the biggest bloody sporting organization by far in the whole bloody country, do about it? Sweet damn all, that's what! So that's where you got the limp? I was afraid to ask until now in case you had it from birth or something!”

Porter's laugh might have sounded like a donkey braying, but Larry, despite the unfair reference to the GAA, was beginning to like this big, fair-haired man with the posh accent and the double chins.

“That's right, sir. That was me that got hurt at the end. They said at the hospital that I wasn't to even think about playing again until next season. Even then, they'll have to take a look at the leg again before they give me the go-ahead—”

O'Hara cut in, “Hurling's loss is golf's gain. You'll have more time to play golf now that Norbert won't be at you to practice every day of the week.”

Larry was not as enthusiastic as the other two about taking up golf. Of course it was gratifying, thrilling even, to see two grown men dancing with excitement at the way he had just hit a golf ball. But that did not change his view one iota: golf was a game for snobs. That's what he had been told for as long as he could remember, and old habits died hard. Admittedly this was only his second time out on the golf course with Mr. O'Hara, but in that time he had never seen anyone of his own age around the place, except for some of the caddies. And they weren't up to much. When not caddying, they could be seen, hanging around the chip shop, smoking cigarettes and making comments about passersby, especially girls. Only yesterday, a group of them had called after him, “Hey, Skippy, how's the leg?” and “You got what was comin' to you from the Lisbeg crowd!”

Though his ears had reddened, he'd walked past them without making eye contact. There were too many of them to take on all at once—but he hadn't forgotten their faces.

The trio finished the round in something of a daze, Larry still being the one least affected by the amazing feat. Instead of heading for the changing room, both men made straight for the professional's shop with the sign reading
JOSEPH DELANY, PROFESSIONAL AND PGA-QUALIFIED INSTRUCTOR
.

Larry had never been there before. Inside was an impressive array of shiny new golf clubs, bags, shoes, sweaters, and all the other odds and ends associated with the game. Behind a counter a strongly built man in his thirties was doing something complicated to the grip of a club as they entered. He looked up and smiled.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He looked questioningly at Larry. “I haven't seen you 'round here before, have I?”

O'Hara made the introductions, adding solemnly, “We have some bad news for you, I'm afraid.”

Joe looked startled at O'Hara's mock-serious expression. “What is it? What's the bad news?”

“This young man”—suddenly Pat O'Hara looked much younger. Larry suddenly realized that this was the first time he had ever seen him look really happy—“has just driven the thirteenth green.”

“From the medal tee?” Joe's eyebrows were arched high in surprise.

“From the medal tee, Joe, the same one you hit from yourself all those years ago. What's more, this young lad did it
into
the wind!”

The professional whistled in admiration.

Tim Porter chimed in excitedly with further details. “His ball finished ten feet to the side of the pin—which is, as you know, well back in the green. He must have carried the graveyard on the fly. Anyway, Joe, old boy, your record is gone the way of all flesh!”

Joe's reaction surprised even himself. Wordlessly he grasped the boy's hand, saying, “Well done, young fella! Make my day and tell me that you holed the putt for an eagle?”

Larry was fairly certain that an eagle was better than a birdie. Not being sure, he chose to say nothing.

Again Tim intervened. “Pat picked up his ball there and then. Said the lad hadn't got as far as learning how to putt yet!”

“My God, but that takes the bloody biscuit.” Joe was aghast. “Doesn't even know how to putt and he drives the thirteenth—into the wind at that!”

A stunned silence descended on the little group gathered in the pro shop as each pondered the recent miracle, then Joe Delany carefully put aside the club he was working on and took a key down from a nail above his head. As they filed out of the shop, he locked the door behind him. He watched Larry closely as he limped from the shop to the clubhouse, carrying O'Hara's bag over his shoulder.

“Aren't you young Lynch, the lad that takes the frees for the Gaels?”

Larry's chest swelled with pride. That someone who had nothing whatsoever to do with the GAA and the game of hurling should recognize him off the field of play was fame indeed. He gave Joe Delany a wide, toothy grin as he replied proudly, “That's me, sir.”

“The same lad that nearly got the leg cut off him last Sunday?”

This time Larry didn't grin, just nodded. The pro shook his head several times, muttering more to himself than anyone else, “What a waste, what a waste!”

He did not elaborate on this. Wordlessly they made for the bar, which was deserted at that time of the evening. Joe went behind the counter and announced, “This one is on me. It isn't every day your record is broken.”

By the time the bar began to fill up with golfers, Joe had learned that the drive that had removed him from the club record books was only the second time Larry had ever hit a golf ball in his life, and that the lad had an amazing loop at the top of his backswing. By then Larry had long since gone home. When Brona asked him how he had got on caddying for O'Hara, he replied that he had earned five pounds. Two for carrying the bag and one each from three men in the bar. He didn't mention the long drive at the thirteenth hole because he didn't really understand much about it. Because of this he felt he couldn't even
begin
to properly explain to her what Mr. O'Hara and the Porter person were getting so excited about.

CHAPTER THREE

The injured leg had not improved as quickly as he had hoped. It was not helped by Larry's falling off a load of hay. He had been stacking the bales high up on a trailer when one of them had given way under him and he'd fallen heavily on the cobblestone farmyard. He had had to go back again to the hospital, where they'd strapped it up once more and warned Brona, who had accompanied him this time round, that he should stay far away from tractors and trailers. Mother and son were also told that any further setbacks to his recovery could result in a permanent limp.

The hospital consultant had reluctantly allowed to him continue working in the supermarket and to help out in the golf club bar as long as he didn't overdo it. Spring was when most golfers took their clubs out of the attic after the winter hibernation, and the sudden rush of players on the Trabane links put a strain on Joe Delany's schedule. In return for looking after the pro shop while Joe was on the practice range giving lessons, he promised that he would coach Larry at every opportunity. Unknown to Larry, some members had already been complaining: “What's the point in having a blasted professional if there is a
CLOSED
sign on his door every time you need him?”

Some lady members attributed Joe's frequent absences to his intensive coaching of Rosa Martin, wife of Leo the bank manager. Rosa was not popular among the other lady members, for her shorts were too skimpy and the tops she wore revealed more than they concealed. Worst of all, she had somehow acquired a generous handicap that enabled her to win more than her fair share of competitions. The men, on the other hand, mostly welcomed her presence on the course and in the bar, feeling that she added a bit of glamour and excitement to their lives.

Whatever the reason, Larry was now spending most of his time either serving behind the counter of the bar or looking after the pro shop. He had left school long before graduating, much to O'Hara's disgust. Falling off the trailer had aggravated his leg injury to the point where the bending and kneeling in stacking Norbert's shelves was becoming a daily agony. To make matters worse, Norbert's attitude had changed when it had become clear that Larry could not play for the Trabane Gaels. Overnight, Larry had become just another employee, and now his work was being criticized as it had not been before. Matters were not improved by Maire using her senior status as checkout operator to order him around, as well as accusing him of spending too much time “with those snobs up at the golf club.”

Eventually Joe Delany did get round to giving Larry his first lesson. He pointed to a bucket of balls and handed Larry a driver out of his own bag of clubs. Larry recalled that when he had driven the thirteenth green, the ball had been placed on a small wooden tee that raised it off the ground and made it easier to hit. This time there was no tee, but he thought it better not to ask for one. Instead he made a vicious slash at one of the balls—and missed it completely. Joe Delany said nothing. Nor did he offer to put the next ball up on a tee. Out of the blue O'Hara's words came back to Larry like a mantra learned in the classroom: “Shake hands with the club, head still, and swing
easy!
”

It wasn't easy to do all three things at once, but nonetheless he managed to give the ball a really solid hit. It took off on a low trajectory and was still climbing as it disappeared over a fence at the far end of the practice range. He thought he heard a strangled oath coming from behind him but wasn't quite sure. He was about to hit another ball when Joe grabbed his shoulder.

“Stop right there! Who taught you that swing?”

“No one, sir. That is, Mr. O'Hara told me to do a few things, that's all.”