The Sand Trap (14 page)

For a start, Rebecca noticed for the first
time that she could recall, Melanie wore women’s golf clothing. On
a whim, Rebecca had gone out when they arrived in California and
bought a whole modern golf outfit for Melanie. She had left it on
Melanie’s bed with no great expectation that Melanie would reform,
but here she was dressed in a pale blue pleated skirt, an off pink
sleeveless golf shirt covered by a bright red cashmere golf
sweater. She even had the golf half socks on her feet instead of
the work socks she normally wore in her men’s golf shoes. Rebecca
wondered if she was wearing the underwear she had bought her or
still had on the Stanfields that Melanie said all self-respecting
Canadian farm girls wore. But the real shocker was her face and
hair. Rebecca did not even know Melanie had any make up. She did
not, but had snuck into Rebecca’s bathroom early that morning, and
here she was with a delicately made up face, lipstick, eyeliner,
the whole package. Her hair was still a mass of Celtic ringlets,
but arranged in a clean and fresh way that was controlled
chaos.

Melanie was actually beautiful or at least
as attractive as a woman her size and features could be. But
Rebecca now thought, beautiful. She was stunned.

"Something wrong Rebecca?” Melanie asked.
“You’re staring.”

Rebecca recovered herself. “No. No, just
thinking.”

Rebecca somehow had the sense and instinct
to not mention this sudden metamorphosis from farm girl to Vogue
model and just dug into her eggs and coffee. Melanie continued to
chatter incessantly through breakfast, talking about everything
from the weather in California to the local sports news and how the
coach of the UCLA basketball team had a hole in one and a double
eagle on one round of golf and still didn't break eighty. She
thought that was very funny. Rebecca just listened and nodded her
head and was totally confused at this sudden reversal of their
usual conversational roles. She was attentive and laughed at the
right places, but was inwardly nervous and worried about Melanie's
behaviour.

The change in behaviour continued when they
arrived at the golf course. Everyone who knew her stared at her
change in appearance. The reporter from the Herald was there and as
Melanie actually posed for a photo which she had always refused to
do, he actually wolf whistled and she threw him a kiss. The only
anomaly in her attire was her golf shoes. Not only was it unlikely
that Melanie would have found a pair of size eleven women's shoes
on short notice, but new shoes for a round of golf would not have
been a wise idea. At the bottom of all the wonderful feminine
clothing and alluring make up, she still wore an old pair of Dexter
men’s golf shoes. To Rebecca it was her only apparent concession to
her past, but to Melanie it was her anchor to the soil and a
previous life and previous emotions. Today she needed that
anchor.

On the practice tee she was talkative and
friendly and introduced herself to the other members of her
foursome with an “I’m very delighted to meet you and honoured to
have the opportunity to play with such men of talent like you.”

The senior from Texas was distant but
polite. The sophomore from New Hampshire was three inches shorter
than Melanie, obviously very shy and was instantly awestruck by her
stature and greeting. He struggled and stumbled over a “Same to
you!” and quickly went back to the tee mat.

It was when Burt arrived that Rebecca really
began to worry that Melanie’s state of mind was going to be a
problem. Burt did not walk anywhere. He sauntered as only the
progeny of old money and social stature learns to do at an early
age. His size, his dress, his equipment and his entourage all spoke
of confidence and poise. He knew he was a good golfer and he
pranced towards a practice tee mat with Henry his caddy struggling
behind him to keep up.

“Hey Burt!” Melanie cheerfully teased. “We
all thought you had seen who you were playing against today and
decided to give up!”

The spectators around the range laughed. For
those who knew Burt and Melanie the laugh was a very nervous one,
Rebecca’s included. For others it was simply a reaction to
good-natured golfing banter.

“You look tired though Burt,” Melanie
continued. “Sure you are up to this today?” She put special
emphasis on the ‘up’ part.

Both Coach and Burt’s parents had warned him
to cool his mouth today. Back home he was not only outspokenly rude
and dismissive to Melanie, but in general to women golfers. He
referred to her as the hick from Canada, a cold bitch, a freak,
ugly as a toad and other epithets that Melanie had heard all her
life from bullies like him. Her usual reaction had been simply to
ignore him and play golf. Today, under the scrutiny of national
press and the golf world, he was under orders to cool it. But he
was totally unprepared for Melanie’s greeting.

“Listen you bitch …” he started to say, but
before he could get the next word out Melanie put her arms around
his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Have fun today Burt,”
she whispered in his ear. “The whole world is watching.” And she
left him momentarily stunned and went back to her practice session
while he went to the far end of the range to do his own warm
ups.

Rebecca was really worried now. None of
this, the dressing up, the makeup and the coquettish friendliness
was part of the strategy they had worked out. Her unease was not
relieved when they reached the first hole.

Melanie had won the toss and she was to hit
first. She smiled and went over and shook the starter’s hand after
he announced her to the small, but growing crowd that was starting
to gather. The news of a woman player in the men’s championship had
started to spread and Melanie was now officially the curiosity she
had been all her life. The group included a number of reporters for
local and national media and as she watched Melanie saunter to the
first tee, Rebecca suddenly realized that Melanie was playing to
the crowd. Melanie walked over to Rebecca and without saying
anything or even looking at her, pulled out the driver, and while
it had been regripped several times, it was still the steel
shafted, persimmon head driver that a tractor salesman from
Saskatoon had given her earlier.

The first hole was a long, straight away,
par five, a little over 600 yards from the back tee, and it
required a tee shot down the left side of the fairway, missing a
collection of bunkers at the 240 mark. This was a shot custom made
for Melanie’s gentle draw, so she was surprised when Melanie hit
her drive into the farthest trap on the right.

There was a collective “ah – too bad” from
the crowd.

Melanie just smiled and as she walked back
to Rebecca and her bag, announced to the crowd, “Gee. That wasn’t
very good.”

Rebecca stood shocked while Melanie put the
club back. Not because Melanie missed the drive, but because for
the first time in the whole time they had been golfing together
Melanie used a normal swing. In fact, not just a normal swing but a
perfectly normal, textbook, the way pros teach it to look like a
real golfer type swing.

“What are you doing?” she whispered hoarsely
to Melanie.

Melanie cheerfully replied. “I think I’ll be
Hale today.” And she stepped back and watched while all three of
the other players landed their drives on the fairway, and the game
was on.

Melanie and the young man from New Hampshire
both bogied the first hole, he from some nervous putting and she
from a wasted shot on the fairway getting out of the fairway trap.
The others parred the hole.

Rebecca figured that the New Hampshire kid
would be out of it soon and she was right. He had potential for
sure, but was not used to the attention from a following gallery.
He certainly could not handle Melanie. She was extraordinarily
pleasant to him, chatting with him as they walked down the
fairways. Complimenting him on the good shots and commiserating
with him on the bad. Even after a string of bogies that would
essentially take him out of the top sixteen he was clearly enjoying
himself. When Rebecca asked Melanie why she was so nice to the kid,
Melanie just said that he was the nicest guy she had met in years.
She liked him although she was probably not good for his golf.

The senior from Texas was good. He was a
scratch golfer and by the fifth hole he had played to that level.
He was not spectacular, simply steady at all aspects of the game.
She figured his weakness might be around the green but she was not
quite sure. He was also a gentleman, courteous to Melanie and
apparently not bothered in the slightest that there was a woman in
the foursome. Rebecca liked him; she figured he was not a
tournament winner, but was a potential top sixteen. He was one that
Melanie would have to at least equal in score to ensure a place in
the sixteen.

Burt was another matter entirely. He had
talent for sure or he would not be here. But he had two major flaws
that were amplified on the golf course. He was stupid and he was
arrogant, stubbornly arrogant. He would never take his caddies
advice or Coach’s for that matter since he thought he knew it all.
He was not a pleasant person to play with, taunting in an arrogant
way the mistakes of others and prancing around after his own
successful shots. There was no mistaking he knew a lot and was a
very good golfer. Chad was the only Montana golfer who could beat
him. He had been playing golf at a private California club since he
was four and had, in fact, played Cedar Grove many times as a
youngster working his way up in the state rankings. He viewed the
route to get into the final sixteen as a cakewalk for him and the
gallery full of parents and people from his home club felt the
same. Being able to play with Melanie and embarrass her on the
course was simply icing on the day’s cake to him.

He had one other flaw that he had kept
hidden from many at Clapshorn. He liked to get his way and was not
a good loser. He had a temper that when displayed on the golf
course could actually turn violent. He had embarrassed his parents
on many occasions and in one instance as a twelve-year-old he had
attacked another player with a nine iron when he lost a hole and
had been banned from that particular course. Today was not likely
to be at risk to be one of those days. He did not see any of these
players as a challenge for the final sixteen and with a target
score of even par or maybe one under, all he had to do was shoot
his handicap to get into the real fun competition, the head on head
match play. The fun of today for him was that, while he knew that
for medal play he was playing the course and not the other players,
he was going to play Melanie – and crush her once and for all. By
the end of the fifth hole it looked like he was well on his way to
do so. Even Rebecca had to admit that he was playing brilliantly
and Melanie very badly. He was two under and she was three over.
After each of her mistakes that led to bogies, he would look over
at her with a smug “take that bitch” look. Melanie just smiled and
continued to compliment him and the others on their good shots.

By the seventh hole, Melanie was five shots
behind Burt, three behind Texas and even with New Hampshire. All
were on the green except Melanie who had hit another trap on the
180-yard par three.

As they walked to the green Rebecca ran up
to Melanie and whispered. “Ah…Melanie, you’ve shown how bad you
are. Don’t you think it’s time you recovered a bit? We’re half way
through the round for God’s sake!”

Melanie showed none of the pleasantry she
gave the other players. “Just tell me at the end of nine what you
think the cut off score will be.”

Melanie bogied the par-three while the
others parred it and they kept that position through eight and
nine. At the turn, Melanie was six shots behind Burt and five over
par, five or six shots off the projected final sixteen cut off.
Play was a little backed up so they had a break after nine. Melanie
took the opportunity to go to the washroom while two reporters
cornered Rebecca, the regular from the Herald and a new one she had
never met from one of the golfing magazines.

The Herald reporter started.

“So what’s up with this girl?” he demanded.
“Where has her swing gone? And what’s with the clothes? Is she out
of this thing?”

Rebecca gave an answer that would be
repeated months later in a national story that won the reporter an
award for investigative reporting in golf. “Melanie McDougal is the
finest female, no, the finest of any sex, golfer this country has
seen since Babe Zaharias or Ben Hogan.” She paused while they both
scribbled in their notebooks. “I suggest that you wait a few days
and answer the question yourself.” And she walked away, refusing to
answer any more questions. Inside her golf shirt the sweat was
running down her armpits, because she had the same questions as the
reporters and she did not know the answers. She was as nervous as
she had ever been in her life because other than the fact that
Melanie was apparently following her orders to not look too good,
to just make the cut, she had no idea what Melanie was doing. She
panicked for a moment with the realization that maybe Melanie was
actually losing this first round.

When Melanie came back from the clubhouse
and joined her at the tenth tee, there was no such look of
melancholy or concern on her face. “Ok,” Melanie cheerfully
announced. “Let’s go bust their balls girl.”

They started the back nine.

The bogie on seven meant she was last to tee
off. The tenth was a difficult hole. It was not a long hole, 310
yards. It was a long sweeping dogleg left with water all along the
left curve and out of bounds on the right. Most players in 1978 did
not have the 280-yard driving distance needed to make the green, so
most used an iron to get in good position for a second shot. The
three men did exactly that.