Birds of a Feather

The par four, dogleg left, seventh hole lay directly in front of the fearless foursome. James Slade still lamented the stupid bogey on the sixth. An uncharacteristic pull on the par-saving putt may have cost him another sub-70 round. James was the most accomplished golfer of the four. He struggled at times to maintain some remote semblance of humility given his obvious greatness. For him, the bogey was an abomination.

Mike Brodsky and Tim Oldham, on the other hand, were quite content to mark bogey fives on their scorecards. Mike carried a solid fifteen handicap and given his current state of intoxication, he was delighted that he was still beating his best friend, Timmy. He sipped his fourth beer and launched a barrage of insults and taunts at Tim. Tim, usually keen on trading barbs with his inebriated cohort, was really just sick of the whole round. An abhorrent triple bogey on the little par three third hole had ruined his round, and with it - his unfortunate putter (which now found itself in a trash bin on the fourth tee box). A bogey five suited him just fine considering he'd made a twenty-foot putt using a pitching wedge.

The last member of the group still lingered at the sixth green visually counting each shot on the hole. The total reached nine on two separate occasions and the timid high school sophomore trudged to his bag to record the all too familiar tally.

"Hey, Frosty," yelled Mike, trying not to slur his words too bad. "You run out of fingers and toes counting that one up?"

"Not quite."

Little Andrew West acquired the nickname "Frosty" because of a dandruff condition the other three noticed during their daily practices. To be honest, he preferred "Frosty" to the slightly more graphic nickname "Pizza" that they often employed. He hated that they always picked on some physical trait that he couldn't control.

Over the past five weeks he had grown to abhor the entire routine of high school golf practice. He had told his father that he didn't want to try out in the first place, but his dad insisted he try out for some kind of sport during the school year, and spring golf was the last sport to begin. He agreed to give it a try and he actually enjoyed the first few days of instruction on the driving range. However, on the fourth day of practice, Coach Landers divided the team into foursomes, and from that time on, golf became a daily exercise in utter torture.

The one thing Andrew cherished about his life before golf was the complete anonymity in which he conducted it. That peaceful existence was shattered when he was put into the group with James (the golf stud), Timmy (the Senior Class President), and Mike (arguably the richest and most popular kid in school). Not a day went by that he didn't get teased publicly by at least one of them. They didn't do it maliciously. They simply picked inopportune times to call him by his newly acquired nicknames, prompting embarrassing questions by his friends. Andrew convinced one of his fellow nerds that Mike called him "Frosty" because he had ice in his veins. Most of the kids, however, knew exactly why the nicknames had been given. For Andrew it was humiliating. He had become a pet of sorts. His anonymity? Extinct.

As he inched his way to the tee box, he thought about hurling his own insult but thought better of it. Only three holes remained. He would bite his lip and hopefully they would all leave him alone. Of course, they didn't. As Andrew reached the tee box and pulled out his driver a new round of harrassment spewed forth. This time James took the honors.

"Okie, dokey, Pizza Man, show us the way," he said.

Andrew did not have honors, and the group in front of them were only 150 yards out. Andrew rarely hit it more than 180 off the tee. Therein lay the insult. Andrew just shrugged it off and plopped down on the grass to wait. More than anything, he was happy they wouldn't have to contend with any more water. He was almost out of golf balls.

The group in front of them eventually advanced down the fairway, and James stepped up to the markers. He eased the tee into the firm ground, and placed his ball gingerly on top. He straightened his cap, took precisely three steps backward, and then stooped to grasp a few blades of grass to toss in the air. There was absolutely no wind, and Andrew found it annoying that James would continue the routine despite its pointless nature. So did Mike.

"C'mon Tiger, just hit it. We ain't got all day."

James obviously saw some point in his routine, however, because he did it on every shot he had ever hit. He tossed the blades in the air. They fell straight to the ground and James continued. He paced forward the same three steps and addressed the ball cautiously. He took one long arching practice swing, then approached the ball again. He drew back the club deliberately, and continued the arc slightly past parallel. He then swung down in what seemed to Andrew to be a nonchalant manner and picked the ball cleanly off the tee, launching it into space. He then followed through into an awkward looking coil. Andrew marvelled that such an effortless swing led to such an awe-inspiring result. This particular shot, however, inspired little awe as it came to rest in the first cut of rough about 250 yards out.

"Nice poke, Vijay," laughed Mike sipping now his fifth beer.

"Hey, Michelob," said James. "How many fingers can you see?"

Mike reasoned that he was holding up just one particular finger.

Tim was next up. His routine was much less sophisticated. He dug the tee into the ground, put the ball on top with hardly any thought, and took three half-hearted practice swings. He then choked the club as if he was preparing for a tug-of-war. As he drew the club back, he heard the beginnings of a mocking laugh that grew progressively louder as the clubhead whipped across the ball sending it on a spinning journey toward the wrong fairway.

"Dude," Mike began, hardly able to contain himself, "Nice shank."

Mike's laughter had both caused the errant shot and accompanied its winding flight, and he couldn't have been more delighted. His convulsive guffaws must have had an adverse effect on his urinary tract, however, as he grabbed himself and lumbered off to some lilac bushes to get some relief. Tim looked back at his buddy waddling toward the bushes and took some comfort in Mike's dilemma.

Andrew did not. He hoped the big lug would wet his pants. It would serve him right.

Realizing that Mike might not be back for a few minutes, Andrew picked up his club and approached the markers. Atop the small mound, Andrew appeared larger than his slight frame. He, like James, straightened his cap and eyed the fairway. His eyes then scanned the horizon like Jack Nicklaus surveying Augusta National. He tried to place his tee into the sod gracefully, but as he pushed it in it broke and he stumbled to the ground in a heap. Humiliated once again, he trudged back to his bag to get another tee.

As he dug in his bag, he heard a spattering of shouts and rebellious screams coming from the foursome behind them. He looked up from his bag to see them all digging furiously in their own bags. They got what they needed and sprinted across the tufts of crabgrass to the fourth fairway armed with an assortment of three-irons, drivers, and fairway woods.

He then saw the foursome in the fairway in front of him do the same thing. They were all crazed. Andrew watched them as they all rushed to the fourth and started to line up a series of two or three range balls each in a parallel line facing the out-of-bounds fence. Confused by their actions, Andrew turned to ask James about the bizarre behavior. As he turned, he saw Tim sprinting wildly to the fourth also. Mike had obviously forgotten why he had gone to the lilac bushes, and despite an unfastened belt, he, too, had begun the trek to the fourth.

Still bewildered by everything, Andrew noticed James staring in the direction of the fourth teebox. Andrew followed his stare and caught a glimpse of smoke rising from the engine of an enormous freight train coming toward the golf course. The engine labored as it tried to pull a long line of freight cars loaded down with sugar beets and winter wheat. Andrew gazed again at the increasing horde of delinquents gathered in the fairway.

"Hurry up, Pizza Man. You're gonna miss it!" blurted James as he, too, ran off to join the mischief.

Andrew had heard about this. The kids had all talked about it. The train only passed by once every two months and they all needed to be ready. Preparation was the key. Andrew had heard the warnings, but hadn't known how to heed them. As he looked down in his bag he felt totally stupid. He didn't have a single range ball. Not even one. In fact, he was down to just two balls total; the one he was playing with and the Titleist he had saved when he had recorded his first par.

He again looked at the approaching train. He had only a few more seconds. Realizing he was the only member of the team not already taking practice swings, he gritted his teeth and yanked the Titleist from its safe environment. He then grabbed the first club his fingers touched and off he raced to join the others.

The rusted engine chugged heavily as it reached the area parallel to the fourth tee-box. As it passed the blue markers, the final preparations were hurriedly completed and the frenzied youngsters stepped up to the range balls. Andrew placed himself about three-quarters of the way down the line and tossed his regular ball to the turf. The Titleist remained safely nestled in his front pocket. He attempted two awkward practice swings and then looked up again to see the target.

James was the first to take aim and fire at the iron horse. He tore into the ball with the same calculated exactness he employed on every shot and launched it gracefully 180 yards over the intended target into Mr. Williams' potato field. His errant shot, however misguided, prompted everyone to begin the onslaught. Red-striped bullets sliced throught the air and hopped and skipped in a myriad of different trajectories as the howling youths attempted to kill the track bound beast. Mike and Tim flailed at no less than five balls each as they tried to conquer the foe.

As the volley continued, shouts and cheers erupted as a few well-aimed line drives careened off the metal flanks of the monster.

The brave and fearless defenders of the golf course were not satisfied, however, with simply maiming the beast. They desired the ultimate kill. For years the warriors had successfully defended their territory from the invading serpent, but no one as yet had slain it.

As the train picked up speed and the supply of range balls diminished, the likelihood of a kill seemed remote. Andrew had watched the others take their shots, yet he had failed to pull the trigger. As he now looked down at his ball, his embarrassment again returned. He stared down at the face of his putter. How stupid could he be? He had come to fight the beast with nothing but a squirt gun. A few of the kids laughed as he took a couple more practice swings with the putter. He didn't care. He simply didn't care.

With the flair of Lee Trevino and the tenacity of Tiger Woods, Andrew focused in on the tiny white speck and drew his feeble putter back into perfect position. His body seemed detached from his mind and he saw himself descending powerfully into the ball. He cleared his shoulders and his hips and followed through like he had seen James do so often. He had done it. He had hit the perfect shot. All the practice had paid off. In this glorious reverie, he lifted his eyes to see the small, white globe slay the beast. Instead of the expected carnage, however, he rose only to see the ball violently ripping across the turf in what the kids called a "wormraper".

It came to rest beneath a budding fir tree some twenty yards short of the tracks. Andrew turned to confront the hearty humiliation being heaped upon him from the mocking faces of his peers. Defeated and weary, he stared blankly at their contorted grins. They made him sick.

The train, sensing its escape was soon to be realized, tooted, adding insult to Andrew's injury. Reaching into his pocket, Andrew hastily extracted the Titleist. It symbolized in a strange way all that Andrew had ever wanted. He had been a par for that brief second two months ago. Not a bogey or a double, but a par. That Titleist signified normalcy and equality. He threw it to the turf. He couldn't stand it anymore. With an icy finality, he looked to rid himself of it. He couldn't continue; he wouldn't have any more balls. His dad would have to understand. What a relief. He would finally be able to call it quits and crawl back into his safe little cave.

His despair and rage boiled as he grasped his putter. He drew it back angrily and focused on the tiny white remnant of the game that only tortured and destroyed. His downswing then ripped at the pest. All his anger and frustration manifested itself in a surge of uncontrolled power. The ball, half-expecting the jolt, leaped from the blade and spun wildly in the direction of the fleeing beast.

Shocked by the uncontrolled outburst of their usually timid sidekick, Mike and Tim stood transfixed as they saw the ball slice and cut its way throught the air. It seemed to magically hang and drift as it lost its velocity, momentarily stopping to determine its course. The train was almost free, but this last arrow threatened its escape. The ball then cleverly chose its intended target and dived to finish its assault. Falling and falling ever closer.

The collision made nothing more than a hollow thud as the ball ricocheted off the small window of the caboose. The boys all stood silently as the train limped away, but then a hand emerged from the window and a swallow or a starling sprang forth. Regardless of the species, it was definitely a bird.

All the boys cheered and thrust their fists triumphantly in the air. They had killed it. Andrew knelt reverently next to the tremendous divot, his putter laying at his side. He was a wounded, battle-scarred hero, but a hero nonetheless.

Mike approached him with a little more sobriety than he'd showed previously and placed his hand on Andrew's shoulder.

"Hey, Andrew, that was awesome. Nice shot."

With ice water now flowing through his veins, Andrew looked hard into the blurry eyes of his newly-acquired friend.

"The name's Frosty."