Gully’s
Legend
Driving
into the Buckshire Golf and Country Club I know it’s getting late to start a
“quick nine”. Luckily I have a membership and can avoid the clubhouse. The
membership was a great deal that I got at a discount from an ad in the paper
because the year’s more than half over. I get my shoes on and grab my bag,
heading out to the back nine of the south course.
I’m almost
at the 10th tee box when I notice the grounds keeper watching me.
The old guy looks just as weather beaten as his old coveralls and floppy hat.
He's looking at me intently, his eyes squinting like he’s thinking real hard.
I keep
walking, and when I’m almost about to turn my gaze away, he says. “Little late
for a round mister,” he’s a little hunched forward, his voice rough with an
edge of concern.
“I know
I’m pretty good, should be able to squeak one in,” I say back.
“Well you
better do the front nine, or the other course.”
I am about
to ask him what he's talking about and why he doesn't think I should play this
particular nine holes when his voice gets real serious, “You ever hear of
Gully’s legend?” I stop and look at him again, almost laughing, thinking there
may be a connection between this so-called legend and his directing me to
another course, but I decided to humour him. “No, what’s it all about,” I ask.
In short
hushed bursts, with a lot of waving arms, he explained about the legend of Jack
Gully.
Back in
the day Jack Gully set a course record of 28 on the par 36 back nine. The
legend says that anyone on the south course's back nine after the sun had set,
who looked like they might threaten Jack Gully’s score, would have the round
from hell that might end their golfing days.
I was in a
hurry to get going and blew him off without a thought. Since the sun was
starting to set, I thanked him for the history lesson and stepped up to the tee
box.
I hit a
great tee shot, 250 yards, and headed out on the round. A great approach shot gets
me a shot at birdie. I’m feeling pretty good when that putt rattles into the
cup.
The second
hole is a par five, so I know I need a few good hits to get to the green.
Walking down the fairway I get to thinking about that legend. The math says to
make that 28 he must have birdied every hole but one. That’s a helluva round.
I launch
another nice approach shot and a sink another putt, for two in a row.
None of
this - my score, the legend, the course, any of it - would have mattered,
except that as I headed to the 18th hole, the last of my nine, I was
having the round of my life. I was connecting solid shots, using the right club
and nailing my putts. I was sitting at 24. I had birdied every hole except this
last one, if I did that, I’d break this legendary record.
Oh, but
there’s the legend to be scared of, I kidded myself, actually surprised I was
thinking about it, since I was on a high about my score.
Then as I
walked through the trees to that last hole everything changed.
The wind
began to pick up. Within a minute the tall trees were whipping back and forth.
The leaves swirling in the air were so thick I had to shield my face with my
arm, peering out beneath it to find my way. The wind was howling now, gusts
overlapping and coming from every direction.
I tried
looking behind me, almost thinking of turning back, but the branches of the
bushes and trees had joined together to close the trail. They entwined,
swirling menacingly.
I forge
forward wherever the opportunity exists, as the trail in front seems to be
closed as well. Nearly at the point of hysteria I punch out of the forest onto
a fairway. Odd. There is the tee box and it says 18, but I don’t recognize it.
I’ve played on both the south and north courses here numerous times, doing
“quick nine’s” fronts and backs, and they don’t look anything like this.
Glancing
back at the trees, I know I’m not going there. No chance. But it seems to me
that the trees are closer than they were. Prickles rise on the back of my neck.
I stare hard focusing on the ground and trees. The ground shrinking and the
trees are creeping closer are alarming.
Luckily I
don't freeze in fear. I confirm this when I realize I have back peddled ten
steps from the forest without noticing, unfortunately the forest is keeping
pace. Spinning, I turn and sprint to the tee box.
One hole.
Well, let’s just get 'er done.
The hole
looks okay, a par four. The fairway seems to rise slowly towards a raised
green. The wind is still howling from everywhere and a quick look says the
trees are still creeping closer. No pressure here.
With
shaking hands I tee it up. Another nice drive, it looks to be 250 yards at
least, but the wind may have held it up. I just need a good approach shot here
and the record could be mine.
A branch
grabs my shirt from behind, another snakes around my feet and starts to tighten
around my ankle. Jumping forward, my shirt rips as I break free. A quick glance
downwards shows that another branch has ripped my pants and sliced a bit of
skin. The wall of forest is almost on me, the branches reaching out.
I can’t
stop and watch my shot. Those branches are way too close. Running, I scrambled
up the mound towards where I think my ball is.
Impossible.
How can there be a valley here? You don’t see it from the tee off.
My ball’s
down there on the flat bottom. The encroaching forest pretty much pushes me off
the top and down the steep slope, running towards my ball for the last hundred
yards, my bag slung over my shoulder, banging against my hip at every stride.
The slope
up out of the valley that was there when I started down, is now a steep wall of
rock. It’s far enough away I should be able to get up over the top with a seven
iron. I don’t waste any time sending the ball flying.
I’m
learning. Grabbing my bag, I run to the wall and try to climb. I get up on a
ledge about eight or nine feet off the ground and it seems impossible to go
higher. The bag gets heavier with every step I take. The cuts on my legs break
my focus.
I glance
back and realize the forest has not come down the slope. Is it over?
I hear
them coming before I see them, a pack, four large wolves. They come directly at
me, following my scent. Fearless, they jump up at me, their claws scrabbling on
the rock wall, their teeth flashing. They'll find a way up the side shortly and
I'll have to fight.
Yeah, right.
I grab the seven iron and the putter and stick them through my shirt. Turning,
I start really climbing, handhold to handhold. I’m up just high enough as the
first wolf pulls himself onto the ledge and starts attacking the golf bag,
ripping and shredding. The bag goes over the side, and the ones below rip it
apart. The lead wolf now is jumping up at me, but I’m sure he can’t follow, and
I’m determined I'm not gonna fall.
The wind
tries to pull me off the wall, then slams me against it. I manage to drag
myself over the top scraped and bruised. It seems to have gotten dark out all
of a sudden. I roll to my feet. Taking out my clubs, I run forward, looking for
my ball.
It’s
there, right in the middle of the fairway. From here I can see the green raised
up ahead. It seems to run off the back, so I’ll chip it up in front.
All of a
sudden the hairs on my neck start to prickle again. A quick look around shows
the ground shrinking behind me as the cliff edge moves closer, leaving just a
narrow fairway to the green.
Quickly I
hit a real easy seven up to the green. I’m running before it even lands. The
green is near dark and I have to walk around it to find both the ball and the
hole. Without worrying about my score, I putt up to the hole and take another
stroke to knock it in.
A five, a
bogie, no record, but I’m still alive.
With my
two clubs in hand, I walk around the outside of the green and head towards a
light shining a ways off. In the dark it looks like there is water behind this
green. Feeling a little relieved to be through whatever that was I just went
through, I chuckled thinking of water. Like I need a hazard.
I turned
at a sound. Just in time to see the wolf lunge at me. Only the thought of the
water saved me. I let myself go limp as he hit, the force knocking us both
flying, with me going backwards. We splashed down in the water and I let myself
sink, taking time to drop one club and get a good hold of the other one.
Coming out of the water a few feet from
the wolf, I’m swinging the club left and right. Water up to my waist means the
wolf can’t touch bottom. His claws are connecting with my legs and my club is
connecting with his head. He backs off and I’m left shaking and standing alone
in the water in the pitch dark. Pulling myself from the water, I kneel on the
bank gasping for air.
Following
the light for a while, I come out of a line of trees and stumble across the old
grounds keeper. He’s standing in the parking lot by my lone car holding a
lantern above his head. He lowers it as I approach and checks me up and down
with a knowing look. The ripped clothes, blood stained pants, putter in a death
grip, held like a weapon says everything. He turns and walks away without a
word.
*****
“Honey
here’s what I’ve been looking for,” George calls to his wife making breakfast
in the kitchen. She walks up behind him, peering over his shoulder at the
newspaper he’s holding, “Here’s an ad. Just like I hoped to find, look.”
MEMBERSHIP FOR SALE,
PRICED TO SELL, AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY
BUCKSHIRE GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB,
777 555 4242
At home,
with my membership sold, my trusty putter resting in its new home on the
mantle, I wonder which was worse, trying to get in the “Quick nine”, or fooling
with a legend.
©Rejean Giguere - 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment