No Longer Pure of Heart

No Longer Pure of Heart

           Anna Lang was focused on revenge. At age 25, she had recovered physically from the brutality inflicted upon her by her mentor, Benjamin Ripley, under the guise of celebrating her win of the Women’s Open, five years ago, at Meridian Golf Club near Indianapolis. But Anna had not recovered emotionally. She would not until she witnessed Ripley’s lifeless body. Only then would she able to move on.

           The horrible wrong Anna had endured happened in the evening following her championship win. Ripley, a golf industry powerbroker, who frequently boasted that he had “taught Anna everything she knows,” had been greenside when Anna accepted the trophy. Embracing her in celebration, he whispered “Lets go downtown for a nice dinner.”

           Although she sensed that the invitation seemed to cross the line in terms of their coach/pupil relationship, in the excitement of the moment, Anna went along. The next morning, she awoke to find herself naked, battered and bruised in a disheveled hotel room. Through a hangover fog, she pieced together recollection of the night before—it ended with remembering Ripley offering her a glass of champagne and toasting her as a future star of the LPGA.

           But the toast was just a vehicle for Ripley to set the table for the fiendish and sadistic debauchery he had planned all along. After Anna had slipped into unconsciousness, the “mentor” had stripped her naked, and then sodomized and ultimately raped her.

           Confronted over the phone by the tearful and delirious Anna, seeking some explanation, Ripley had grimly advised her “You breathe a word about any of this—and I guarantee you will never play a round of tournament golf again.”

***

           Realizing the power structure of golf was stacked against her, Anna withdrew to her native Miami and enrolled in the University’s MBA program. She didn’t touch a club or venture near a golf course during the three years of her higher education.

           Only after landing a sports marketing position at the PGA of America did Anna begin to re-associate with the game and business of golf. Her routine came to include casual play and practice at the PGA National Golf Club. Her practice sessions often attracted onlookers who would marvel at the quality of her shot-making.

           One such spectator, Gary Christopher, was particularly attracted to Anna. He relished not only the brilliance of her skills, but the equally brilliant quality of her looks.

“Hey, lady,” he had commented. Why in the heck aren’t you on Tour?”

           “It’s complicated,” Anna had responded, after striping another drive some 280 yards out into the range. “You wouldn’t want to know,” she continued, turning to return Gary’s appreciative gaze.

           “But I’d like to,” Gary said.

           Conversation developed, followed by Gary’s hopeful request to “buy you a drink?” Although wary of such offers, Anna had agreed and a half hour or so later had met back up with Gary at the lobby bar inside the PGA National Resort and Spa.

Chemistry happened easily between the two. A sports and entertainment lawyer in nearby Jupiter, Gary was familiar with the nature of Anna’s job responsibilities at the PGA. Both “talked the talk” of people immersed in the world of professional golf.

As the dog days of late summer in South Florida evolved to the crisper days of fall and winter, Anna and Gary became friends, and in due course, lovers. They shared many happy times and confided personal secrets. On a late Saturday night, after a sandy bout of love-making on the beach, Anna had explained the circumstances of her withdrawal from competitive golf and the despicable mistreatment she had suffered at the hands of her former mentor.

“You know what we ought to do,” Gary had said, encircling Anna’s body with his arms and drawing her tight. We ought to kill that rotten son-of-a-bitch.”

Over time, the intimate exchange morphed into much more than idle musings. Between them, Gary and Anna conceived a plan to accomplish Ripley’s demise: Anna would rededicate herself to honing her golf skills. During the process, Gary would perform as Anna’s caddie, in addition to being her lawyer, best friend, confidant and lover.

If Anna could qualify for the Tour, they reasoned, the opportunity to hook back up with Ripley would eventuate, and the consequences for him would prove fatal.

Over the course of the next year, Anna and Gary sandwiched their professional lives around Anna’s participation in local and regional tournaments. She entered the competitions under the name of Marcie Tompkins, to avoid the possibility of Ripley taking apprehensive notice of the rising player sensation “Marcie” was becoming.

           In late November, Anna’s “minor league” success finally set the stage for a chance to compete in the LPGA Qualifying Tournament in Daytona Beach. The top 20 finishers in that event would qualify for an LPGA “card” for the following year.

***

Marcie and Gary arrived at LPGA International on Sunday morning, along with Marcie’s new swing coach Ingmar Tolefson. Ingmar was a PGA teaching professional at PGA National. They checked into a three-bedroom condo that Ronald King, the owner of PGA National, had arranged for them at his expense.  Ingmar was insistent that Marcie should have her own room and devote all energy to the 90 holes of competition that would determine her future in professional golf. 

Both Monday and Tuesday were spent playing practice rounds on the demanding Champions Course at LPGA International. Assisted by “the book” a detailed and illustrated yardage guide, that measured distances and depicted contours, elevations, and hazards of the layout, both player and caddie devoted themselves to learning the course’s challenges.

Gary awoke very early Wednesday morning alone and resisted the urge to check in on Marcie. The clock on the nightstand showed 5:20 a.m. Although it was still dark, juiced with anticipation of the first tee scene, Neil couldn’t fall back asleep. Just then, the door opened, and in came Gary’s daytime employer and nighttime lover. After pulling the XXL size golf shirt that doubled as a nightgown over her head and tossing it on the floor, Marcie slid into the bed.

“Hold me,” she whispered. Marcie positioned herself on her side, inviting Neil to spoon position. He often mused that if he somehow wound up in heaven, he would request of St. Peter to be allowed to spend eternity spooning with Marcie, rather on a cloud learning to play the harp. Unable to resist the temptation of Marcie’s impeccable beauty and sultry scent, Neil encircled her with his arm and pulled her into an embrace. “Ingmar wouldn’t be happy,” Gary said softly.

“Fuck Ingmar,” Marcie breathed, “and go lower—real slow.”

***

Waiting to be announced onto the first tee, Marcie and Gary comprised a picture of contrasts. She personified athletic elegance, clad in a miniskirt and a form-fitting golf shirt. Gary, on the other hand, personified the worried, harried caddie, clad in jeans and a sweatshirt, over which his baggy caddie bib was draped. Whereas Marcie was all smiles and cool, Gary fretted and fidgeted, zipping and unzipping pockets on the bag, re-arranging towels, and otherwise nervously killing time. During this process of double-checking everything, Gary glanced at the golf bag of Marcie’s diminutive, Korean playing partner. Something didn’t look right. Leaving Marcie’s Callaway branded bag standing upright, Gary walked over to her.

“Something’s weird here,” he whispered. “The kid’s got left-handed clubs, but a right-handed putter.”

Marcie regarded him with a blank stare. “So?” she said, after a moment.

“Do you think I should tell her caddie?”

Gary’s apparent quandary bemused Marcie, while making her aware of his ill at ease. “Good God, Gary, relax,” she said. “I’m sure he already knows.”

“First on the tee,” the tee announcer called out. “From South Korea, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Sun Yen Moon.” After bowing to Marcie, and in turn, bowing to the right and left and behind, to the scattering of spectators, Sen Yen Moon teed up her electric pink golf ball and started her quest for a Tour card.

Next on the tee was Marcie Tompkins. The announcer repeated the introductory process. Marcie acknowledged the polite reception with a touch to her Callaway visor. Then she ripped a perfect drive.

It was clear from the start that Marcie was within her comfort zone. The months of preparation paid dividends in the form of two birdies and four pars over the first six holes. Her confidence was contagious, and it spread to Gary, whose manner became relaxed and positive. 

One of the ways in which Gary had become such an asset to Marcie’s golf game was his ability to help her focus on the mental side of the game. “See success,” he would say when handing her a club, or before moving away after helping her with the line of a putt. Whatever you “see” is what will happen, he believed. The hard thing is learning what to “see.”

Marcie’s only hiccup during the entire first round was a double-bogey at the par-3 twelfth. But perhaps even better than the six birdies she ended up making during the round, was the way she recovered from the mistake at twelve—with birdies at both thirteen and fourteen. All said and done, Marcie signed for a solid and well deserved 68.

Relaxing back at the condo, Marcie expressed gratitude for Gary’s help.

“Thanks so much,” she said. “That’s a wonderful thing you do.”

“Yeah,” Gary admitted, after a fresh swig from his beer. “I can’t fuckin’ play; but I can caddie.”

“I didn’t mean that” Marcie said. “I was talking about early this morning.”

***

Marcie stayed right on track after the opening 68, following that with a 70 on Thursday and a 71 on Friday. On Saturday, she started off on fire, carding a three-under-par 32 on the outward nine, but things began to unwind on the back side. She missed short putts at both sixteen and seventeen, and three-putted eighteen, to come home in 38, and posted a fourth-round score of even par 70. Her aggregate score of 279 placed her tied for eighteenth place—good enough, but far from safe.

Working on her deteriorating putting stroke, Marcie sought both Gary’s and Ingmar’s counsel as she stroked ball after ball to the hole. When Gary offered input, it had nothing to do with mechanics. He believed that of all the skills involved in the world of sports, putting a golf ball was the most cerebral. The physical act was relatively simple—But the concentration required to execute precision, when the outcome of the stroke really mattered, was another thing altogether.

Ingmar’s approach was different. He thought Marcie’s stroke was becoming “too wristy.” He wanted her to focus more on the “big muscles,” controlling the swing of the putter more with her shoulders. He went so far as to hand her a very heavy mini putter, no more than twenty-four inches in length. She stroked a few balls with it and agreed that it helped her focus more on relaxing the arms, for a more pendulum-like stroke.

***

Unlike the four previous mornings, Gary awoke to the sound of the alarm clock, rather than the blissful sensation of Marcie’s closeness. Never a morning person, Gary rolled over and drifted back toward slumber. A few moments later, a sharp rapping on the bedroom door stirred him again, and the demanding timbre of Ingmar’s voice boomed out.

“Counselor? —get your ass movin’ in there—we gotta be leavin’ in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m seeing a 65!” Gary advised loudly, as he emerged from the bedroom and strode toward the coffee maker in the kitchen. Ingmar was seated at the kitchen table reading a newspaper while Marcie carefully wrapped adhesive tape around the middle joint of her left index and ring fingers.

“Can I get you guys a cup?” Gary asked brightly.

“No thanks,” Ingmar said.

“Marcie?” Gary asked.

She looked up and regarded Gary coldly. “Yeah, good idea, give me some more fucking caffeine.”

 That Marcie was way up tight was obvious.   

***

At the course, grey skies, a brisk wind, and a chilling mist had replaced the mid-week balmy weather. Gary went about his caddie chores carefully, but silently. The deteriorating weather conditions made his job more difficult—It was his duty to keep everything dry, in addition to measuring yardages, calculating wind direction, reading the line of putts, all while keeping his player’s head screwed on straight. The cold had relegated Ingmar to the clubhouse, and Gary was happy for that. When they got to the putting practice finale of the warm-up process, he didn’t want any mention of mechanics, or use of the short putter.

Despite the bad weather and the approaching 10:00 starting time for what would be the make-or-break round of golf of her life, Marcie’s mood lightened as she progressed through the practice shot routine. She apologized for snapping at Gary in the kitchen.

        Marcie was paired again with Ms. Moon, who the announcer introduced to essentially no one. At 10 a.m. on this cold and wet Sunday morning, almost nobody was outside who didn’t have to be, particularly on a soggy, windswept golf course. Nevertheless, the plucky young player performed the all- around bows. Bemused again, Gary looked to Marcie and smiled. He drew encouragement from the fact that Marcie winked and smiled back. “Fairways ‘n greens, babe,” he said softly.   

They toured the front nine without drama. Marcie had managed a birdie 4 on the par-5 second but followed that with bogies at the third and the sixth. Her score for the round at the turn was a one-over-par 36, and overall, she was even par. Tour scoring moved the projected the top twenty standard from -1 to even, so Marcie was still on track, but had no shots to give away.

As the back nine wore on, the skies darkened further, and the morning’s mist gave way to drizzle. The pace of play bogged down and when Marcie and Gary arrived at the fifteenth tee, the pairing ahead of them had still not played their tee shots. With the temperature falling, the winds rising and the rain increasing, adding more time to the nerve-jangling circumstances was the last thing Marcie needed. She stood huddled with Gary beneath an umbrella, that frequent wind gusts tried to wrench from his grasp. “Fuck this,” he muttered.

“Hang in there kid,” a voice called from behind. Marcie looked back and saw the pumpkin-faced smile of Ronald King, as he made his way toward them. “You got it kid,” he said. Plus five’s gonna make it—everybody’s crashing and burning.”

` “Oh my,” was all Marcie could say. 

“Thanks Ron,” Gary said seeking closure to the distraction. Ronald’s advice was welcome.  It meant Marcie could bogey-in and still make the top twenty. Gary certainly would not discuss the situation in such terms, but it was soothing that the prize was within reach. If five over was enough, all Marcie had to do was not drop dead.

And she didn’t. Ronald’s presence, however strange, had a curiously uplifting effect on Marcie’s attitude. Not only did she not throw away shots on the final four holes, she finished par, birdie, birdie, par, to post the best score of the day, a 71, and a final overall score of 350, even par. After holing the final putt, she ran toward Gary, who stood on the far side of the green. They embraced as the steady rain poured. The wetness on each of their faces was a mixture of raindrops and tears.

Gathering his wits, Gary advised that the job was still not done. “Review the card carefully,” he said. “I’ll take the bag to the clubhouse and meet you later.

***

Some ten minutes later, when Gary was unpacking Marcie’s golf bag, his life literally flashed before his eyes. In the bag’s large front pocket, in addition to a dozen box of Titleists, and an extra rain jacket, Gary’s horrified eyes beheld Ingmar’s teaching aid putter.

He tore out of the clubhouse toward the scoring tent at a full sprint, slowing only when he spotted Marcie coming his way. “Fuck me,” he muttered, then hung his head waiting for Marcie to arrive.

“What the hell?” Marcie said. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worse,” Gary replied, looking up, with tears in his eyes. “Have you signed the card?

“Well—yes. Why?”

“Ingmar’s goddamn baby putter was in the bag—We played with fifteen clubs.”

Marcie’s face registered horror and shock, but then quickly morphed back into a smile. 

“Just keep smiling, goddamnit,” she said through clenched teeth. What did you do with the bag?”

“Zipped it up.”

“Go get it and put it in the Jeep—And just drive to the condo—Everything’s alright.”

***

They say what one does in a crisis defines who one really is. If this is the case, in the wake of the baby putter crisis, Marcie defined herself as someone who would not be deterred from her goal by a rules technicality.

        Gary was right. Under the Rules of Golf, the baby putter would be considered a club. During an official round a player is only allowed to carry up to fourteen. The penalty is two strokes per hole played with more than fourteen clubs, with a maximum penalty of four strokes per round. Had the problem been discovered before Marcie signed the scorecard, she could have accepted the penalty and her score would have been deemed a 75 rather than a 71—still good enough to make the top twenty. But she signed for 71. If she admitted to the mistake now, the penalty would be disqualification. 

Golf lore abounds with examples of pure-in-heart golfers who have yielded to the sacrosanctity of the rules in the face of catastrophic and often unjust consequences.

But if she ever was, Marcie was no longer pure-of-heart. Benjamin Ripley had seen to that.

The End