Stableford

Stableford

Their naked butts break through their spotted shells as they hatch from the inside.

I look up. A dozen spherical objects zip through the sky. With a single brushstroke; an instant white line; they cut through the ozone layer before touching down on Earth after a slow descent.

A shell cracks near the green. From the oblong-shaped hole, a figure covered in amniotic fluid emerges from its spotted, golf-ball-shaped cocoon.

It tries to rise. But fails; and slips back into the shell’s slimy core.

The figure has narrow hips and broad shoulders. Carries itself with a slightly off-balance and slouched posture. Wrinkles surround its gray scalp. And right beneath its torso dangles a mildly shriveled penis with slightly tanned skin.

The old-man rubs his balding head and wipes the amniotic fluid from his arms. He rubs his gut and points his beer-belly towards the sun.

He rises one more time. This time his arms don’t work. And his legs wobble like jelly underneath his narrow waist.

Eventually, he gathers enough strength to pull himself out of the amniotic pool. As his weight shifts, he tips over and falls from his cocooned shell before dropping onto the grass.

His body flounders like a fish. He squawks in a shallow pitch that abruptly deepens.

To my left, a middle-aged woman squawks as she falls from another spotted shell at the next hole.

She does the same. Rises; wobbles; and flops onto the grass, breaking her fall with her rubbery limbs.

Behind me, beside the blue tee, two elderly transvestites watch the others rise from their spotted-shells. They watch them slip and fall.

And then carefully slip from their own cocoons with slightly more elegance and poise. Then they compose themselves quicker than the others. They squawk and walk away.

I turn around. I make a mental note of all the hatched cocoons scattered across the golf course. Of the few dozen I can see; maybe three? With several more still hovering down to Earth.

I pick up my golf-ball from my tee.

No use in playing right now, I say to myself. I might hit someone. One of them? Whatever they are.

Pensioned extraterrestrial golfers… Perhaps?

As I clean my clubs with the towel hanging from my caddy-bag, I notice the old-man covered in slightly less amniotic fluid teaching himself how to use his legs.

At first, he struggles with his balance. Slippery feet, shaky shoulders. The same way a child moves before taking his or her first step.

The amniotic fluid that covers the old-man’s body doesn’t help his ability to navigate the solid ground beneath his feet.

“Fuuheuw!” He squawks.

All the aliens around the golf course duck back into their shells. Those that have already made it out of their shells cower behind them. Holding their hands above their heads; or shielding themselves with a piece from their cracked cocoon.

A golf ball settles just beside me; about five meters from where I stand.

The ball is red with white lettering written across its core.

*DMNT-IA*

Some company name; or maybe planetary coordinates? Perhaps?

I look at the ball and touch my shoulder as I run my finger along my indented collarbone. I feel the phantom pain from playing golf with John.

All those years ago. All those lost red balls in the woods.

“Fuuheuw!!!!!”

I snap out of my trancelike state and look back at the old-man. This time I don’t hear a golf-ball drop; and only see him figuring out how to walk.

He uses his arms to expedite the movement of his legs as he waddles around like a penguin. He keeps his arms straight as clubs, and his hands stiff like paddles. And after he gets accustomed to his wobbly feet, he notices me and heads in my direction.

“Mulf?” He shouts as he approaches. “Mulf? Mulf. Mulf!”

He points to my clubs with an extreme sense of urgency.

As he gets closer, he starts to remind me of John.

“Golf?” I say. “You want to play golf?”

“Mulf,” the old-man mutters. “Mulf, mulf!”

“Does your life depend on it?” I jest.

The old-man smirks and nods his head.

“Do you understand what I am saying?”

The old-man looks confounded.

“Why did you come?”

He turns his head and points toward the sky. Then, he makes a free-falling whistling noise and flutters his hand towards the ground like a falling bird.

As he reaches his waist, he clenches his fists and indicates being stationary by shaking his head and trying to budge. Then, after a few seconds of this back-and-forth performance, he opens his hands and tilts his palms upward.

Then he wiggles his fingers like sparkling stars.

“Aaahhhhh,” his demeanor turns relaxed. “Mulf. Oggi mulf.”

He shrugs gleefully and points to the ground. “Mulf; oggi.”

“Yea,” I say. “You came from up there. Your friends are over there.”

I point to a group of middle-aged figures down the course. Although some of them could also be considered ancient.

The old-man shakes his head. “Mulf! Nimply – mulf.”

“We can go there if you’d like?”

He shakes his head more aggressively. He taps his chest and spreads his arms like a flamboyant Spaniard; and then points to my clubs.

“Mulf!”

I nod and take out my 7. Iron before handing it to him.

He snatches it from me with glee.

Somehow, the old-man reminds me of John right before John lost his mind. When he was still balancing his act of sanity and madness. Right on the verge of becoming senile. Right before Melissa and I had to put him in the home after he tried to stab our Nan with his fabric-scissors.

“Mulf.” The old-man takes a swing but misses since nothing is there.

“Hey! Not like that…”

“Mulf, mulf?”

“Whatever; let me show you.”

The old-man turns impatient. He doesn’t seem to understand the serenity that comes with a good swing. How it pauses the world around you after you hit that perfect shot.

I tell him to take it easy. I drop a ball and tell him to practice before he hits.

He lines up behind the ball I drop.

He doesn’t know how to stand and overextends on his first attempt. Scuffing the ball ever so slightly that it merely wallops up and down like a frog.

He then moves his body rigidly; holding his arms stiff, like a baseball bat; and chops away at the grass like a gravedigger.

He chops and chops until a rut appears in the fairway ground.

I take the 5. Iron from my bag and push the club against his chest to push him back.

The old-man takes a step back.

I line up behind the ball and use my pelvis as its center. I bend my knees and tip my chest. Forcing myself to stand in an unnatural – L - shape.

He looks at me, then at his feet. “Mulf,” he shouts understandingly.

Nodding, I show him how to hold and twist the arms to one side as I move them parallel to my chin. I keep my upper body straight, and fling the club around my shoulder blades before dipping my hips and following with the club.

After which, I torque my body in the other direction in one smooth motion. And let the club guide my movement, rather than use the club to force my swing.

With each practice shot, my clubhead touches the grass. Gently kissing the roots as the clubhead cuts through a few blades before I finish my full rotation.

And after practicing a few times, I line up behind my ball. Point my nose toward the place where I want the ball to go, and bend my knees. I tilt my chest, turn my hips and twist, and eventually release.

We watch the ball settle close to where I was aiming. Not perfect, but not too far off.

“Muuulf,” the old-man squawks gleefully.

He lines up behind his shot the same way I had done. And holds his club more loosely than before. He locks his left-thumb into his right-palm; and makes a few practice swings without chopping away at the grass.

“I guess you’re ready,” I say, correcting his wrists one last time before I point ahead.

I point to the middle of the fairway and tell him to aim for the bunker.

“It’s better to aim for an object you don’t want to hit; John once told me.”

The old-man grunts.

“It helps to keep your shot level and reel back on the strength. You don’t want to overextend when worrying about sand,” I say, mimicking John's voice.

“Mulf?”

“Nothing.” I wipe the smile off my face. “Never mind.”

Somehow, in one fell swoop, the old-man hits the ball much better than either of us expected.

We watch it drop onto the fairway. And roll further down until it reaches the bunker.

“Great shot!” I say.

“Mulf mulf!” The old-man hops around in ecstasy.

He quickly waddles towards his ball. Walking slightly more humanlike with each wavering step.

I watch him search for his ball and remember how John once made a similar shot. But his actually landed inside the bunker. Cause he never followed his own advice.

I look up at the sky. It’s a sunny day in Rotterdam. A single white cloud is painted against the crisp blue sky.

As the sunlight warms my cheeks, I listen to the bristling leaves. I hear the branches crack as I fill my lungs with the fresh springtime air. I close my eyes and hear the whistle of the hovering golf-ball-shells descending toward Earth.

“Fuuheuw!” Someone squawks from another hole.

I open my eyes and see the old-man ducking for cover. As I rub my eyes, I see him rise from the sand.

A ball ticks and tocks behind me. And eventually lands in a pile of sticks.

I touch my shoulder and feel the dent in my collarbone. “That… Is not… How one… Plays, goddamned golf!”

“Fuuheuw!” The same voice cries. But this time no bouncing ball emerges from the trees.

“Mulf! Mulf?” The old-man shouts at me from afar. He signals me to come close to him and shrugs.

“Mulf?” He looks around the bunker and lowers his voice. “Mulf…”

“Can’t find your ball, huh? Buddy? Don’t be sad! It happens to the best of us.”

“Mulf mulf,” the old-man replies.

“Are you trying to talk?”

The old-man nods.

“That’s fast; it usually takes a baby years to learn how to properly form a sentence. My sister, Melissa, didn’t talk before the age of three.”

The old-man shrugs. “Mulf?”

“Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating.”

The old-man nods.

“John actually lost his ability to speak later in life. Instead of the other way around. He always told me he was a child prodigy.”

“Mulf…” The old-man sounds doubtful.

“But when he got real sick, really fast; I didn’t have the strength to save him. I really should’ve taken his complaints more serious.”

“Mulf?” The old-man nods his head in agreement.

“Do you know John?”

The old-man shakes his head.

“Of course not; that’s a silly idea. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

The old-man shoots me a comforting look and gives me a friendly tap on the shoulder.

Then, he points to my caddy and mimics a swing.

I take a ball from the bag and drop it on the grass. “No mulligans. Not anymore.”

The old-man raises his brow.

“I forget; I never explained you the rules.”

I take my extra pair of shorts from my caddy-bag and offer them to him.

“I’m sorry, but can you please put this on first? It’s very distracting talking to an elderly naked man. Especially when his saggy balls are sagging toward the grass; and he reminds me so much of John.”

The old-man puts on my shorts and carefully listens to my explanation.

I skip the boring parts; about Stroke-Play and Stableford; and focus on mulligans and shouting FORE!

And mention how important it is to reach the green with minimal strokes; which is the key to a good putt.

“How well you hit the ball determines whether you hit a Birdie or a Par,”I explain to him. “Golf isn’t a game of strength, but of precision. Not indecision.”

“You’ll learn quickly how to adjust your game. You just need to feel the movement; and don’t pay attention to what the others do. Or others squawk…

“All that matters in this moment – the moment you line up on the green; for your putt; is your ball… And you.”

The old-man takes three attempts to putt. A Double Bogey, two plus Par on a Par Five. Not bad for a first try.

Not bad at all.

Maybe he’s even better than John.

Contented with his performance, he takes his ball from the cup and heads towards Hole 19.

Hole 19. goes much faster.

The old-man learns quickly; inhumanly so. With each lineup; each swing; and each stroke; he adapts his game. Betters himself. And becomes a master of the craft of golf.

The glassy film that had covered his eyes since he had landed disappears. He moves with torque and speed. And locks his gaze onto his target before sending off a perfectly guided missile.

I try to follow in his stride. But I’m already three strokes behind.

He finishes his game strong. I finish mine poorly.

Thirty-five plus three; while I end with thirty-five plus six.

I shake the old-man’s hand and congratulate him on his win.

He looks at me and squawks.

“Mulf?”

“We’re finished,” I say. “That’s it!”

“Mulf,” he responds sadly.

I place my clubs against the clubhouse and go inside. I go through the lobby and unlock the cantina door as I ask the old-man to wait on the restaurant deck.

He stands motionless on the squeaky planks as I go behind the bar to prepare myself a coffee.

Not sure whether the old-man can even drink coffee, I decide to play it safe and pour him a glass of water instead.

“So, what did you do before you landed here?” I say as we sit down at a table overlooking Holes 1. and 2.

“Mulf?”

“Outer space. I see, interesting. What did you do there? You must’ve been an important guy; considering you adapted so quickly to our ways.”

“Mulf, mulf. Mi mulf.” The old-man shakes his head.

“Preparing for Armageddon? That’s cool! Quite a unique situation you find yourself in.”

“Mulf?” The old-man shrugs, not seeming to understand.

“Unique as in special. John would say ‘idiosyncratic’. Whatever that means.”

The old-man agrees. He notices me taking a sip from my cup and takes a sip from his own glass.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m only joking when I said your arrival spells our Armageddon.”

The old-man whines. “Mulf. I, nimply, mulf.”

“That’s a fine way of putting it. Golf: I simply – want - to play - golf… I like that.”

“Ye here, nimply play mulf.”

He opens his hand and aims his finger toward me and raises his shoulders.

“Oh, I’m just a sentimental middle-aged fool. John was my husband, you see. We used to come here to play together. He was a bit older than I am; and he taught me how to play golf. Taught me about love. And I guess when they called in that asteroid storm, I simply wanted to remember him. And here you are...”

The old-man scratches his eye.

“Maybe you’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t compare you two. My sister told me it was a bad idea to come out here. If I didn’t die, I’d surely lose my mind; she said. But God, isn’t that view amazing.”

The old man nods.

The golf course becomes covered in fire and ash. When the cracked golf-ball shaped asteroids form craters in the grass. And as Hillegersberg turns into a hellish landscape, I go back inside and lock the cantina door.

“John died from a tumor; it was a long and slow burn. Quite a struggle near the end.”

The old-man grunts.

“I could’ve stopped it if I’d only listened, I think. But he was already gone at that point; and I was too preoccupied with being a nurse. I just took his complaints as those of a senile old man. I couldn’t even see my husband toward the end.”

The old-man lowers his head, disinterested.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

The old-man shrugs. “Mi mulf. Iz all.” He smiles.

“You’re getting the hang of this talking thing quite fast. Maybe we should play another game?”

The old man nods.

We pause our conversation, and I go inside to pour myself another drink for while we play.

As I try to start the coffee machine, the grinder halts.

I open the cabinet beneath the sink and search for a screwdriver or fork to help un-lodge the coffee-beans stuck inside.

After a few seconds, I find a musky old screwdriver covered in mold.

I clean the metal in the sink and wash my hands with soap.

As I turn around, I notice the old-man walk away towards a few of his amniotic-fluid covered friends.

He’s carrying my caddy-bag around his shoulders and takes a club from one of its pockets before dropping a ball inside the tee-box.

He proudly displays the techniques I’ve taught him. And with a single swing he guides the ball perfectly onto the middle of the fairway.

His new friends squawk and hop around. And follow their new leader as his image is blinded by the sun.