Fred’s Dead
We left him on the 14th hole, under some scrub oak, on the right side of the fairway, and not far from the 15th tee. He should be comfortable there. He is, after all, dead. Fred made our twosome a threesome and beat us to boot. Fred never felt the pressure of needing to hit the perfect shot. He never threw a club and he never cussed. Fred was a golfer’s golfer.
There is nothing better than standing on the first tee early in the morning. The course covered with a light dew waiting to track your first shot. It will burn off by the time you reach the fourth hole. Until then each shot will land creating a visible track from where it strikes the fairway to where it stops. Sometimes when the sun is shining just right, it’s like a thousand little rainbows flittering across the grass, the ball resting at the end of the rainbow. The first hole is a dogleg right. To the right is a mountain-side strewn with boulders, you don’t want to be right. On the left, a row of trees lining the creek that defines out of bounds until it passes in front of the green. The creek is the final obstacle to negotiate before reaching the putting surface.
Being the first group of the day is special. No one to slow the play, the first nine holes with nothing but fairways, tees, and greens ahead. The round takes not two hours, but closer to 90 minutes, three hours for the 18. There are many theories on why Fred plays so well. Some say he has no pressure on him. He cares, but he doesn’t. When it’s his turn to shoot he always seems relaxed, and if he misses a shot it never carries over to the next shot. Like I said, he’s never cussed, he seldom says anything at all, but Fred hadn’t arrived.
So after Steve and I teed off I hit Fred’s drive for him allowing that he would take over when he joined us. I drove it straight and true, 260 yards right down the middle of the fairway. I was tempted to claim Fred’s shot for my own and let him take mine but that wouldn’t have been right, and besides Steve and I had our usual wager and he would never allow it. Steve, with Fred still missing, hit Fred’s second shot.
The second and third holes are out of sight of the clubhouse, but we imagined Fred sitting on the clubhouse patio, a cup of coffee in hand, waiting for us to get to the fourth tee, just a wedge shot away from the clubhouse. He would be refreshed and ready to go. So Steve and I continued to alternate shots with Fred’s ball. Fred parred the first hole. Steve and I both bogeyed the hole. On the second hole a short par three over a pond we all made the green, and we all had birdie putts, but Steve and I managed only to par the hole. Steve had hit Fred’s tee shot and so it was up to me to putt. The knowledge gained by watching Steve putt and having struck my ball on a line similar to Fred’s was a help and Fred scored a birdie. We arrived at the fourth tee but no Fred.
We continued alternating shots on Fred’s ball, and he continued to score well. Certainly, he would be at the clubhouse when we made the turn. “You grab some sandwiches and I’ll ask around, maybe someone has seen him” I said, Steve just smiled. I wandered into the pro-shop and asked Jimmy the pro, “Have you seen Fred today?” He smiled, “he’s beating you again, eh. Tell ya what If I see him I’ll send him out to join you.” We waited as long as we could and then, as on the first tee, I struck a perfect drive in Fred’s name and the back nine was underway. I thought I caught sight of Fred a time or two, but I was wrong. The distraction of playing Fred’s ball didn’t help our game, though it had no effect on his.
At the fourteenth we were fed up, still no flesh and blood Fred. He was up three with four to go. If nothing changed we would lose to Fred again. Steve and I didn’t speak, but we had an understanding. I directed Fred’s drive toward the rough on the right side of the fairway. It was headed straight for a stand of oaks, but through a stroke of good luck for Fred or bad luck for Steve and me the ball struck a rock and bounded right into the middle of the fairway. I looked at Steve, he looked at me, and still we said nothing. But when he arrived at Fred’s ball Steve kicked it into the trees. We finished the final four holes with no mention of Fred.
We had a beer in the clubhouse while I added up the scores. Fred had the lowest score but since he hadn’t finished the round it didn’t count. When I got home Gail said, “How was the round.” Pretty good. I started to say that I’d birdied the second hole, but then I remembered it was Fred. “How about Steve,” she said, “solid as usual” I replied. And how about your imaginary friend Fred, did he play. “Fred’s dead,” I said. “Fred’s dead,” she said. “Yes Fred’s dead,” I repeated. I sometimes think about Fred and the role he played. I remember his consistent good play, and that he never complained. I sometimes think about Fred, but I don’t miss him.