Mostly Anecdotal

They waited in the dark. If the light came on it was because another was joining them, they waited, not knowing what the future would bring.

She waited until he was gone, then opened the door, and chose two. Only two of hundreds, perhaps with only two he wouldn’t notice when he returned. One in each hand, she led them to the dumpster where they were to hide. She told them to be quiet, very quiet.

“Someone will come for you,” she said. She reminded them that if discovered they would be returned to the room that had been their prison all these years. They said nothing, unable to speak. Others had tried to escape. The pickup delayed, they had been found, and returned to their place in the dark.

He never mistreated them, he sometimes talked to them, recounting what it was that brought them to this place and how someday soon he’d find a way, a reason, to let them return to their previous life.

He probably could have ransomed them and recovered some of the expense of keeping them, but he didn’t. He was comforted just knowing they were there. Now they were gone, spirited out on a Monday after he left, and picked up Tuesday morning before he returned. They were free. It wasn’t until later when he unbolted the door to the room, and turned on the light, that he discovered them missing.

“Where the hell is my lawnmower,” he said, “and my shovel.”

“They were worn out, you never used them,” she said. “The handle on the shovel was broken. Remember, you bought a new one, you just didn’t throw out the old one, and the last time you used that lawnmower it was spewing black smoke and making a clanking sound.”

“They were fixable,” he said. “They had some good years left,” he said.

“I know,” she said, and laid her hand on his shoulder, “but it was time to let them go.”

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.

There is something magic about sharing our stories. No sooner do we share a favorite anecdote than we get one in return. I recently reminded my son Chris of how he had once confused the terms obstinance and abstinence, he laughed and then began to tell a story about a childhood friend of his. He told me that if I tell the story I should tell you his friend was a nice boy, a really nice boy. I think he was a momma’s boy, Chris didn’t say so, but I’ll bet he was.

Anyway the story is that this young man worked very hard at sticking to his principles. One principle was that he shouldn’t swear. He was already in the seventh grade, and claimed he had never sworn. I didn’t ask whether he had ever kissed a girl, but I’ll bet he hadn’t done that either. They, my son, the nice boy, and their posse had just finished science class. The lesson had been on the biology of the unseen world. They were leaving class when the nice boy said, “isn’t it amazing, all those little orgasms just floating around.” It wasn’t a swear word, but it might as well have been. Momma’s boy was heartbroken. It was as if he had missed a day of school and spoiled his perfect attendance record.

A few days later I was recounting the entire story to an employee of mine. I told her of how Chris had confused obstinance with abstinence, and then how Chris had told me of his friend who was amazed by all the little orgasms. She immediately recounted how she had overheard a conversation between her two young sons, the older was explaining something to the younger. She told how she distinctly heard the younger one say orgasm. Was the older giving the younger a lesson about sex? “What are you talking about,” she said to the older. “Relax Mom” he said, “he means organism.”

In the early ninety’s when chess players still got together in person, my good friend Stephen invited the usual suspects over for a little barbecue and some chess. He said he had some visitors we would enjoy meeting. I asked who, he said that Grandmaster Alex Sherzer would be there and the rest he would save until later. I prodded without success.

It turned out that Alex was not traveling alone, the others in his party were introduced as Lyle, Zoie and Sofia. The conversation quickly turned to chess, the PCA the Intel Grand Prix, as well as the merits of different players. I think at least some of us were wondering, could this Sofia be Sofia Polgar, I know I was. We didn’t have to wait long to find out. About five minutes into the conversation Tim said, “well ladies do you play chess.” To which they replied “oh a little.” Most chess players know the code “oh a little” means oh indeed I do, and I’m probably better than you.

A few minutes later not satisfied, Tim said to Sofia, “you look a lot like Judit Polgar”, a real conversation stopper. Stephen said, “well of course she looks like Judit this is Sofia her sister”. Tim said, “NO, not really” to which Stephen in his most serious tone replied, “Yes Tim really”. Tim didn’t say anything for several minutes. Then you could see the realization on his face, like the sun rising in the morning a glimmer of light reflected in his eye. Then just as quickly as if the entire day had passed in that one moment the sun set and his face turned a dark crimson red. There was nowhere to hide; all he could manage was a soft oh.

Sofia gave us all gave a chance to prove our skill at speed chess, all quickly fell victim to a very good player. Tim claims to have won one game, but after watching Sofia crush Alex Sherzer game after game, I don’t believe him. Tim was not alone however, the previous weekend Sofia, Alex and company were in Tucson, Sofia wasn’t playing but was at the tournament where no one recognized her.

Note: Sofia Polgar is a two-times Gold medallist with Hungarian national women’s team in 1988 and 1990. Her biggest success was in Rome, 1989 with a performance rating over 2900! (Kasparov’s current rating is 2838) In a field of strong GMs she won the competition with 8.5/9, which at the time was a record in open tournaments.