The Club

Chapter 7 - Cloudy

A week had passed since my mother’s visit and I was now becoming entrenched in the routine at the course. I enjoyed Jason’s company at the pro shop, and the bizarre cast of characters at the club was becoming reassuringly consistent. My tutoring sessions with Masters Tom, Dick and, Harry were incredibly rewarding. Each of them was a keen student of the game and seemed to devour every morsel I could give. They had predicted the pattern of my shifts and were masters at finding spare time in my schedule. Lorna had joined the boys and was a superb addition to the team. Her meticulous nature was rubbing off on the boys, and their ability to make a game out of any practice session allowed Lorna to loosen up and find the fun in the sport.

This particular afternoon I was to play a round of golf with none other than James “Cloudy” Mcleod. In what had become a couple of months at the club I had never played with Cloudy and in fact had never seen him play, practice, or actually swing a club. I had seen him lean on a club, use it to retrieve fallen golf pencils wedged under the front counter, and even to swat at a spider too high for the vacuum to reach, but I had never actually seen him use one of the many brands of sticks he sold for their intended purpose. The only reason that Cloudy decided to hit the course was because the local Titleist rep was in town and wanted a game. The Titleist man was an old friend of Cloudy’s, a pal from back in his tour days.  I’m not entirely sure what I was doing in the group but I was happy to spend a bit of time with my boss as we had only spent about 15 minutes together since I started.

I was determined not to make a fool of myself and headed to the range a few minutes before our game to groove my stroke. I met the Titleist representative and we made small talk in between warm-up swings. I asked him what kind of player Cloudy was.

“You’ll see,” he said with a smile.

The two of us walked to the first tee and Cloudy came out to join us. I expected Cloudy to use a golf cart. I had never seen him away from the cart while at the course and therefore was shocked to see him with a small carry bag, ready for a game. Mr Titleist led off with an average shot down the wrong side of the fairway. I countered with an equally average shot down the correct side to miss, and then came Cloudy. James McLeod seemed awkward at everything he did in his life. His conversations were too quick and his addition was too slow. His driving was too fast but he would take hours to stack an order of golf balls, as if his hands did not speak to each other. Then I saw him take a driver from his bag, stalk the first tee, and all of his awkwardness disappeared. Far from his athletic prime, nevertheless his swing was poetic. It contained no wasted motion; it was fluid and powerful. His first drive took a perfect line down the right side of the fairway and curled gently to the perfect spot from which to approach the green. He put his club back in his bag and lugged his sticks over his shoulder. As he walked confidently down the fairway, all of his awkwardness was now gone. He no longer muttered; he talked eloquently and patiently. He was at once humble yet quietly confident. He took the opportunity to ask me questions about golf and my family.  After 8 holes I was one under par but he was minus three and with ease. As we walked up the 9th fairway he began to make suggestions to me about Tom’s and Harry’s swings. His observations were keen. I had never noticed him taking any interest in the boys but he seemed to have memorized their action, pinpointed their weaknesses, and in 2 minutes had filled my mind with drills which were the perfect remedy for what ailed them.

We reached the sixteenth tee and my solid game had ceased to stay with me. I was now two over par but Cloudy was 7 under and playing some sublime golf. It was truly a pleasure to watch and it made me remember the reason I had given up tournament golf to become a club professional – I was out of my depth. In fact he was three birdies short of the course record posted above the goulash pot in the clubhouse. His tee shot on the Par 3 sixteenth never left the stick; it ended 2 feet from the pin after a brief dance created by some astounding spin. As we walked to the green I asked him if he had noticed anything in Lorna’s swing that I could use with her.

“Your mother, Teddy. For crying out loud I’ve never seen her swing but if it’s anything like yours I might see what she thinks about taking up tennis,” he offered, with a huge smile. “The girl is the best of them, but she doesn’t believe; you have to make her believe in herself,” he instructed. “The swing will be there, her short game will come, and she has all the heart in the world; if she ever decides to believe in herself, she could be one of the best players the ACT has ever produced,” he said.

“I agree,” I said. “How will I bring it out of her”?

As he tapped in on 16 for 8 under, he said, “I always found a reason to back out. You need to give her a reason why she can’t,” he said.

After another birdie on 17 we were walking towards the 18th tee whereupon James McCloud suddenly returned to “Cloudy”. He began to mutter and excused himself as he needed “to get back to the shop and make sure those morons in the clubhouse don’t leave the toilets open again.” And with that Cloudy disappeared into the gathering twilight at the course.

I turned to Johnny Titleist who was not surprised in the least. “I’ve seen him do it a dozen times before,” he said. “He doesn’t want his golf game to leave a trace. His time has come and gone and he dreads gathering tin pots and old scorecards posted in clubhouses, signed and attested as eerie reminders of a misspent youth,” he concluded profoundly.

“You may not have realized it until now but you have just had a glimpse of one of the best natural golfers Australia has ever produced. He is also an incredible teacher of the game. A few years ago he began a junior development program down in Melbourne and was able to turn out more amateur champions in 2 years than the club had seen in two decades. He’s a tortured genius. It’s complicated. He had all the talent in the world but he just never believed in himself, and if you don’t you can’t play this game for long; it will kick your ass,” he said profoundly.

“He told me that I had to coach the Junior Development team because he couldn’t coach kids,” I remembered.

The Titleist man made a wry smile.  I joined him in a laugh as we played the 18th and walked in together. When we got back to the shop, Cloudy’s car was gone.