The Club

Chapter 8 - Strine

The members of the grounds staff at a golf club are like the elves that assist the cobbler. Nature washes over the course and the players trudge through the grounds every afternoon like the infantry storming the castle. Each night we leave the course turned out and by morning the bunkers are raked, the greens are rolled and double cut, and the fairways are returned to their pristine conditions. A good crew can make all the difference to a course. A bad crew can undo all of the goodwill that the pro shop staff attempts to create during the day. That said, the collection of characters that do this essential job would not be those to pass a criminal reference check with ease. The Club had its own collection of ne’er-do-wells and reprobates that worked the early morning hours. Still, a man’s ability to remove standing water from a landing area and level a tee box are not correlated with his social consciousness. The legends of the grounds staff are many and border on the bizarre. They include stories about staff killing and cooking wildlife on the course and wild ritualistic drinking games punctuated by late night golf cart rallies.

The hero of the dirt at the Club was Harry “the Hair” Hooper. Harry’s age had been estimated to be anywhere between 39 and 65. I pegged him at about 45. My opportunity to debrief with Harry was at 7:30 in the morning, before he left for the day. Harry’s favourite word was “Schwaggah”. He used it frequently and I haven’t a clue what it meant. Harry’s hair was a collection of spikes that seemed to be more interested in what was going on in the clouds than on his head. By the morning Harry was covered in dirt from head to toe though those that saw him in the evenings said he showed up for his shift in the same state of disrepair.

Watching a conversation between Cloudy and Harry was a spectator event. “Fifteenth green fired the schwaggah down the horn nail and trudged the dew spot round Sally’s knickers,” Harry might say.

“Hell’s bells, Harry. I told you 50 times to cut the crap and drain the snot out of that horse’s ass,” Cloudy would reply.

This would go back and forth for a half hour and get two steps away from a fist fight before they would retreat to their respective corners and get back to work. It was an animosity that must have been born from an unspoken past. Today they were involved in an epic quarrel which as usual would end in harsh words and irrational proclamations.

While the two of them squared off, Lorna stopped by for a round in the morning. She had started to play with some of the better members in the club in the competitions and her handicap had fallen to a miniscule 4. Today she was down to play with the Greene’s, Al and Ena, the American lollypops.

“How are the shoes working out, Ena?” I asked.

“These are the fourth pair of shoes I’ve bought since I’ve been here. I cannot find my size at all. Six is too small, 7 is too big, and the width – what is with the width here? Everything is so tight on my foot. You know I had a friend ...”

I interrupted her before she could go any further. “Ena, have you met Lorna?”  

“Hello, dearie; it’s so nice to meet you. Al has decided he’s not going to use a cart today; he could really use the exercise,” Ena confessed.

I winked at Lorna as she headed off to the first tee with the Greenes. Al hit first and launched a massive tee shot around the dog leg. Lorna stepped up to the ladies tees, put a creamy buttery swing on the ball, and it hit dead centre of the fairway. Ena took out her 3-wood and, while still talking about the diet and exercise program she intended to put Al on for the next 3 months,  took a mighty lash at the ball. It went about 40 metres, dead right. It was approximately 2 minutes before she located her shiny red golf tee which she eventually found by getting down on all fours and patting the grass. When it finally emerged they were off.