A Chip in for Birdie
In the summer of 1985, riding the tail winds of the Violent Femmes and R.E.M., I stepped right from high school into a job on the golf course at the local Country Club. Lovingly referred to as The Club by members and non-members alike, the ACC was a marker of the demonstrable wealth that made up much of Augusta, GA. Membership was (and is, I presume) a treasured birthright. Money and power in Augusta carry the same clout they do in most of our other communities. When I was young, I greatly resented this. Years later, my resentment—which was largely a result of envy—embarrassed me. Alas, the shallowness of youth helped prepare me for the depths of adulthood—in which I still often struggle (…and other unwieldy metaphors).
I met some of the biggest pricks on the planet during those three years working my way through college. There were a few that deserved truly horrible fates. While I wish no man any harm, I do believe that people somehow get what they deserve in the end. That’s not a bad thing I think. One sadistic, useless little fucker leaps immediately to mind…but I digress. I’ll just think of him as “Hank.” But, I further digress.
Conversely, I met some very decent and generous people at The Club. Generous tips. Good conversation. In fact, the most prominent golf producer at CBS at the time gave me his 24 carat, gold-plated putter (because “It doesn’t putt worth a shit!”). I regret that I was not savvy enough to recognize the connections I was party to. My life may have turned out quite different to this point. But I can’t complain. I was just a kid. Twenty years later and I still rarely recognize an opportunity when it presents itself. Aloof? Obtuse? Perhaps I’m still just a kid in those respects.
The work could be taxing at times; and it was certainly humbling. Lugging hundreds of pounds of golf clubs/bags; towing six golf carts behind a tractor and navigating through rows of Mercedes, Jaguars, and Porsches; picking the driving range clean time after time and dodging the assault of range balls as some members thought live targets were just hilarious. But there were tips, free cokes, free hot dogs for lunch, and other perks.
In 1987, I was standing on the course, peeking through the trees at the bordering 11th hole of the Augusta National when Larry Mize chipped in for birdie from 140 feet. Augusta’s own was the Masters Champion. The roar of the gallery that afternoon rivaled anything I had heard or have heard since. Later that year, I would get the privilege of cleaning the very sand wedge that Mize used to win the tournament.
We weren’t happy. We bitched. We made fun of many of the members. But we maintained camaraderie. There is nothing quite like the refuge one finds in common misery. I worked my ass off. But I had money for school, books, and beer. A punkass kid can’t really expect much more than that. I just wasn’t aware of that at the time.
Sometimes when I am back home, I drive by The Club. There is still the hint of an aura about the place. It looks largely the same, maybe a little more sprawling. But behind those gates and walls, and on that lovely green course are some of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the South. I am old enough now that I am not intimidated by this in the least. I am also old enough to regret the fact that I ever was. Simply put, folks are folks. I am pretty much comfortable around anybody, regardless of Class or social slot. That was not always so. But to this day, arrogance and pomposity make me laugh like hell. God help me if I ever take myself that seriously. Few things fuel my personal laugh track like the self-important or self-righteous. These are qualities that, surprisingly, seem to transcend social strata.
The last time I drove by, I noticed the old lot where I had parked my car all those years ago. I glimpsed where I had lined up hundreds of golf carts, retrieved hundreds of golf bags, and where I had washed thousands of golf clubs. It was the place I often harbored envy and nastiness; and it was the place I recognized decency and good fortune. Those were the years I began to understand stuff.
Most every Friday night, after the last golfer had come off the course and the last cart had been put away, I would pop my trunk and grab an iced down Michelob from my twelve pack cooler. I would drain the bottle and reach for another. On the way home, with the windows down and a cold beer between my legs, I would ride the music of the Femmes or R.E.M. or the Romantics as far from the workday as I could.
Sometimes I wondered silently where I would be in twenty years. Other times, I would just tip back my beer and simply drive into the sunset.
I met some of the biggest pricks on the planet during those three years working my way through college. There were a few that deserved truly horrible fates. While I wish no man any harm, I do believe that people somehow get what they deserve in the end. That’s not a bad thing I think. One sadistic, useless little fucker leaps immediately to mind…but I digress. I’ll just think of him as “Hank.” But, I further digress.
Conversely, I met some very decent and generous people at The Club. Generous tips. Good conversation. In fact, the most prominent golf producer at CBS at the time gave me his 24 carat, gold-plated putter (because “It doesn’t putt worth a shit!”). I regret that I was not savvy enough to recognize the connections I was party to. My life may have turned out quite different to this point. But I can’t complain. I was just a kid. Twenty years later and I still rarely recognize an opportunity when it presents itself. Aloof? Obtuse? Perhaps I’m still just a kid in those respects.
The work could be taxing at times; and it was certainly humbling. Lugging hundreds of pounds of golf clubs/bags; towing six golf carts behind a tractor and navigating through rows of Mercedes, Jaguars, and Porsches; picking the driving range clean time after time and dodging the assault of range balls as some members thought live targets were just hilarious. But there were tips, free cokes, free hot dogs for lunch, and other perks.
In 1987, I was standing on the course, peeking through the trees at the bordering 11th hole of the Augusta National when Larry Mize chipped in for birdie from 140 feet. Augusta’s own was the Masters Champion. The roar of the gallery that afternoon rivaled anything I had heard or have heard since. Later that year, I would get the privilege of cleaning the very sand wedge that Mize used to win the tournament.
We weren’t happy. We bitched. We made fun of many of the members. But we maintained camaraderie. There is nothing quite like the refuge one finds in common misery. I worked my ass off. But I had money for school, books, and beer. A punkass kid can’t really expect much more than that. I just wasn’t aware of that at the time.
Sometimes when I am back home, I drive by The Club. There is still the hint of an aura about the place. It looks largely the same, maybe a little more sprawling. But behind those gates and walls, and on that lovely green course are some of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the South. I am old enough now that I am not intimidated by this in the least. I am also old enough to regret the fact that I ever was. Simply put, folks are folks. I am pretty much comfortable around anybody, regardless of Class or social slot. That was not always so. But to this day, arrogance and pomposity make me laugh like hell. God help me if I ever take myself that seriously. Few things fuel my personal laugh track like the self-important or self-righteous. These are qualities that, surprisingly, seem to transcend social strata.
The last time I drove by, I noticed the old lot where I had parked my car all those years ago. I glimpsed where I had lined up hundreds of golf carts, retrieved hundreds of golf bags, and where I had washed thousands of golf clubs. It was the place I often harbored envy and nastiness; and it was the place I recognized decency and good fortune. Those were the years I began to understand stuff.
Most every Friday night, after the last golfer had come off the course and the last cart had been put away, I would pop my trunk and grab an iced down Michelob from my twelve pack cooler. I would drain the bottle and reach for another. On the way home, with the windows down and a cold beer between my legs, I would ride the music of the Femmes or R.E.M. or the Romantics as far from the workday as I could.
Sometimes I wondered silently where I would be in twenty years. Other times, I would just tip back my beer and simply drive into the sunset.
posted by Ryan at 3:41 PM
6 Comments:
Once again, Ryan, an excellent post. The way you write, I can see the place in my mind's eye & smell the grass in my...mind's...nose? Well you know what I mean.
I appreciate it, e. This was also the job on which I flipped a golf cart (I wasn't the one driving, but was one of four people riding), and knocked down a brick wall in the cart barn. Interesting times.
Ryan, that course had the picturesque par three. What hole was that?
Ryan, I've been sitting here for the longest time writing and thinking about class consciousness. I think I'll go write a post.
I leave tomorrow morning!
Ken, If I remember correctly, it was Hole #5. Down a steep hill and over a water hazard--beautiful hole. I had forgotten about it.
MJ, I'm sure I'll enjoy the post.
Hope you have a great trip. Relax and enjoy!
Astounding writing, Ryan. Never knowing what one will find as I cruise the blog world, it's always a sincere pleasure to find someone with something worth saying, who also has the talent and grace and style to say it so well. This was a downright enjoyable and inisightful read, and I can't give you any higher compliment.
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