Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Balls strolled across the five hundred yards of shaven seaside turf that leads to the first tee.  Goodell was practicing on the putting green.  His caddie stood nearby, rolling balls to him.  Goodell putted in the K.J. Choi style, which resembled the now-banned croquet-style.

Balls felt encouraged.  He knew it was no good practicing himself. His old putter had its good days and its bad days.  There was nothing to do about it.  He also knew that the practice green bore no resemblance, in speed or texture, to the greens on the course.

Balls caught up to the limping insouciant figure of his caddie who was sauntering along chipping at an imaginary ball with Balls’ driver.  ‘Afternoon Hawker.’

‘Afternoon, sir.’ Hawker handed Balls the sand wedge and threw down three used balls.  His keen sardonic poacher’s face split in a wry grin of welcome.  ‘How’ve you been keeping, sir?  Can you still put them on the roof of the starter’s hut?’  This referred to the day when Balls, trying to do just that before a match, had put two balls through the starter’s window.

‘Let’s see.’  Balls took the sand blaster and hefted it in his hand, gauging the distance.  The tap of the balls on the putting green had ceased.  Balls addressed the ball, swung quickly, lifted his head, and shanked the ball almost at right angles.  He tried again.  This time he duffed it and a foot of turf flew up.  The ball went ten yards.  Balls turned to Hawker, who was looking his most sardonic. ‘It’s all right, Hawker.  Those were for show.  This one’s for you.’

He stepped up to the third ball, took his club back slowly, and whipped the club head through.  The ball soared a hundred feet, paused elegantly, dropped eighty feet onto the thatched roof of the starter’s hut, and bounced down.  Balls handed back the club. Hawker’s eyes were thoughtful, amused.  He said nothing.  He pulled out the driver and handed it to Balls.  They walked together to the first tee, talking about Hawker’s family.

Goodell joined them, relaxed, impassive. Balls greeted Goldfinger’s caddie, an obsequious, talkative man Goodell referred to as PK whom Balls took an instant dislike to. ‘Toss for honor?’ Goodell flicked a coin.

‘Tails.’

It was heads. Goodell took out his driver and took a new ball out of its sleeve.  He said, ‘Nike 1. Always use the same ball.  What’s yours?’

‘Penfold. Hearts.’

Goodell looked sternly at Balls.  ‘Strict Rules of Golf?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Right.’ Goodell walked on to the tee and teed up.  He took one or two careful, concentrated practice swings.  It was the type of swing that Balls knew well – the grooved, mechanical, repeating swing of someone who had studied the game with great care, read all the books, and had his father pay for the finest teachers.  It would be a good scoring swing which might not collapse under pressure.  Balls envied it.

Goodell took his stance, waggled gracefully, took his club head back in a wide slow arc and, with his eyes glued to the ball, broke his wrists correctly. He brought the club head mechanically, effortlessly, down and through the ball and into a rather artificial, copybook finish.  The ball went straight and true about two hundred yards down the fairway.  It was an excellent, uninspiring shot.  Balls knew that Goodell would be capable of repeating the same swing with different clubs again and again round the eighteen holes.

Balls took his place, gave himself a lowish tee, addressed the ball with careful enmity and, with a flat, racket-player’s swing in which there was too much wrist for safety, lashed the ball away.  It was a fine attacking drive that landed past Goodell’s ball and rolled on fifty yards, but it had a shade of draw and ended on the edge of the left-hand rough.

They were two good drives.  As Balls handed his club to Hawker and strolled off in the wake of the more impatient Goodell, he smelled the sweet smell of the beginning of a knock-down-and-drag-out game of golf on a beautiful autumn day

to be continued…