Thomas Brooks stood on the first tee of Lake Southerness Golf club on a beautiful early spring afternoon. It was a Thursday in mid-March. He was preparing to tee off and walk nine holes. “Excuse me, sir, but are you by yourself? Want to play together?” came a voice from behind him. It was from a man who had just walked up to the tee box. “No, thanks,” said Thomas. “My father in law just passed away earlier this week,” his voice cracked. “We’re going to walk nine together, if you don’t mind.” “I understand,” replied the gentleman. He had a look of genuine concern and compassion on his face. “Would you like to go ahead?” Thomas Brooks asked. “No, sir, I’m fine,” replied the gentleman. “Y’all play well.” “Thank you and you too,” said Thomas. The emotion rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, stepped behind the ball and peered down the fairway. It was a straightaway par 4. He picked out the landing spot, visualized the shot and did the sign of the cross as he always did on the first tee. He addressed the ball, set his stance and swung. The ball flew down the fairway and came to rest to the left of the landing area. Thomas placed the Eeyore headcover back on his driver, put it in his golf bag and started down the first fairway pulling his trolley behind.
Thomas Brooks and his father in law were very close. Dad, as Thomas called him, was an Englishman. On his last visit to the States just six months earlier he had told Thomas’s mother that Thomas was his best friend. The two of them played golf, fished, played cards and lounged in the pool listening to baseball games together. They would sit and drink whiskey late into the night on frequent occasions, discussing the many subjects that come to two old friends having a tipple together. Dad had taught Thomas many lessons not only on the game of golf but also life and how to comport oneself as a gentleman at all times. Dad was very competitive and played strictly by the rules in all endeavors. He encouraged Thomas to do likewise. Thomas loved Dad very much.
The call came early on the Sunday before. It was Mary Jane’s brother. Mary Jane was Thomas’s wife. Thomas had answered the phone and knew immediately something was wrong because her brother never called. “Me Dad’s dead,” said her brother. Thomas went numb. “It’s your brother,” he said and handed Mary Jane the phone. She held herself together through the conversation but broke down after hanging up. Thomas held her and comforted her through his own tears.
The plans were made for Mary Jane and their daughter Dana to fly over to the old country for the funeral. Thomas’s boss had given him the go-ahead to do whatever was needed. “You need to be with your family, ” he told him. But, due to the time and the money involved for such a hastily planned trip, it was decided that the two of them would go. Thomas would hold down the fort stateside and tend to the pets and the household.
Thomas walked up to his ball resting on the first fairway. The pin was in the back left corner in front of a big bunker. “Well, what do you think, Dad? A seven iron to the middle and two putts?” he said out loud. He pulled the iron, took his stance and pulled the trigger. Thomas Brooks did not like to spend a lot of time standing over a shot. The ball flew straight and true, landing softly in the middle of the green. He two-putted for his par and walked to the second tee.
Dad had belonged to a golf club in north Wales where he and Mum lived after retirement and owned a bed and breakfast. His stories of club life mesmerized Thomas. He and Mary Jane were thrilled when they joined Lake Southerness and brought Dad to play there for the first time. Dad had fallen in love with the club. He particularly liked the large grillroom where he could have a few pints at the bar and swap stories with the locals. The club consisted of three sets of nine holes. There was the Lake Course, the Club course and the Southerness Course. The Southerness was Dad and Thomas’s favorite. It was set up similar to a British links course with narrow fairways around the lake, high rough and quick greens. The tee boxes were adjacent to the greens, which made for ease when walking.
On this day as he walked and played the holes on the Southerness course Thomas found himself asking Dad about shots, club selection, the breaks on the greens and the speed of the putts even though Dad would have told him that asking advice from another player was against the rules. He was playing quite well, scoring pars and bogeys while avoiding the doubles and occasional triple that usually peppered his rounds. On the sixth hole, which was a par 3 that was a one hundred and fifty yard shot over rocks and shrubbery, his ball had hit the flagstick and bounced six feet away from the pin. Thomas missed the putt, muttered a few drats, tapped in for par and continued on.
Two holes later Thomas stepped onto the ninth tee. The ninth hole on the Southerness course was a long par 5 and an absolute brute. The tee box was stuck back up in the woods. The shot was down a hill and through a very narrow chute of trees on each side. The fairway opened up at the bottom of the hill but the drive had to be at least two hundred and fifty yards long and dead straight. The hole was Thomas Brooks’ nemesis. In two years he had hit the fairway exactly zero times. After sending his ball into the woods he would play from the drop area that the course designer had graciously placed at the bottom of the hill on the right-hand side next to the cart path. He had managed to bogey the hole once and it felt like a birdie.
He pulled his driver and took off the headcover. He looked into the little blue donkey’s sad eyes and said, in Eeyore’s voice, “It’s going to go into the woods. I just know it.” He teed up his ball, stepped behind it, visualized the shot, took his stance, turned and swung. The shot felt and sounded perfect. It flew high and long through the chute and landed in the middle of the fairway two hundred and sixty yards from the tee. Thomas’s heart jumped into his throat. He hastily put Eeyore back on the driver’s head and hurried down the hill as fast as he could go without turning over his trolley.
Thomas Brooks did not believe in ghosts, but what happened next was something that he knew was not of this world. As he approached his ball he saw something else in the center of the fairway. He walked to it, looked down and was stunned at what lay before him. Ten yards ahead of his Titleist was a fluorescent green number 3 Top Flite XL. It was the same type of ball that Dad had played. Thomas stood there in silence for a few moments. He looked around and there was no one in sight. No one was on any of the tee boxes, fairways or greens. He was all alone. He looked up at the back patio of the grillroom where he and Dad would have a few drinks and watch the proceedings on the ninth green. No one was there. Looking up into the sky and laughing through his tears he said, “You old son of a bitch, you just couldn’t stand it, could you?” He could feel Dad standing there chuckling and leaning on his three wood.
Thomas regained his composure and started to pull his five iron out to hit a lay up shot. But he sensed Dad’s voice saying, “Put that iron back in the bag, mate. Go for it. Arnie would.” He dropped the five iron back into the bag and looked at his clubs. There was a shiny new TaylorMade three wood and an old Ping Eye2 four wood that Thomas loved and cherished. He had bought it out of a barrel for five dollars. He pulled it from the bag. As he stood behind the ball and visualized the shot a feeling of calm, peace and contentment came over his mind and body. The pin was at the right hand side of the green. He took his stance, turned and released. The crack of the ball from the persimmon clubface sounded like the shot of a rifle. As his head turned Thomas saw the ball flying straight at the green with a slight fade, tracking right toward the flagstick.