FICTION Nine Holes_________________________ Garry Barker WHEN VERNON WATTS READ that a new golf course had been opened in Finch County, Kentucky, he decided to bring along his clubs on his next visit. Vernon's gear was mixed: woods from K-Mart, rusted irons from a yard sale, a gooseneck putter won in a poker game, yellow spiked shoes picked up at the Salvation Army Store in Asheville. Vernon's golf glove and orange XXX balls came from the discount store on the bypass. Vernon's game was equally inconsistent and colorful. Flailing, chopping, swinging from the heels, he played at a sweaty half-trot. "If you'd slow down," grumbled Vernon's usual playing partner, Russ Williams, "you might be good." "Wouldn't be fun that way," said Vernon. "I like to play, not loaf around. It's the game, Russ. Not sipping drinks at the clubhouse and wearing a shirt that cost more than my car." Vernon rolled into Finch County a week after his younger brother Lee got home from the army and a Vietnam tour. Lee shared his beer with Vernon and allowed as how he'd like to shoot a few "golfs," too. "I watched 'em play at the officer's club," he said. "Anything an officer can do has to be easy. Where can I get me a sack of bats?" A phone call verified that clubs could be rented at the new Horse Mountain Country Club. "Opened up a year ago," Harper Watts told his sons. "Senator Baker and some his buddies started it. Costs a hundred dollars a year to join up, and they won't let you play if you ain't a member." "That's just if you live here," said Vernon. "Out-of-town players can pay a greens fee. I'm from North Carolina, and Lee—he's from Saigon." Just after noon the next day, Lee drove up to Vernon's mother-inlaw 's house in a black '55 Chevy with fat tires, noisy dual exhausts, a tiny steering wheel and a stuttering engine. Vernon tossed his clubs into the back seat, then yelled, "This thing runs a little rough," yelled Vernon. Lee grinned and handed across a beer. "Cam," he said. "What?" asked Vernon. 57 Lee punched the throttle, snapping Vernon hard back against the seat, splattering beer. Lee jerked the stubby gearshift, straightened up the spinning rear end and leaned over. "I said," he yelled, "that it idles a little rough because of the racing cam." At ninety, Lee shifted into high gear. "Runs good," yelled Vernon, "but you better drop the parachute if you're going to get around this curve." At the foot of Horse Mountain, the narrow road veered sharply right and started climbing. Lee geared down, wrestled the car through the turns and almost missed the cutoff. A homemade sign marked the entrance to the new country club. Lee threw gravel as he worked the car up a steep bulldozer cut. In the gap there was a small parking lot and a weathered, sagging barn. Lee stopped. "Is this it?" "Must be," said Vernon. "Over there's a golf cart." Lee drove up to the barn. Vernon unloaded his clubs and sat down to lace up his shoes. An overalled, tobacco-chewing little man came grinning out from the barn. "I swear," chuckled Toad Walters, "Vernon and Lee Watts. I thought you two boys had left the country." "Toad? What are you doing here?" Vernon shook the little man's hand. "I thought you lived in your poolroom. When did you take up golf?" "I'm the manager," grinned Toad. "Reckon they figured I could make change, break up fights and keep my mouth shut, so they give me the job. Come on in, boys. I got a pool table in the barn." "We come to shoot golfs," said Lee. "Can you rent me some clubs?" "Seeing as how it's you, Leroy," said Toad, "I'll dig out Senator Baker's rig. He don't ever use it anyhow." The inside of the old tobacco barn had been cleaned out and graveled. "Take the cart too," Toad offered. Lee drove the...
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