Tom's Story Part 1

Sweetspot A Novel

By John O'Hern

It was the 8am meeting, always the busiest and Tom sat nervously at the head of the table pretending to listen to the idle chatter that Gary his sponsor was blathering at him. It took all of Tom's self control not to tell Gary to shut the fuck up. He looked around the room at the desperate souls who had arrived a few minutes early. The place was really filling up. Tom was only a few months into the program so he only knew a few of the faces by name. What surprised him from his vantage point at the head of the table was the number of attendees. "Jesus Christ!' he thought. "There's an awful lot of fucked up golfers out there." Tom's astonishment was mitigated by the fact that he also knew that his personal golf addiction story was legend in the local golfing community and that in all likelyhood a good deal of the people here weren't even addicts at all but just social golfers, civilians as they were refered to, just here for the entertainment value. Real assholes. In the folding chairs around the table were at least 25 addicted golfers and then a row of chairs around the perimiter of the room also filled with golfers hoping, like Tom, to find some kind of salvation, some way of pushing the overwhelming desire to tee it up from the very front of their 'must get done today' list to, at the very least, somewhere down the list, say after work and family obligations have been taken care of. Accomplishing that just that little thing would be a godsend to everyone in the room.

Tom was going to to tell his story today for the first time at a meeting and to all outward appearences he was as calm as a cucumber but inside he was just sick about it. Tom surveyed his audience more closely. Men and women of all ages dressed in mostly pedestrian clothing but there was the occasional golf cap or visor. It was 8am and already almost everyone in the room were exhibiting some kind of withdrawl symptom or another. Some of these poor slobs chewed nervously on golf tees or were flipping ball marker coins in a heads or tails fashion. Once or twice he spotted someone wearing a golf glove and they were unconsciously opening and closing the Velcro fastener across their wrist.

More than anything else Tom was surprised at the number of young people in the room. Teenagers some of them. Kids who had flunked or dropped out of high school to get more time on the links or at the practice range. That was kind of sad Tom thought and it almost made him hope that his being here and sharing his story might help some of them. Almost.

Almost because although in his heart Tom knew he was just like anyone else in the room, in the grip of an addiction that had damn near ruined his life, he still felt a twinge of contempt for most of them. These were the same people he sneered at when he saw them begging the starter for a tee time. "Can't you squeeze me out on the back nine?" he would hear them whine. Or the clowns that would go to the driving range on a hot July afternoon and swing themselves into heat stroke because they couldn't control their golfer lust. Pathetic really. Most of them couldn't break a hundred if you put a gun to their heads and yet here they were. And now, supposedly, Tom was one of them.

Things were just about ready to go when the door opened and in walked a woman that Tom recognized from several prior meetings and his heart sank. She was an bitchy old bag whose face was set in a permanant frown. She carried an enourmous fish net satchel with her and at each meeting she would bully her way to the center of the table and even if there was no room for her she would push and shove until room for another chair was made available for her. Then she would slam her bag on the table and unload all kinds of shit. Food, books, crossword puzzles and finally her knitting. At all the meetings Tom had seen her at she never spoke one intelligble sentance but instead sat there knitting incessently, and every time someone confessed to a lie or a deception or some other golf related sin this hag would bark out phrases like "Shit head" or "What a dick!" or her favorite, "Golf scum." She was a regular Madam LaFarge with turets syndrome and Tom knew it was going to take all of his patience to keep her from distracting him.

Gary, Tom's sponsor slapped his hand on the table a few times and brought the room to silence. A few smokers outside flung their butts into a coffee can by the door and hurried in.

Gary was an older man, somewhere in his sixties for sure, maybe older. Maybe a lot older. A thick head of silver hair immaculately groomed was his most recognizable feature but if you looked closely there was more. The skin of his face from a distance was a beautiful bronze from all his years out on the course. Dark and manly. But upon closer inspection there were hundreds and hundreds of small whitish marks on the surface of the skin where a dermatologist had removed small pieces of basil cell cancers from his face. Other markings bore the signature of CO2 freezing, another dermatological favorite. Up close the effect was the same as looking at a Matisse painting. It looked best from a distance. If you asked Gary about it he would shake his head and laugh. "Yup, my dermatologist tells me that with all the flesh he's removed by the time I'm 80 my head will most likely be the size of an orange." That line got a laugh every time and it was only later that if you took the time to think about it and picture Gary's head actually the size of an orange that you saw the sadness in it. You could see the sadness in Gary's eyes too if you looked hard enough.

"Hello everyone. My name is Gary. I'm a golfaholic!" The group respoded in a glum chorus. "Hello Gary!" Gary sat back for a moment and surveyed the room. "Does anybody need to share before we hear Tom's story today? I know it's a beautiful day out there with dew on the grass and the crack of a driver off the first tee is on many of our minds. Anybody feel like they're going to leave work early today or not show up at all? Anybody feel like they're on the verge of lying to a loved one so they can sneak in a round? Anybody listening too hard to the rattle of your clubs in the trunk of your car? If so, now's the time to speak up. Someone in the room choked back a sob but no one said a word. The only sound was the clackety clack of 'Madam Laforge's' knitting needles which Tom was staring at seemingly lost in thought.

"Remember, Gary continued, "you're not alone. If you feel the urge coming on you, if you feel you are about to do something stupid, call somebody. That's what this brotherhood is for." Gary turned his attention to Tom and put his arm on Tom's shoulder. "Our good friend Tom is going to share with us today and we should all pay close attention to what he has to say. As most of you know Tom is having a very rough time of it on the home front right now and we can all of us learn from what he has to say." Gary threw his arm around Tom and gave him an encouraging hug which startled Tom out of his reverie.

"Oh, yes," Tom started and readjusted himself in his chair. He had so many thoughts running through his head all of a sudden he didn't quite know where to begin. Who was that crazy lady with the knitting needles? She didn't look like a golfer at all? Why did Gary have his arm around him like they were friends? Tom had just met the jerk a few weeks ago and to be honest they weren't even close to the hugging stage and never would be. And the thought that was foremost in his mind..."What the fuck am I doing here?" I don't belong here with these clowns! I didn't do anything really bad. I didn't hurt any body! And where was Mr. Hogan? He should be here. He'd know what to do. But Tom hadn't seen Hogan in months and Tom was certain Mr. Hogan wouldn't be caught dead with a bunch of wussies like these. Jesus H.....Tom tried to speak but his mouth went totally dry. His tongue felt like paste and he knew his face was beet red. Gary looked into his face and put his hand on top of Tom's on top of the table. "You gonna be alright there, buddy?" Tom nodded and grabbed the water bottle he had brought along for just such an emergency. He took a long pull and quickly collected himself. There was no getting out of this fucking horror show so he might as well just get on with it.

"Jesus." Tom said. "I had this all planned out and now I don't know where to begin." Tom could not believe it. He began to feel his eyes water up. God damn it! Gary was rubbing Tom's hand now as if Tom had fainted and all Tom wanted to do was smash Gary right between the eyes. "Why not start at the begining?" Gary offered gently. Totally embarrassed, Tom saw himself snap open a large hand fan and begin fanning himself while declaring in a southern accent, "My goodness I think I have the vapors." which made him laugh out loud and with that laugh was instantly able to pull himself together. He snapped his hand away from Gary's attentions and sat bolt upright. Steeling himself, he placed both of his hands on the table in front of him. Right in front of the little wooden placard on the table. The one that read, "Golf Responsibly." "Fuck me!" Tom thought and started to speak.

"Unlike a lot of the people here in this room I did not play much golf as a kid. Oh, I experimented a little like most kids, miniature golf and the occasional afternoon on the driving range with Dad, which I might add was not very pleasant with Dad screaming in my ear, "Keep your head down, tuck your elbow in!! God, you're clumbsy." No, Tom continued, I didn't seriously pick up a golf club until right after I got married." This got quite a laugh from the crowd and broke the ice in such a manner that almost everyone shifted in their seats and settled in for the story. Every one relaxed except Madame la farge off to Tom's left. She let out a distinct snort of dirision or disgust and the tempo of her clattering needles picked up a notch.

Tom smiled and then continued.

"It was a few days after our wedding day and my new bride and I and the in-laws and some of their family friends had gathered around the pool in their backyard. I was having an okay time of it and since I worked for my father in-law I was making a good show of it. We rehashed the wedding for a while and then the conversation got on to politics for a bit but since we were pretty much all on the same page with that topic there were no outbursts. But then somehow they got onto the topic of curtain fabric and within five minutes I thought I was going to blow my brains out. A matronly female friend of my in-laws was blovating about the need of finding a curtain fabric that breathes. "If the coitens don't breath you're going to get mold! And with mold comes sickness!" With that sentence I shot out of my deck chair and headed right for the poolside bar. I got as far as filling a tumbler with ice and wrapping my fingers around the neck of a Jack Daniels bottle when I felt a firm hand on my elbow. It was my father in-law and he had a look of concern on his face.

Larry was a large man with a huge smile and he bellowed when he laughed but he didn't laugh much around me. Larry ran a medical supplies company and distributed anything from wheelchairs to iron lung machines. I had been a salesman for his company for 5 years running. I ran hot and cold as a salesman, never the top boy, but lately I had been coasting and we both knew it. At one point earlier in the year I was sure he was going to fire me but then I got engaged to and married his daughter and sealed the deal.

"A little eary to start with that don't you think? We eyeballed each other for a moment and I put the bottle back and reached for a coke instead. "Sorry, I said. "Interior design always makes me thirsty." Larry barked out a laugh. "Why don't you find something to do with yourself?" he suggested as he walked over to a hammock he had strung up between two trees and hopped in. "Like what?" I asked as I ambled over. Larry looked at me for a long moment. "You know what? he said, an idea coming to him. "I have an old set of golf clubs in the garage and there's a little nine hole course up the road. Why don't you try your hand at that. You might even like it." Having to work me during the week was one thing but seeing each other on the weekends was a bit much for the bolth of us so I knew he was hoping I would find something to get me the hell out of the house and I couldn't have agreed more. So I bit.

In the garage I found an old set of Wilson irons, rusted shafts and all along with an even older set of woods. Real woods with parrsimony heads. At the time I didn't know any better so they looked fine to me. I took the clubs out into the driveway, dusted them and the old leather golf bag off, put on some sneakers, threw the clubs into the trunk and drove off.

I found the course with no trouble, pulled into the parking lot, got the clubs out of the trunk and marched up to the poorest excuse for a clubhouse you ever saw. It was a nine hole course that had once been eighteen holes but the back nine had been sold off years ago and delveloped into suburban sprawl. The clubhouse had been reduced to a building the about the size of a two car garage. On and around the entrance door were tacked up various signs that pronounced certain rules that up until now I was unaware of. I was about to walk into the clubhouse with the bag sill over my shoulder but one sign declared, "No golf bags in clubhouse!" So I left my bag on a rack outside the front door and went in.

At this point I have to explain somthing about myself. I have an addictive personality. I can't tell you the number of times I've had to quit smoking and to be perfectly honest I have to watch my alcohol consuption very closely. It's just who I am. I enjoy sensual pleasure a little too much. I know that now and I knew that then. From the moment I walked into that crummy little clubhouse I should have known golf could be a problem for me. I was instantly captivated by the place. The smell of the golf shoe leather and all the wonderful golf paraphenalia. Gloves and tees and clothing and my god, all that shining steel! And for all the crumminess of the place it still had 'club atmosphere.' There were groups of men standing around talking in low voices and waggeling clubs in there hands. It reminded me of walking into an adult bookstore. Quiet, serious. There was work going on here. I loved it.

There was a glass display counter with all kinds of golf stuff inside. All kinds of golf balls. Balls that went far, balls that had spin. Soft balls and hard balls. Who knew? I must have looked like a twelve year old in a candy shop. The young woman behind the counter looked up from her magazine and eyed me with a certain contempt. "Can I help you?" she asked as she gave me the once over. "I wonder if I can get out and play a few holes." I replied like the innocent I was. "Not in that outfit." she shot back. I looked at her, then at the others in the room and then down at my attire. I was wearing a tee shirt, cut off jeans and sneakers. "A collared shirt is required on the course and no cut offs." I was a little embarrassed and pissed off too and was about to register those thoughts when she cut me off. "This may not be the classiest of golf courses around here but we still don't allow for hillbillies." I knew she was trying to make me laugh and put me at ease but still I turned beet red. The talk in the room had stopped and all eyes were on me. "Oh." I said feeling like I'd been caught shoplifting. I let out a little helpless laugh and asked, "Can I use the driving range at least?" Mercifully the clerk gave me a little smile and said, "Sure, how many tokens would you like?" I was lost. "Tokens?" She looked at me like I was retarded. "Yes." she said, speaking more slowly now like she was talking to a child. " We sell tokens here that you put into the ball machine. There's about 40 balls per token and each token is five dollars. How many?" I just wanted to get the hell out of there. "Two I guess." I forked over the ten dollars but she wasn't done with me yet. "Would you like a glove?" I already had one foot out the door. "No thanks, I'm good."

GREETINGS FELLOW GOLFAHOLICS

Dear Fellow Golfaholics,
This blog is dedicated to addicted golfers who would and have done just about anything to get out and hit a jumbo bucket or play a round of golf no matter the cost. Personally or professionally. At my home course there are more than a few golfers whose marriages have broken up and others who have lost jobs and squandered careers due to their addiction to golf and for the most part they are considered heros. This blog is dedicated to them and heros just like them around the world.

STORY TELLING

I have two goals that I would like to work on here at Swingnuts. The first is to relate true golf addiction stories. These are stories that have happened to me or those I know personally and second, to write a series of fictional stories about 'the addiction'
based on a play that I wrote about this sensitive subject. The play is titled, SWEETSPOT, CONFESSIONS OF A GOLFAHOLIC. You can learn more about this project by going to http://www.sweetspotthecomedy.com/ . Once there you will find out more about me and also see some of the material I have written about golf addiction and also get a chance to view some clips from a production of the play taped live some time ago.
My goal here is to take the characters that I created for the play and flesh out their lives in a richer form and hopefully create an entire village of people whose lives have been affected for better or worse by the dark underbelly of the game of golf, namely, golf addiction.

For those of you who are under the delusion that no such addiction exits, let me offer this true story as a prime example.

One Summer several years ago I was working at the local golf course in the pro shop. It was a hot Saturday afternoon and I was in the shop with my good friend the Head Pro. Things had quieted down for the day as the 'heavy users' were already out on the course. All we had to deal with (and I believe that you should start seeing your golf professionals and golf retail people as 'dealers' ) were the late comers and those high handicappers who are just beginning to feed their addiction as well as the odd individual who can actually golf socially.
My boss and I began to chatter about this and that and occasionally look out the window at the first tee and grimace at the hideous swings that unfolded before us. At some point in this quiet period a young boy came into the shop and began to look around. We get a lot of this. People of all ages are attacted to golf paraphanalia. Particularly all that glistening steel laid out in display fashion around the shop. That's what this young lad was doing. Wandering aimlessly around the shop occasionally fondling a club head or staring at the huge selection of balls.
Neither my boss or I paid much attention to the boy and after a while we forgot that he was there. We told dirty jokes under our breath and oogled some of the pretty women that were coming off the course and kept one eye on the driving range out behind the shop.
In the middle of a particularly foul and nasty and very funny joke we both checked the shop to make sure no one was in ear shot. That was when we noticed that the young boy was still present. We both instantly became aware that he had been in the shop for quite a while now. At least for the better part of an hour, maybe more. It was evident that the boy had been at the town pool just a short walk down the road because he was wrapped in a damp towel and had on a pair of swim trunks and flip flops as well. His lips were blue and he was shivering in the air conditioned room.
My boss looked at me with a kind of annoyed shrug and then turned his attention to the boy.
"May I help you?" he asked. The boy turned to us and immediately his eyes began to water up and he said in a quivering voice, "May I borrow your phone?" My boss, always a stickler for manners said, "You may if you say the magic word?" The boy got the hint right away. "Please?" he asked. My boss grabbed the mobile shop phone behind him and handed it to him over the counter. "It's a local call, right?" I added, letting my boss know I was looking out for the shop at all times. The boy nodded and began to dial. We watched as the call went through. When someone finally picked up on the other end the boy lost his composure completely and tears flowed down his cheeks. "Mom?" he said, his voice breaking completely, "What hole are you on!!!"
My boss and I had to choke down our laughter.
The boy continued. "You said you were only going to play 9 holes! How can you be on the 17th hole?" We could hear the mothers voice over the phone making some pathetic excuse but the boys last line was the best. " I don't care how good you're hitting the ball, you have to come pick me up or I'll tell Dad!"

Whenever my boss or I needed a good chuckle for the rest of the season we would just mutter that last line under our breaths and we would start to howl.

Hope you liked it. Next time I will begin with the adventures of Ted and Carol as they begin to face Ted's wonderful introduction to the game of golf and his inevitable descent into the belly of the beast.

Please feel free to pass on to this blog any wonderful golf addiction stories you may have and if I find them depraved enough I'll be sure to share them with all the readers.

Thanks again,
John O'Hern (Johnny Swing Nuts)