TRUCKIN’ & GOLFIN’

Charlie Quicksilver was an over-the-road truck driver, a job he dearly enjoyed. He traveled the country for a living and, over the years, had been to every state, made friends everywhere, and seen just about all America had to offer.

His wife of forty years, Julie, managed a restaurant and bar that had been in her family for decades. She spent most of her waking hours there. Between the two careers, they were rarely together, but neither complained. They had found a rhythm that worked.

One Saturday morning, Charlie was home when his friend Bobby called.

“Charlie, you wanna go golfin’ today?”

“I don’t know much about golf,” Charlie said. “And I don’t have any clubs.”

“No worries,” Bobby replied. “I’ve got an extra set you can use. Fair warning though—the nine iron’s missing. If you want it, it’s probably still up in the oak tree on the ninth fairway.”

Reluctantly, Charlie agreed. Julie wasn’t home, and he wasn’t due out until Monday while he reset his hours of service. At sixty years old, Charlie was about to play his first round of golf.

Bobby picked him up an hour later.

“Boy, those shorts are loud,” Bobby said. “I’ve seen better-looking legs on a piano. And that trucker’s tan on your left arm really ties the whole outfit together.”

“You done with the insults yet?” Charlie said. “Who else is playing?”

“Jerry and Mark. Two old codgers I play with all the time. There’s usually a fourth, Mike, but he’s in the hospital. Pulled something demonstrating a swing he hasn’t been able to make in fifteen years.”

“Are they gonna mind playing with a newbie?”

“They won’t notice. Jerry’s ninety-two and can’t break ninety anymore, which really pisses him off. Mark’s eighty-seven with a five handicap. They’ve been friends forever. They’ll tolerate us.”

At the first tee, Charlie watched carefully to see what clubs the others selected. That’s how he figured out he needed the driver. Jerry and Mark were already needling each other, so Charlie waited while Bobby teed off, sending a nice drive down the right side of the fairway.

Charlie stepped up and tried to copy Bobby’s swing. He wound up and took a mighty cut.

The ball flew dead straight for about 175 yards, then made a hard right turn and disappeared onto the far side of the next fairway over under an elm tree.

Charlie turned to Bobby, who was too busy arguing with Jerry and Mark to notice.

When they finally reached Charlie’s ball, Bobby pulled out his rangefinder.

“You’ve got about 150 yards,” he said. “If you can get it over that oak tree.”

Four shots later, and a small dent on the oak tree, Charlie was finally on the green, staring at a twenty-foot putt. The hole sat uphill and slightly right. The other three were still chirping at each other, so Charlie lined it up himself.

He teed up the ball.

At first he thought he’d hit it too hard. Then it slowed as it climbed the hill, turned left, and dropped into the cup.

A six on the par four.

And at that moment, Charlie was hooked.

The following day, a Sunday, Charlie found himself alone again, so he drove over to the PGA Superstore and bought a used set of Big Bertha Callaways, a decent bag, and a $79 putter that could also mash potatoes at about a fifth the cost of the ones locked behind glass. He loaded up on Callaway balls, tees, and a glove. He was set.

Monday morning, Charlie reported to Saxon Brothers Trucking in Dallas for his next load, a run to Seattle. With nobody looking, he slid the new clubs into the passenger seat and rolled out.

Over the next couple of years, Charlie played municipal courses all over the country whenever he had downtime. Sometimes he squeezed in eighteen holes, sometimes only nine, but he was getting better.

In Seattle he befriended another golfer, Jim Green, a retired traffic manager. Jim was a good man and a patient golfer, and he taught Charlie a lot. Charlie liked playing with Jim so much he started requesting every Seattle run when the weather was decent.

Jim had one problem, though: his wife, Betty.

If Jim was golfing, Betty was golfing too—no exceptions. They became the source of many stories Charlie told back at the terminal.

Betty was short, stocky, and permanently scowling. She was a competent golfer, but she complained about everything and talked like a longshoreman. When Jim and Charlie went out, Betty usually came along.

During one round, Jim was playing well and Betty wasn’t.

“This course is rigged,” Betty snapped. “Greens are too fast, tee boxes aren’t flat, and I swear they haven’t moved the hole since last week.”

Jim sighed. “Betty, we’ve never played here before.”

“Well then it’s been crooked a long time.”

She kept complaining, nonstop, and it finally got to him. On the fourteenth hole Jim missed a short putt and cursed under his breath.

“You know what your problem is, Jim?” Betty said. “You think too much. Golf’s simple. Hit the damn ball, you’re disappointing me.”

“I wasn’t aware that was an option,” replied Jim.

Oblivious to Jim’s remark, she continued. “Well now you are. “Use it.”

At the fifteenth tee, still irritated with her, he dropped his ball, muttered another expletive, and brought the club down hard.

The ball shot backward and hit nearly everything in the cart—except Betty.

She came out of that cart spitting nails.

“What the hell was that, Jim?” Betty screamed. “I’ve seen blind men hit straighter than that!”

Jim blinked. “It slipped.”

“It slipped?” she barked. “So did my respect for you somewhere around the Clinton administration, you bastard.”

Jim finished the round riding with Charlie instead.

On another occasion it was just the three of them in a golf outing. Betty was having another miserable day, riding Jim relentlessly. The final hole was a short par three over water, with a prize for closest to the pin.

As she was walking to the ladies tee box she blurted, “Of course it’s over water, because why wouldn’t the golf gods hate me personally?”

Jim said nothing.

“And don’t stand there like that,” she added. “I need silence while I hit my tee shot.”

Betty stepped up and promptly drove her shot straight into the pond.

She exploded all the way to the green. When the hole was finished, Jim quietly picked up the closest-to-the-pin marker, wrote Betty’s name on it and placed it in the cart to turn in at the pro shop.

Betty stared at the marker with her name on it. “I hope you choke on that,” she said quietly, and walked to the cart.

Undaunted, still furious, and silent, Betty went home with her a brand new putter.

Charlie never played with Jim and Betty again. Jim died not long afterward.

About a year later Bobby called Charlie to play again. Jerry had gone on to the Great Nineteenth Hole in the Sky. Charlie hadn’t told Bobby he’d been golfing for the past two years.

Bobby nearly fell over when Charlie showed up with his own clubs and new golf shoes he’d gotten for Christmas.

This time Mike was with them.

Charlie let everyone hit first. Bobby crushed a drive about 240 yards straight down the middle and smiled like he’d just won the Masters.

Charlie teed up, took a smooth swing, and sent the ball 255 yards dead center—a Linda Ronstadt special: Blue by You.

Bobby stared.

At the end of the round Charlie collected five dollars from each of them, beating everyone net and taking Bobby and Mike outright.

At the nineteenth hole Bobby kept shaking his head.

“Where does an over-the-road trucker get a golf game like that?”

Charlie just smiled—and silently thanked Jim.