The Bag Room

Adam Fonseca

Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to thank my wife, Kristen, for offering me the continued
encouragement to start and finish this first edition of The Bag Room. Without you I would have
likely left this work on the shelf like many things I have attempted in the past. Yes, we will fix
the stairs eventually.
I would also like to thank Allie Leota for offering her copyediting services and professional eye
in reviewing my manuscript. I hope that I may somehow return the favor in the future.
Finally, I would like to thank my sister, Jessica, for her encouraging words and unconditional
support that she has shown me all these years. You are still my favorite writer and always will
be.

Introduction
Reading this book will likely be a complete waste of time if you have no interest in
stories about growing up, making mistakes, and goofing around at work. This book will be an
even greater waste of time if you have no interest in the game of golf, what goes on behind the
scenes of a country club, or if you have never seen the movie Caddyshack. Finally, if you have
never held a job with people who would ultimately become some of your closest friends, do not
buy this book.
For those of you who are left, The Bag Room is my attempt to share some of my fondest
(and most unforgettable) memories from working at a private country club in my hometown.
What started as a summer job as a caddy when I was 13 years old grew into a decade-long tenure
up to and following my graduation from college. During that time I met many different people
including coworkers and the country clubs members, many of whom I still speak with on a
regular basis. In addition to the many life lessons I experienced working at the club during my
most impressionable years as a young adult, I learned a great deal about the game of golf.
The characters you will discover in the following pages, as well as the many situations
they find themselves in, are all real. The names of the individuals have been changed for obvious
reasons, including the name of my hometown and country club; however all of the people you
will read about actually exist. Just to be fair, I also changed my name in the stories which you
will quickly notice. Rest assured I do have an equally stupid nickname in real life that is very
similar to that of the main characters.
My time working at my hometown country club was one that I would not trade for
anything in the world. My experiences taught me more about how life works than any of the jobs
I have held since, including my current position in health care. Additionally, as a writer, I have
chosen to write and blog about golf, of all things. Even my life as a writer has been shaped by
the colorful, sometimes crazy, cast of that country club. More important, however, were the
lessons I learned regarding humor, complete madness in the workplace, and golf employees
behaving badly.
It should also be noted that the atmosphere at my hometown country club was the same
as any company where a group of young adult males worked every day without a care in the
world. Vulgarity, pranking, and substance abuse were commonplace for many of the employees,
myself included. While we all took great pride in serving the country clubs membership, we
also managed to have one hell of a good time in the process. In essence, the bag room was a type
of fraternity, often similar to the Lost Boys of Neverland.
As my first effort in publishing a work of any length other than the blog posts or articles
you may have read on the internet, The Bag Room is far from a perfect account. I chose to cover
my experiences at the country club because of how large a role they played into shaping me into
who I am today. To those readers who may know the people I describe in these chapters, rest

assured that my intentions in telling their stories were honorable. As stated above, many of these
individuals are still friends of mine whom I would not speak of in a negative light even if you
paid me (depending on the price, of course). I have done my best to describe the memories you
will read in the following pages as accurately as possible, but I also acknowledge that there are
two sides to every story. As such, please accept my apologies if a detail here or a quote there
seems contrived or different than you remember.
After all, we all drank enough to sink two oil tankers but not a drop more (just like
Jack Nicklaus). Enjoy.

Adam Fonzy Fonseca

Bag Room Employee, 1995 - 2005
Completed July 2011

Chapter One
Many a golfer prefers a golf cart to a caddy because the cart cannot count, criticize or laugh
-Unknown
The first job of my life was the cause of what would become a horrible addiction that
continues to consume me to this day. It takes all of my money, has caused me more pain than
happiness, and I will do anything in my power to just get one more fix. The fact that golf and
shit are both four-letter words is likely no coincidence.
Driving through the south side of Alvarton, Illinois was far from enjoyable, and driving
through Alvarton at 6:00am on a Saturday morning downright sucked. Even after I turned 16,
the drive still sucked. Youd think Id have gotten used to it by then. I had taken the job as a
caddy at Alvarton Country Club at the age of 13 as a means to stay busy on the weekends and to
make a few extra bucks during the summer. The job continued to consume my summers three
years later, when I was finally able to drive myself to work every morning instead of begging my
mother or father to do it. Socializing during the summer wasnt exactly my favorite thing in the
world, and my parents would constantly encourage me to make something of myself instead of
smoking the drugs and sniffing out the girls in town. Both they and I knew that it would have
been a miracle if a girl was found in my bedroom instead of a cigarette pack, so I usually took
their remarks with a grain of salt.
My hometown of Alvarton was a city founded on the backs and the sweat of steel
workers from a century ago. While I did not always enjoy living in the city, Alvarton had a
certain way to grow on you much like a fungus grows on something left out in the sun. Over
time I came to love my hometown and the people who called me neighbor. When you were
from Alvarton, people around you knew it; I often believed that the citizens even had a different
accent than the rest of the state. The children and teenagers of Alvarton were a special group of
kids. We all thought that nobody could possibly know how tough it was to live in our town,
however none of us wanted to ever admit we were from Alvarton. Alvarton had a certain
negative mystery stigma with its neighbors. I was one of those teens the year I was introduced to
the world of Alvarton Country Club.
Caddying had its perks at Alvarton C.C. The county club members usually tipped pretty
well in addition to the normal fixed looper rates, and all employees were able to play for free
on Mondays when the club was closed. The term looper was one that had never attempted to
creep into my normal vocabulary prior to working at the country club; in fact, I had never heard
the word before. I had been interested in golf from a rather early age thanks to my father and his
friends, who would usually come by on the Sunday of a major to watch names like Norman,
Lehman, or OMeara grace the fairways of courses with the names of Pebble, Carnoustie,
and Augusta.

The golf course was constructed in a traditional style of long, tree-lined fairways leading
to tiny, well-guarded greens. The landscape of the course was a collection of hills, valleys, and
elevation changes that appeared rather difficult to the rookie golfer; however, the course was
actually easy to navigate once you became accustomed to it. The golf course maintenance crew
took pride in the condition of the course and did everything it could to make Alvarton Country
Club a diamond in the rough for the city; however, many citizens believed that the crew was
simply making an awkward stretch of land more presentable. After all, covering a piece of crap
with pomp and circumstance doesnt take out the underlying stink. In comparison to
professional-grade golf courses, Alvarton C.C. looked more like a dog track than a golf course
worthy of the title country club.
Alvarton Country Club which was originally opened in 1930 under the name of Union
Country Club was by no means a terrible golf course; in fact, it was the best course in the city.
However, golf wasnt exactly the biggest sport in Alvarton in terms of popularity. High school
football, baseball, and womens softball were larger draws to the citizens while golfers were a
distant sub-group of people. The neighborhood high schools and junior college all feature golf
teams, however you would be hard-pressed to find any mention of these teams in the citys
newspaper. As such, Alvarton Country Club was more popular for people outside of the city
limits since the club was less-expensive than other clubs in the area.
Pulling into the empty parking lot I passed the obscenely large boulder with an engraving
that read Home of Alvarton Country Club. It reminded me more of a grave marker than a
welcome sign. The parking lot was a scene that I had become all too familiar with over the past
few summers. Employees were told to park towards the back of the lot to allow for members to
use the more favorable spots near the clubhouse, but no one ever followed this rule. My 1984
Chevy Blazer was quite the sight to behold for a country club, especially with the stylish rust
spots surrounding each wheel well and a back window sticker that read To All You Virgins:
Thanks For Nothing(which was a lie in itself, of course, since I was still a virgin to begin with).
The head golf professional Paul Brewer pulled me aside one day and asked what the hell
was wrong with me for having the sticker in his lot and made me agree to back-in to a spot by a
tree-lined fairway so the members precious eyes wouldnt be subjected to such filth.

Alvartons parking lot expanded from the front of the clubhouse and pro shop and deep
into the property, ultimately leading onto an old gravel road. Employees were asked to park in
the far south corner of the lot to allow for the closer spaces to be used by the membership. After
parking in a spot not far from the entrance of the club (screw you, Mr. Brewer) I grabbed my
towel and Gatorade bottle, opened my car door and walked to the caddy shack roughly 300 yards
away. The shack was positioned just to the west of the 18th holes greenside bunker off to the
side of a small, grassy hill and looked like it had been built sometime in the 1930s. From the
laymans viewpoint, the caddyshack looked more like a large wooden shed one might otherwise

find in a neighbors lawn. There were two wooden benches underneath the shacks wooden
canopy, which rested on a 10x12 cement slab that had needed to be re-poured since last decade.
Beside the benches were an old Pepsi vending machine that had never worked and a water
bucket the caddies could use to keep their towels wet. Any decent caddy will keep half of his
towel damp for the purpose of cleaning his players clubs and golf ball during the round. During
my first loop for a member at the club I had neglected to remember this simple rule of caddy
etiquette, which resulted in a very unhappy golfer with dirty clubs and an even unhappier (and
unpaid) rookie caddy. Lesson learned. Finally, a telephone was located on the south wall of the
shack which would serve as our notification when we were assigned to a golfer for the day.
The caddy program at Alvarton was started shortly after its opening. Neighborhood
children would serve as caddies year after year, many of which eventually became rather decent
and moved on to other country clubs and golf courses in the state. Alvarton was also a member
of the Western Golf Association, which instituted an Evans Scholarship program. Caddies could
apply and potentially receive a free-ride to a participating college or university. Over time,
however, this program became less popular and fewer children became interested in this area of
summer employment. Regardless, a few of the members at the club preferred to use caddies
during their round and often paid their loopers rather handsomely.
Inside the caddy shack was a contraption that looked like a medieval torture device,
complete with a large metal wheel, a steel water basin and an old rubber belt. This was the
driving range ball washer, and it was the bane of every employees existence. The smells and
sounds that would come out of this machine were beyond horrible, and heaven-forbid if any of
the dirty water splashed on any part of your clothing. For a nerdy 16 year-old virgin like me, a
hearty sprits of Butthole Sewage No. 5 wasnt exactly going to help with the ladies.
Regardless, the caddies would sometimes be asked to help clean the range balls in the morning,
especially when the lazy bag room attendants forgot to do so the night before.
Alvartons bag room was something of legend among the club employees. In other
businesses that include a restaurant, the restaurants kitchen is always the brain of the operation.
However this was not entirely the case at the country club. The waiters run the asylum from the
foodservice angle, but Alvartons bag room employees were like waiters on crack (and in some
cases, literally on crack) in terms of who could make or break a good or bad day for the
customer. Furthermore, the bag room attendants and caddies had been locked in an ongoing war
since the early days of Alvarton C.C. that would rival any story from a Hatfield or a McCoy.
The bag room was located in the basement/garage area of the massive golf course
clubhouse and like the rooms name implies served as a storage unit for the members of the
country clubs golf bags. Each bag was assigned a specific slot on a sliding shelving unit which
the bag room employees would push back and forth throughout the day as new golfers arrived.
Each two-tiered shelving unit was comprised of lettered rows and numbered slots that would
keep the roughly 300 golf bags organized in an easily-accessible manner. These large racks were

essentially wooden shelving units equipped with rollers on the base that slid along a metal track
installed into the cement floor. Each shelving unit or row, as they were referred to in the bag
room also featured a long, vertical handle by which you could push or pull the unit along the
tracks. Working in the bag room was an hourly-wage position that was exceedingly simple,
highly-enjoyable, and offered consistent pay a few days a week. At least that is what I was told
by the one bag room attendant that I could stand: Billy Pirken.
Billy was opening that day for the bag room, which became evident with the garage door
of the room was opened with a loud metallic rumble. From my vantage point in the caddy shack
I could see roughly halfway into the bag room, which allowed me to see Billy climb into a golf
cart (which were also kept in the back of the bag room) and begin driving down the paved cart
path towards me. This was beyond standard operating procedure for notifying a caddy of an
assigned golfer for the day, and despite my friendship with Billy, a bag room boy visiting the
caddy shack usually meant one thing: you were in for a long day.
Billy arrived to the shack with a slight skid on the damp morning grass.
Hows it going, Silky? Billy asked. My last name Silk was probably one of my
favorite attributes. Not many stupid nicknames could be made up based on a four-letter surname,
and even my first name Brian was about as textbook as you could hope for. Being called
Silky was about the worst that could be contrived, and was one I decided to accept.
Not much Billy. Got a loop for me? I replied. I figured if I played it cool and didnt
show that I was anxious as to why a bag room employee was bothering me, the ridicule would be
mild at best.
Not today. Brewer wants you to come up to the bag room for the day. Carlos called in
again this morning and Pro is pissed. Looks like youve been promoted. Billy slapped the seat
next to him in the cart. Hop in.

Chapter Two
Golf is a game of not just manners but of morals.
-Art Spander
I forcefully volunteered to fill in for Carlos that day and climbed into the golf cart
beside Billy. Well have to get you a pair of dress pants for the day, but Brewer should have an
extra pair lying around in the Shop somewhere, Billy reminded me. While the dress code for
caddies was pretty open (collared shirts, shorts, gym shoes) any employees who actually worked
inside the clubhouse needed to wear dress slacks and a uniform shirt. I luckily had my A.C.C.
logo shirt on that day, which I had gotten from Billy a year prior. Any big events going on
today? I asked as we rolled up to the bag room entrance.
Nothing today, just the normal groups going out in the morning. Which is why we need
to get these carts loaded up with their bags and lined up at the first tee. Go in and check with
Brewer to see if hes got an extra pair of slacks. Im going to get started on the carts and bags.
Working in the bag room was always more of a hassle for me than anything, especially
since everyone in the clubhouse knew that I was just a caddy filling in for the day and assumed I
had no idea what I was doing. These members would be completely correct, of course, since I
had absolutely no idea what my duties were throughout the day in the bag room. The employee
who had called off for the day Carlos was notorious for staying out late on weeknights
(thanks mostly to a fake ID he had gotten from his older brother) and often awoke with a case of
the hangover flu. What bothered me the most was that everyone knew this about Carlos,
including the head pro, but nobody ever seemed to care, or at least didnt mind. After all, when
you have a caddy shack full of new blood that would be more than happy to make a few
guaranteed dollars on a Saturday, turnover wasnt exactly a pressing matter at Alvarton. If one
employee left this week, a new one would take his place the next.
The hiring and firing of bag room employees or finding a replacement for an ill
worker was handled by the head golf professional, Paul Brewer. Brewer was probably a better
boss than a head golf professional, and even he knew it. While he was a fine golfer and could
teach any member how to swing a golf club, keep his arm straight on the backswing or line up a
putt correctly, Brewer excelled at managing his employees and being a leader at his job.
Originally from down state Illinois, Brewer was a skilled player in his youth, having won many
medals and tournaments as an amateur golfer. He earned his college degree in Business
Management, which would eventually become Brewers saving grace for his many years as a
head golf professional. Brewer earned his professional status by completing the Players Ability
Test shortly before finishing his degree and was hired as an assistant golf professional at
Alvarton in 1992. Five short years later, Brewer found himself as the head professional after his
predecessor left for a country club across the country.

While he had the tendency to get pretty riled up every so often especially when his
employees called in Brewer never talked down to a caddy or bag room boy and preferred to
treat everyone as equals. This included his two assistant golf pros: Richard Skip Pavin and
John Flock. Brewer was the eldest of the three pros at Alvarton, but not by much. All three men
were in their early 30s, and they liked to cause as much trouble for the town as any caddy or bag
room boy; they just knew how to party and still show up to work the next morning. In other
words, they trained themselves in how to work with a hangover. This was probably why Brewer
never fired Carlos, despite numerous call-offs and drunken escapades.
Brewers office was located in the Pro Shop, which was upstairs from the bag room and
at towards the north side of the clubhouse. I made my way up the two flights of stairs to the
shops entrance, which included a pane-glass door with a huge A.C.C. logo. I could see
Brewer standing behind the shops counter, feverishly scribbling on the tee sheet.
Hiya boss, I said. Billy sent me up here to grab a pair of pants. Carlos call in again
today?
Hes about as reliable as my ex-wife, Silk. And about as rough on the sauce, too.
Brewer had recently gotten divorced from a woman whom his employees could only guess was a
horrible witch that liked nothing more than to get rip-roaring drunk at least twice a month,
mostly on Brewers mediocre paychecks. While she had attended a few club dinners throughout
the years, none of us had really known much about her other than what the pro complained about
at work. Check the Ashworth clothing shipment box in my office under my desk. I think there
might be a pair your size somewhere in there. And be sure to change fast because were gonna
have members show up any minute looking for their bags. Make sure you let Billy know if
youre having problems figuring out the foursomes. Here, Brewer handed me a sheet of paper
with a list of names and tee-times. Have Billy help you get those tee times set up.
The pro shop was small in stature however still contained a great deal of golf
merchandise despite its size. As you entered the shop from the hallway leading from the bag
room, you would literally need to duck down to avoid banging your head on golf bags hanging
from the ceiling. To your right you would see a large wall shelving unit filled with new golf
shoes for the season. As you turned to the left to continue walking towards the pro shop counter,
mens and womens golf shirts and pants hanging on tall displays served as obstacles to your
progression through the room. The pro shop counter was a large wooden display lined in clear
glass. A desktop computer was positioned on the right side of the counter that the assistant
professionals used to schedule tee times, sell the shops merchandise, and provide the occasional
online poker game. On the left of the counter you would find scorecards for your golf round, a
small box of pencils, and a large bucket of wooden golf tees. Finally, a large glass door was on
the outer wall of the pro shop that lead out to Alvartons parking lot and the golf courses first
tee.

After changing into a pair of pants I walked outside the front entrance to the pro shop
towards the first tee, where Billy had already started lining up carts with golf bags attached. I
marveled at how the bag room boys would always remember who would come to play golf that
morning, in what order, and at what times throughout the day without the benefit of a tee sheet.
Everything was by memory, even down to which members liked to ride with which and who
liked to drive the cart. I crumpled up the tee sheet the pro had given me and threw it into a
garbage can nearby. I then followed Billy as we walked down a a path leading from the cart
staging area similar to a small parking lot towards the side of the building. Billy opened
another large, glass door with the Alvarton Country Club logo on its face and held it for me to
also walk through. This door lead to another small staircase that would ultimately lead Billy and
I back down to the bag room hallway.
Billy and I continued to load up carts with towels, sand bottles to pour into divots the
members would make on the golf course grass during their round (which no one ever used), and
members golf bags for the day. On one of my final trips up for the morning the first tee was
alive with activity as members rustled through their bags, drove carts into one another, and
otherwise acted like blind children. The typical member at Alvarton Country Club met the
following criteria, at least as far as I could surmise:
You had to be over the age of 55
You had to drive the most obnoxiously expensive foreign car you could afford
You had to be married to an equally obnoxious spouse
Your golf bag had to weigh as much as your obnoxious spouse
Most members at Alvarton passed these membership requirements with flying colors
while also being socially inept and an absolute idiot. The two bonus requirements were on full
display this morning.

While walking away from the cart I had just parked, one of the more eligible members
shouted at me. Hey, kid! Get over here and look at my clubs! Turning around I saw that Mr.
Wallace who looked rather similar to Mr. Magoo from old cartoons had turned a bright shade
of red and was holding what looked like a 7-iron. These things are filthy! What the hell are they
paying you for around here?
One of the less-enjoyable aspects of working in the bag room was cleaning the members
golf clubs following a round. This usually entailed a wet towel, a wire brush, and a ton of elbow
grease in order to scrape a golf rounds worth of caked mud from each iron. Members would
usually tip the bag room boy for his efforts, however many of the cheaper members would just
park their cart at the bag room entrance and run away before a tip could be requested. Mr.
Wallace was one of these cheapskates, thus the presumed condition of his golf clubs. Regardless,
I walked over to his bag with a wet towel and scrubbed the clubs the best I could with my tail
between my legs. Sure, I wasnt the one that left his clubs filthy; but I was definitely the one who
had to clean them this morning.

The typical golfer at Alvarton was similar to any average golfer at a municipal golf
course: middle-aged, over-weight, and completely terrible at golf. Whenever these weekend
warriors would play a round of golf, their clubs were used more for tearing up the golf course
grass than actually hitting golf balls or at least thats what we all thought after seeing how
dirty their golf clubs would get after a round. Dirt and mud on a golf club or lodged within the
grooves of the clubs face drastically altered the flight and spin rate of any golf shot, which also
affected the shots distance and accuracy. In essence, hitting a golf ball with a dirty club would
be like hitting a golf ball with an oven mitt. As such, the main duty of a bag room attendant at
any country club was to keep the members clubs spotless, no matter how dirty these clubs
would get due to their owners ineptitude at the game.
After heading back down to the bag room, Billy noticed that I was a little angry at what
just transpired with Mr. Wallace. I must have been stomping down the stairs as I entered the bag
room because Billy stopped in his tracks and gave me a quizzical look. Billy then asked what
was bothering me. I explained the situation to Billy, who then assured me not to worry about
the small stuff like that.
Wallace is an old coot who loves taking his personal shit out on the bag room guys,
Billy stated. Ive heard it from him, Carlos has heard it hell, we all have. You gotta
understand that none of that is personal; to Wallace, were just here for his benefit. But you
know what Silky? We also have all the power. Ill show you when he comes in from his round.
Members at Alvarton and really most private country clubs treat the help like
complete dogs. Sure; every so often you would run in to a nicer member who preferred to treat
the bag room boys like human beings. For the most part, however, country club employees were
nothing more than servants or slaves to the wishes and demands of the clubs members.
Billy and I worked the rest of our shift without any other issues. He spent most of the
day telling me stories about older bag room employees from years past, including who knew
what dirt about which members, where to get free food in the clubhouse restaurant, and other
helpful nuggets that I would have never otherwise known sitting in the caddy shack. Finally,
Wallaces group finished their round and rolled up to the bag room. All four members in the
group had apparently just slayed a mud beast of some kind with their clubs, and Wallace hadnt
forgotten about our earlier encounter.
You kids better make sure those clubs are spotless this time around. Ill be sure to let
the pro know about his employees inability to clean a damn club properly. Wallace smiled as
he said this, then stomped past us and into the Mens locker room. Billy was apparently waiting
for his opportunity for retribution, however.
Hey Silky, he said. Grab me that shaft cutter over on the workbench.

A common tool used in golf club repair is a shaft cutter or shaft saw. These tools come in
many different shapes and sizes, but the majority is tiny, handheld vices shaped like the letter
C with an extremely sharp blade on the inner loop of the vice. To use this tool you simply
wrap the vice around the shaft of a golf club, tighten the cutters bolt to secure the tool into
place, and then rotate the cutter around the golf club shaft. After a few rotations the blade would
eventually cut through the metal or graphite shaft. Shaft cutters are typically used to shorten the
length of golf clubs for the purpose of custom-fitting to shorter players.
The next thing I knew Billy was taking each club out of Wallaces bag and lining them
up on the floor. He then proceeded to wrap the shaft cutter around each clubs graphite shaft, just
below grip line. After tightening the bolt on the shaft cutter just to the point where its blade
would be useful, Billy then rotate the cutter around each club, one-by-one. When he had finished
with the last club, he put each back into Wallaces bag as if nothing had happened.
Rule #1 of Bag Boy Etiquette, Silky, Billy said to me with a smile. Dont mess with
the help, because the help will mess with you. The next time Wallace hits a fat shot with any of
his clubs, hes gonna be in for quite the surprise.
Billys was absolutely correct. The next time Wallace used his clubs, he hit one of his
typical ground-before-ball golf shots that would normally dig deep into the ground and cause his
ball to hook badly into the trees. This time, however, Wallaces club shaft snapped exactly at
where Billy had used the shaft cutter. Wallace managed to break multiple clubs throughout the
round, before he figured it out, which made sense due to being extra-qualified on the idiot
membership requirement.
At that moment I knew that I wanted to work in the bag room permanently, but I had
also just started a friendship with a kid who would ultimately become one of my closest friends
for the next 15 years.

Chapter 3
A golf course is nothing but a poolroom moved outdoors.
-Barry Fitzgerald, Going My Way
By the end of that summer I had been hired on part-time as a bag room attendant, thus
ending my days as a caddy at Alvarton Country Club. Sure, I was still allowed to caddy if I
wanted to on my days off, but I was making enough steady income (for a 16-year old at least) to
keep my Blazer filled with gas and enough cash to goof off at night. Another job skill that I
learned quickly from my days as a caddy was how to become the biggest kiss-ass I could
possibly be in order to earn more tips than the other guy I was working with that morning. When
added to my $7/hr wage, a good tip day would immediately bump that rate upwards of $15 to
$16 dollars an hour. Needless to say, I was kissing a lot of ass.
The duties of the job were pretty simple for the most part:
Make sure the members clubs were clean and in the proper shelving slot
Keep the sand bottles and golf carts filled with sand and gas, respectively
Fold towels for the locker room and each golf cart (Alvarton tried to be high-class by
putting hand towels in each cart so members could use them to wipe their golf balls.
Most just stole the towels.)
Maintain the driving range
That last item on the list maintaining the driving range was by far the worst part of the job.
You could have asked any bag room employee and they all would have said the same thing.
Sure, it seems like an easy task; set out the range balls every morning, drive the range picker
tractor to retrieve the balls, run the baskets of balls through the ball washer, repeat the following
day. What wasnt immediately clear to a new bag room boy like me was that anything could go
horribly wrong during any of those seemingly simple steps that would ultimately ruin the rest of
your day.

My first experience with setting up the range came the first weekend after being hired on
in the bag room. As with most part-time jobs, the typical day was broken out into two shifts: 6am
to 2:00pm, and 2:00pm to close. This particular Saturday I was on the closing shift along with
another veteran bag room employee, Clayton Phillips. He was not only one of the best
employees at the club, but also smoked more pot than anyone I had ever met. He would come to
work stoned and remain that way throughout the 6 or 7 hours of his shift. If that wasnt
impressive enough, he also managed to never make a mistake during his shift. All the members
loved him, the golf pros loved him, and the lifeguards at the A.C.C. pool really loved him.
Clayton was a handsome young man who lead a carefree lifestyle that any self-respecting,
beautiful lifeguard female would love to bring home to her disapproving parents. If Matthew
Mcconaughey from Dazed and Confused worked at a golf course, Clayton Phillips was that
character to the smallest detail.

Clayton and I had made our way to the driving range picker (or the picker, as we liked
to call the rickety old caged tractor used to pick up the golf balls on the range) and he was
attempting to give me a crash course in driving the contraption while also packing a one-hitter
or a metal pipe used to smoke small bits of pot at a time- in his lap. He was seated on the
passenger side and I was behind the wheel.
Alright man, Clayton had said. These things handle just like a normal golf cart, except
youve got that big tractor thing in front of you. Take your turns slow, try not to make them too
sharp, and dont ride along any hills sideways. I dont want to spill my weed, cool?
Clayton was right; the picker was relatively easy to drive and handled almost exactly like
a golf cart would. Getting used to the tractor extending out in front of you didnt take too much
time, and within a few minutes we were cruising around the driving range scooping up golf balls
with no problem. Clayton was surrounded in a cloud of sour-smelling smoke while offering
pointers to me between puffs. This lesson was going pretty smoothly.
Now, remember when I said that Alvarton County Club was more of a dog track than an
actual golf course? The particular piece of land that the club was built around was not only
littered with hills and valleys but also had a wide creek that ran through 13 of the 18 holes on the
course. This creek was widest near the first and third holes, but it also featured a pretty wide (and
horribly inconvenient) portion smack-dad in the middle of the driving range. Im sure you can
see where this is going.
While coming down a hill by one of the four target greens on the range careful to not
spill any of Claytons pot, of course the setting sun managed to glare on the pickers
windshield just enough to blind me for about two seconds. This temporary blindness was just
enough to allow me to drive perpendicular to the creek at full speed.
Shit dude! Turn the wheel! Clayton barked at me as we were just a few feet away from
falling into the creek. I managed to turn the steering wheel hard to the right (Claytons pot was a
goner) and the cab rode the side of the creek for a split-second before finding grass once again.
Another lesson I learned that day was that the pickers tractor was actually wider than the cab of
the vehicle, and the entire left half of the tractor was now swimming in the creek bed. I also
quickly learned that the A.C.C. creek had a pretty strong current, which was taking range balls
out of the tractors baskets at an alarming rate. Clayton and I jumped out of the picker and ran
down to the foot of the creek and surveyed the situation.
Now what the hell are we gonna do? I asked. I hadnt even been on the job for more
than a few weeks, and all I could think about was how Brewer was going to react when he
learned I broke his range picker. Of course, I had no idea if it was broke or not, but I have a habit
of assuming the worst.

Clayton jumped down into the creek which was only a foot or so deep and started
pushing on the tractor. Get in the picker and floor it in reverse, Silk. Ill lift here and it should
work. I followed his orders and climbed back into the picker, reached down on the floor,
clicked the transmission switch to reverse and hit the gas. Clayton stayed in the creek and did
the best he could to lift the heavy tractor. After a few seconds the picker started to roll
backwards, and eventually Clayton was able to guide the tractor out of the creek and back onto
land. I stopped the picker and climbed out to help Clayton out of the creek. Sorry about that
man. Maybe I shouldnt drive this thing anymore?
Are you kidding? You know how many times weve driven this thing into the creek?
Shit man. I used to do it once a week just to take more time down here and away from the bitchy
members up by the club. Clayton was already packing another hitter with what weed he had
left. Dont sweat it. Besides, when Brewer hears that youve broken your picker cherry hes
gonna laugh it off.
Perhaps the most important lesson I learned while working in the bag room was that most
of the guys were decent dudes, which went completely against the impression I had of them as a
caddy. We hated the bag room boys, even to the point that we would avoid them at all costs
when walking around the property of Alvarton. The avoidance always seemed to be based on
whatever fear a younger child has when approaching an older kid. I remember having the same
feelings of avoidance during grade school or my early high school years whenever I would run
into an upperclassman. While there were a few instances when my fears would be realized
because of some jerk at school, most of the time these fears were complete irrational and quickly
diminished once I actually got to know a person. I still tend to become fearful of uncertain
situations even to this day, but befriending and working alongside some of the bag room
employees help me settle those concerns much faster than I probably otherwise would have.
Clayton and I finished picking the range (Clayton drove for a bit while he showed me
where to stay away from on the terrain and how to not drive the damn thing into the creek) and
then drove the picker up towards the caddy shack to our iron baskets where we would empty the
balls from the tractor in preparation of running each basket through the ball washer. While the
range picker was simple to drive, the old range ball washer was a completely different problem.
As I stood up next to the ball washer, Clayton could see that I was completely confused
as how to even turn the device on let alone operate with any sense of skill. You look like a lost
puppy, man, he said as he walked up to assist. Here; let me explain what this piece of shit can
do.
The ball washer worked like this: you pour a basket of balls into the top of the machine,
which looked a lot like a woodchipper. The top of the machine was angled down to allow for the
balls to roll towards the middle of the machine, which then fed into a circular track that wrapped
around a large brush submerged in water. When the washer was turned on, the brush would spin

and guide the balls along the track until ultimately dropping out the bottom of the machine and
into another waiting basket. An entire basket of range balls which could fit upwards of 300
balls when filled to the brim could be cleaned in less than a few minutes when the machine was
working properly. The key, of course, was that the washer had to be working properly. It never
did.
Clayton showed me where to load the golf balls into the washer and then went back
outside the caddy shack to empty the rest of the tractor. Before too long I had the washer running
at full speed with no problems, and the balls were moving through their track with ease. After
awhile I began to notice a peculiar smell, however, coming from the bottom of the washer. Hey
Clayton, something stinks in here man.
Thats just the water, man. Smells like it hasnt been changed in a couple days. As long
as theres soap in there you should be fine. Do you see any suds?
I confirmed that I did, in fact, see soap suds pouring out of the machine and onto the
shacks cement floor. The smell started to get worse as the first basket of balls finished, but I
paid no attention and grabbed another basket of dirty golf balls that Clayton had brought for me
to clean. After pouring the dirty basket into the top of the washer I flipped the switch to ON
and started the machine to work on the second basket. Suddenly, the foul smell was now
accompanied by a screeching sound and the balls stopped moving along their track. Great, I
thought to myself. First the picker and now I broke this?
Clayton heard the screeching sound and strolled up to me near the washer. Aww, that
sucks man. Looks like a ball is stuck near the brush. Youre gonna have to turn it off and fish
that little fucker out. What Clayton was referring to and something I couldnt have possibly
known prior to turning on the washer was that sometimes a driving range ball will have a small
cut in its cover thanks to years of being smashed by irons and drivers. The issue was that when
one of these cut balls made their way into the washers track, it would literally wrap itself around
the iron track and get stuck, thus halting the entire cleaning process. Oh, and it would cause the
washer to scream like a banshee, too.
This was a complete pain in the ass and by far the worst aspect of picking the driving
range. In fact, if you were to go to Alvarton now and ask what the bag room boys hated most
about the driving range, they would undoubtedly say that fucking ball washer. To make
matters worse the only way to clear out the stuck ball from the washer was to take off the top of
the machine and stick your hands into the foul, disgusting water and feel around until you found
the cracked ball. Clayton watched as I knelt down and begrudgingly reached into the machines
water tub. After a few seconds of searching and whining to Clayton that I couldnt find the ball, I
suddenly felt the sharpness on my fingertips that could only be that of a cracked golf ball cover.

Now, what Clayton did teach me was why the ball washer stopped. What he didnt
explain was how I could actually remove the broken golf ball from the track. So I had to
improvise.
With my fingers secured tightly around the cracked golf ball, I started to tug as hard as I
could, trying my damndest to get the ball out of the track. When I noticed it simply wasnt
moving, I decided to place my foot on the base of the tub for more leverage. With one final
violent pull on the cracked golf ball I managed to free the ball from the track. I also fall
backwards onto my ass with the foul water and washers tub completely emptying on top of me.
Golf balls were rolling everywhere. Water that hadnt been changed in probably a month
was in my mouth, in my eyes, and had completely soaked my clothing. The smell was beyond
hideous. I have yet to experience a smell anything close to what the stale, stagnant, golf-coursechemical-saturated water bath offered to me as I laid on my back surrounded by the mess I had
just created. When I did manage to finally open my eyes I noticed that not only was Clayton
peering down at me, but also the lifeguard he was currently dating from the club: Sarah Swolski.
To say that this particular life guard was hot or attractive would be an understatement.
Clayton once explained to anyone who would listen that he picked his women like he picked his
weed: only the best cuts. Sarah was certainly that, and now she was looking down at me covered
in filth.
Did you get the ball? Sarah asked as she smiled. Clayton had already begun laughing
behind her. I peered over at my left hand and noticed I was still holding the cracked golf ball,
which I lifted up to show Sarah.
Yeah. I got it. I said as I picked myself up off the ground. After we all shared a quick
laugh, and after Clayton reminded Sarah that I also drove the range picker into the creek, he told
me to go home for the night and that he would finish the job for me.
While walking away from the caddy shack and towards my Blazer I looked back at
Clayton and Sarah just in time to see them shut the shacks door and turn off the light,
presumably to take care of additional business besides cleaning golf balls. I later learned that
Sarah had gotten pregnant that evening in the caddy shack, making Clayton the first bag room
boy during my stint to quit Alvarton because he needed to find a real job. I sometimes wonder
if they named their child after me, and if they had to throw their clothes away as well because of
the water smell.

Chapter Four
If there is any larceny in a man, golf will bring it out.
-Paul Gallico
Working at Alvarton Country Club offered its fair share of perks. Free soda from the
kitchen, free lunch every day in the restaurant, and the occasional free shirt from the pro shop
were definitely nothing to shake a stick at. However, the biggest perk all employees enjoyed at
the club was free golf on Mondays, when the course was closed to members.
I was still learning a great deal about the game when I was 18, so being able to play bad
golf for free on a course I would have never been able to play otherwise Alvarton was a private
club and not open to the public - was like a dream come true for a broke bag room employee like
myself. All that was required was a written pass from the head pro, a set of golf clubs, and about
5 hours to kill on a hot summer day. We were even allowed to bring one guest with us to play.
In a football-heavy high school atmosphere, my friends and I who actually enjoyed golf
did so in secret and away from most of our other acquaintances who would otherwise call us
dorks or nerds. We all loved golf, but we also understood that it was seen as an old-mans
game by other people our age. Furthermore, and on a different level, golf was damned expensive
for a bunch of high-schoolers to play on a regular basis. Playing golf for free was something of
legend among me and my friends; it just didnt happen that often.
On this particular Monday, a friend and I decided to wake up in the early morning and
make our way out to the course around 7am. While employees are really only able to play after
noon, so the groundskeepers can manicure the course in the morning, we decided to ignore what
we thought was a stupid rule and take our chances. After all, dodging a few lawnmowers and
weed-whackers couldnt be that difficult. I remember my buddy Tim had also packed a few
Gatorades and sandwiches in his golf cooler for the day, which we could throw in the back of our
cart and have the best day of our golfing lives.
When Tim and I arrived to the course that day early in the morning, we were by far the
only non-grounds crew employees on the property. We sprung out of our car, threw on our golf
shoes and started down toward the bag room from the clubhouse side door. We had left our golf
bags in the trunk of my car, planning on retrieving them once we commandeered a golf cart.
Tim and I reached the bag room in a few seconds, flipped the back entrance light switch on and I
headed towards the large garage door that was shut every night. Tim headed towards the first
row of golf carts on the other side of the bag room.
I was able to unlock and open the garage door with ease (the key to the padlock we used
to secure the door was in a nearby bench drawer) when I heard Tim ask, Hey Silky, whats with
this cord thing on the carts? I headed over to where Tim was standing near the first golf cart.

As it turns out, another security measure the club used to secure their golf cart was to run
an alarm cord through the outer ring of golf carts, which then ran into a small gray box in the
ceiling. At that point in my employment at A.C.C. I had only seen this cord one time before and
had never actually connected it or armed the alarm. In fact, Billy had told me a couple weeks
before that he wasnt even sure if the alarm actually worked, or if it was just to be used as a
visual deterrent to any would-be thieves who wanted to go for a joy ride. Oh, I think thats what
we call an alarm cord. Im pretty sure it doesnt even work; I think its a fake.
Tim looked at me then back at the cord in his hands. He then followed the length of the
cord with his eyes up to the gray box in the ceiling. Are you sure about that? Looks pretty real
to me, man.
Well, all I know is that Im not walking today. I told Tim. Besides; we have this
cooler and 36 holes of golf to play. I reached down and grabbed the alarm cord out of Tims
hands, fiddling for the small plastic connector that pieced one end of the cord to the other, sort of
like an electrical outlet plug. This other guy I work with told me its a fake anyway. You know,
just in case someone tries to steal a cart. Itll makem think twice.
Its certainly making me think twice, Silk. Tim was getting nervous. Maybe we should
just walk?
Dont be such a wuss. Look I said as I wrapped my hands around either side of the
connector and pulled. The cord came undone rather easily, and Tim and I paused. I dont even
think we were breathing. Thinking back, I really had no idea if an alarm would start screaming at
us or not. However, after a few seconds of hearing nothing no blinking lights, no screaming
alarm, no SWAT team running down the stairs Tim and I laughed and climbed into the first
golf cart and sped out of the bag room. We got back up to our car, loaded our bags onto the cart
and were ready to begin our marathon day of golf.
The day before I had talked to our assistant pro, Skip, about getting a pass to play golf the
following day. Now, he might tell you a different side of the story (and he would probably be
right), but I specifically remember him telling me that taking golf carts out on a Monday was
absolutely fine and that people did it all the time. As I think back about that conversation
some ten years later now, I am probably 100% sure that he said neither of those two things and I
had made up those phrases in a state of panic. Yes, definitely 100% sure probably maybe.
The panic comes later.
Tim and I just finished our third hole of golf when we were riding in our cart towards the
fourth tee cart path, which was located across the front of the parking lot when one would arrive
on Alvartons property.. Right about then we saw a brand-new black Mercedes Benz roll into the
lot, being driven by one of the nicer members of the club, Mr. Connor. I got along pretty well
with Mr. Connor for a few reasons: he tipped really well, he was a hell of a player, and he was
also an Alumni of the college I was hoping to attend later that fall. However, this didnt explain

what he was doing at Alvarton on a Monday morning. Tim and I looked at each other and
decided to follow Mr. Connor to the clubhouse.
When we reached his parked car, we saw that Mr. Connor was there to apparently
practice. Hows it going gentlemen? he asked as he rose out of his car. Out for a quick 18?
Hi Mr. Connor. Yeah, you can say that. Maybe a little more if we play fast enough. I
made a motion to his open car trunk and golf bag. You uh, you plan on hitting a few putts or
something? You know the club is closed to members on Monday, right?
I know that, Brian. Mr. Connor was one of the only members to know my name, let
alone my real name and not Silky. But I dont think theres any harm if I came out here and
played a few holes. Besides, I pay my dues just like everyone else. Ill tell you what, Brian.
Why dont you and your friend run down and bring me back a golf cart? He said this while
reaching for his wallet, which I obviously knew was a very good thing for Tim and I. So after a
brief pause to gauge this risk/reward situation, I decided to accommodate his request. We were
back with his golf cart in no time, and Mr. Connor tipped both Tim and I a $20 bill for our
efforts.
Thanks guys, enjoy the rest of your day. Ill just leave the cart down by the bag room
when Im done. Should only be a few holes. And with that, Mr. Connor drove off towards the
back nine and Timmy and I were each $20 richer.
We had continued to play for about 15 more minutes until we saw another person driving
towards us in another golf cart. At first we thought this was Mr. Connor coming back to ask for
something else, but then I realized that this person was certainly not Mr. Connor, and he seemed
incredibly angry. This assumption was proven when he did not return our waiving gesture. As
our visitor got closer to where we stood in the fifth fairway, I was able to make out his face: it
was our head golf pro, Paul Brewer. Did I mention he was pissed?
God dammit, Silk!, Brewer screamed at me. What the hell are you two doing out here
in a cart? Better yet, what the fuck is a member doing out here in a golf cart on a Monday? Have
you lost your goddamn mind?! You know that feeling you get as a kid when youre getting
scolded by someone other than your parents and you have absolutely no idea how to respond
without being shot in the face? Thats what I was feeling, so I remained quiet. Both of you
better drive your asses back up to the clubhouse right now!
Tim and I saw our day ending right before our eyes as we followed Brewer back to the
clubhouse in our stolen golf cart. As we got back to the parking lot we saw that not only was Mr.
Connor back at his car with the cart we gave him, but so were two Alvarton City police officers.
Brewers car was also parked to the side of the lot across three parking spaces along the trees
behind the first tee. The man didnt even bother to park in the lines? I knew I was toast if he was
that blinded by rage. Brewer came over to Tim and me and introduced us to the two officers,

who then asked what we were doing out there. Brewer explained we were his employees
even though Tim was nowhere near an employee of the club and we were allowed to be here;
we just werent allowed to have golf carts. Brewer went on to explain that Mr. Connor was a
member of the club and must have thought the golf outing was today instead of next week. In
other words, Brewer stuck up for everyone when he absolutely didnt have to. Tim and I stayed
silent the entire time.
After a few minutes the police officers drove off, Mr. Connor got into his car and left,
which left just Brewer glaring down at us. Silk, I am only going to say this once. If you ever
pull this shit again, not only are you fired but I will let the police arrest your ass for taking club
property. You know damn well that you arent allowed to use carts out here on Monday, and you
sure as hell arent supposed to unhook the silent cart alarm.
Silent cart alarm! Billy was a dead man when I saw him next.
What exactly gave you the idea that you could use a cart? Brewer asked.
Well, I thought Skip said I could use one I knew when I finished saying that phrase
my whole situation had just got a lot worse.
Skip SKIP TOLD YOU THAT?! Brewer looked like I just told him his mother died.
Youre telling me that Skip gave you permission to use a cart today?
Dude did he say that? Tim asked me under his breath.
Shut the fuck up Tim. Yeah Paul; Im pretty sure Skip told me I could use a cart. Sorry,
though. I promise it wont happen again. Promise.
Brewer ran off to his car with his cell phone after hearing this, and Tim and I looked at
each other shrugging in typical so, what do we do now? fashion. So we did the only thing we
knew what to do; we got back in our car and started to drive off. Brewer shouted to us before we
got too far, however, and stopped us before we left the parking lot. Brewer informed me that he
was going to have a long conversation with Skip about this little incident and what he is telling
Brewers employees. I was also told my Monday playing privileges were suspended for three
weeks, which was pretty mild considering what could have happened. Tim and I left the club at
that point and headed for another local course just down the road.
The next day I was scheduled to work the closing shift at Alvarton, and of course Skip
was the pro who just so happened to also be working the late shift for the pro shop.
The entire night prior I was suffering panic attacks at home in anticipation of what was
going to happen the next day at work. I had never been fired before in my short experience in
the working world, and I likened this potential outcome with lethal injection. Ive always had a
way of making myself crazy with worry leading up to an inevitable confrontation.

Regardless, I walked into work that Tuesday afternoon with my tail between my legs and
a baseball cap tucked low on my brow. My mother had given me some advice the night prior on
how to approach this situation: just tell Skip you were sorry and this was a misunderstanding on
your part. If you are still worried after that point, my mother had said. Just start praying.
Theres really nothing more you can do. I wasnt much of a believer in religion at that time
probably because most of my friends were revolting against all the stuff they learned in Catholic
school and it seemed like the cool thing to do but I always seemed to revert back to praying
when I needed help. Nowadays I try not to keep God on a retainer.
Skip came up to me almost immediately. You. HUGE mistake. Huge. I could tell
this wasnt going to go well. Was it too early to start praying? Why would you tell Brewer I
gave you permission to use the golf cart? You know that is a damned lie.
Look Skip, youre right. Im sorry. I was under the impression we could use carts, but
clearly that was wrong. It was a misunderstanding on my part. It wont happen again.
Skip was clearly in the mood to argue, but after hearing what I said I could tell his
demeanor changed immediately. He paused for a moment and smiled. I like how you put that,
Silk. A misunderstanding on your part. Thats pretty much what happened, isnt it? But I
respect that about you. That was very mature. Skip then reached over to the bag room work
bench, grabbed a screwdriver and handed it to me. But tonight, youre fucked.
Reason number 430 why the Alvarton Driving Range sucks: sometimes, following a
heavy rain, range balls will become buried in the driving range mud. These range balls will
remain lodged in the mud until someone goes on the range on his hands and knees with a
screwdriver and digs them out. Today, that someone was me, and that was my penance for
taking out a golf cart when I shouldnt have.
All told, I believe I spent 5 hours on the range that evening with a screwdriver (and a
flashlight, once the sun went down) poking the tool into the mud to dig out range ball after range
ball. At the end of the night Skip drove up to me in a cart with a smug look on his face and a
clean towel for my hands. How many balls did you get tonight?
I looked back at my golf cart and counted the baskets on the back of the cart. Three of
those. That totaled about 900 golf balls ripped from the earth with my bare hands. Oh and a
screwdriver, of course.
Thats good work. Alright man, youve had enough. Just remember: no carts on
Mondays, alright? I agreed with Skip and walked back to my cart to head into the bag room. As
time went on over the next 8 summers at Alvarton, the no carts rule would eventually be lifted
as less and less employees took advantage of the free golf on Mondays. As I moved into veteran
status within the bag room, I would remind new employees of how much screwdriving the
range sucked and how it would be the most severe punishment a wayward employee could

experience without getting fired. To this day I am pretty sure no one else has had to suffer that
fate since.
I walk when I play golf now. Most of the time.

Chapter Five
A kid grows up a lot faster on the golf course. Golf teaches you how to behave.
- Jack Nicklaus
In case you couldnt already tell, vulgarity at Alvarton Country Club was an art form.
While I had been exposed to a great deal of swearing around high school, from books I read and
shows I watched, I never really understood the flexibility that many curse words had prior to
working in the bag room. Those young men were linguists of the highest order, regardless of age
or rank on the bag room boy hierarchy.
Carlos and Billy were by far two of the best in this area. Both could weave together
curse words in a way that made you gasp with astonishment in addition to being truly offended.
Billy was the youngest in his family and had an older sister and a city-working father from which
to learn about the intricacies of proper swearing. Carlos was just a devilish asshole that grew up
on the bad side of Alvarton. Furthermore, both boys went through Catholic school (like
myself) where cursing was as common as saying a Hail Mary.
To say that professionalism in the workplace didnt exist in the Alvarton bag room is an
understatement. While most young men started working in the bag room around 16, these
gentlemen could utter vulgarity that was well beyond their years in no time. Curse words
quickly replaced normal, everyday pleasantries like good morning or hello. In fact, the
A.C.C. bag room lexicon became so complicated that the veteran employees once sat down to
create a handbook to provide to newer employees upon hire. The following is an abridged list
of pleasantries that I can remember from the Bag Room Handbook:
fuckin to imply emphasis; a greeting in the morning; an exclamation of pain; an
exclamation of excitement; the first name of any member who did not tip that morning.
motherfuckin to imply extreme emphasis; a greeting in the morning during your work
shift on a holiday; to classify the exploits of a fellow bag room employee, as in Hey, remember
when Clayton got that girl pregnant in the motherfuckin caddy shack?
bitch any new bag room employee; definitely not any bag room employees girlfriend;
the first name of any female member who did not tip that morning.
motherbitch one of Carlos favorite swear words; the most severe form of arrogant
female member at the country club; somehow the name of Carlos car, which no one really
understood.
shitfucker a combination of two common curse words spoken together or in rapid
succession; usually screamed by assistant pro Skip while watching a horse race or football game
he had wagered on that morning.

Jizz-jar a derogatory name given to a new snack shop girl or life guard who was both
attractive and completely out of the league for any bag room boy; a title describing the false and
immature assumption of promiscuity of an extremely attractive female employee, as in That
girl is so hot. I bet that jizz-jar sleeps with half the membership by Halloween.
Fuckin hack a member who was a terrible golfer.
Fuckinhack poser a member who was a terrible golfer while having the best possible
golf equipment every year.
Range-raper a member who only came out to hit driving range balls, never played any
rounds of golf, and never tipped a bag room boy.
Twatsucker an exclamation of intense pain, possibly after slicing ones finger while
regripping a motherbitchs new driver.
Cheap cocksmokin bastard a common utterance on payday at Alvarton Country Club;
what I thought the general manager of the country clubs first name was for years.

What the bag room boys lacked in maturity and tact, they made up for in creativity. I am
positive there were many more words on the final list; however the ones listed above have stuck
with me throughout the years and have stood the test of time.

Chapter Six
Golf gives you an insight into human nature, your own as well as your opponent's.
-Grantland Rice
Gambling on sporting events, card games, and rounds of golf was a norm in the Alvarton
bag room and pro shop. Whether laying down a few bucks on a round of golf or on the White
Sox game that evening, you could almost always find another employee who was willing to take
the wager. For the bag room kids, this was as common as setting up the driving range or folding
towels. Since we all earned a hefty amount of tips from the members (especially at golf outings
or tournaments), we had a few extra dollars at the end of the day to bet against one another.
As I grew older and more comfortable in the bag room and among my fellow veterans
and golf professionals, the number of wagers I was offered increased substantially. What used to
be simple five-dollar bets on who could hit a golf ball from the bag room onto the nearby green
grew into a full-fledged bookie business, ran entirely by assistant golf pro Skip.
Skip was already involved in a pretty large gambling arrangement with other golf pros in
the area, focusing mainly on sports like college football, college basketball, and the NFL. He had
a small desk in the hallway between the bag room and the Pro Shop where he would check
scores on his computer in between assisting members with their concerns throughout the day. He
also kept a large notebook locked in the bottom drawer of this desk. This notebook, as I would
later learn one particular summer, was a running log of wagers for upwards of 30 people and an
obscene amount of money.
As was the case of many local golf professionals, the country club business around
Alvarton wasnt exactly a booming industry and did not offer much money. While I knew Head
Pro Brewer was making a pretty good living at A.C.C., his two assistant golf pros were making
considerably less in terms of salary and tip compensation from the members. I remember Skip
explaining to me one day that for every $100 of profit Brewer brought into the club, the two
assistant pros would see maybe $10 on their paychecks. This was nothing new to the golf
business, of course; the head pro was the boss for a reason, and it was certainly a position worth
working toward (even in Alvarton). But certain assistant pros needed to find another means to
not only pay their bills during golf season, but also do so during the off-season when the golf
course wasnt open.
The day I asked Skip about his notebook was a particularly slow Tuesday during the fall
while I was still in high school. I was working the closing shift after school and an NFL game
was planned for that Thursday evening. Skip seemed to be rather nervous throughout the day,
which would turn into excitement in small spurts before ultimately returning to a high level of
anxiety. This seemed odd to me since Skip was normally an even-keeled individual throughout
the day and did not speak much to anyone unless spoken to. Today was different. He was rather

talkative, moved around the building quickly and was sweating more than normal. Furthermore,
Skip would constantly bring up the football game that week in almost every conversation. Even
at the age of 16 I could tell that Skip was in some kind of trouble, or that he was about to be very
shortly. Thats when I decided to ask him about the notebook, assuming this was the stem of his
worry. As it turned out, I was right on the money (pardon the pun).
So whats the deal with that notebook in your desk, Skip? And why do you keep it
locked away like that so no one can see it? I already had a good idea that it had something to do
with gambling considering he would only look at the book on Saturday or Sunday mornings
during football season.
Silk, trust me; you dont want to get involved. Unless you watch football, of course.
Skip always seemed to offer advice or wisdom to the bag room boys before immediately offering
a way to go completely against whatever advice he just offered you. While he was definitely
addicted to a few things in his life and likely had his monkey on his back which he fought on a
daily basis I will never have a bad thing to say about Skip. He always meant well and tried his
best to be more than just a boss to the bag room employees. Of course, he was also going to give
us the opportunity to learn from our own mistakes.
After telling Skip that I was a huge football fan and even got involved in fantasy football
every year, he agreed to show me the notebook. Be sure that this stuff doesnt leave the bag
room, Skip warned me. Because it isnt exactly the most legal thing in the world.
At first glance I really had no idea what I was looking at. The notebook appeared to be a
highly random and intricate collection of pen and pencil jibberish, colors and calculations Skip
had obviously been compiling for years. Along the side of the notebook were small tabs with
names scribbled on each tab, presumably marking a dedicated section of the notebook for each
individual Skip worked with. I recognized a few names as belonging to Alvarton members,
which sparked my interest even more as I looked over this document with wide eyes and silence.
Skip explained that he collected wagers from golf pros in the area, members at the club, and even
some of his friends on any type of sporting event and recorded their progress in this book. He
would then call his guy with the results of each wager after the respective game or event, and
then either pay out or collect on the bet according to this notebook.
So is this why you have been so damned jittery over the past couple of days? I asked,
already knowing the answer to my question but wanting try out my newfound sense of freedom
regarding vulgarity.
Skip nervously smiled and replied, Yeah, you can say that. Here, take a look at my
page. Skip flipped through the notebook a bit until he landed on a page covered in red ink. See
all of that red? Thats not a good color in the world of sports betting. Lets just say that I need a
win tonight in the NFL game, and I need it bad.

I kind of chuckled politely as I really didnt understand how badly Skip needed a win
tonight until I looked down at the bottom of the notebook page. There it was, in red ink glaring
back at both Skip and I: -$7,000. I could feel my eyes getting wider as I allowed them to wander
up through the long list of wagers. Each line had a smaller red number and eventually went up to
a numbers written in black ink. My eyes scrolled to the top of the page, which started with a
black-ink value of $3,000, which obviously decreased in specific increments until the nasty red
number at the bottom. I didnt realize the severity of these numbers right away, but it eventually
dawned on me that Skip had lost a total of $10,000 on this little operation he was running up
until now. This was the biggest amount of money won or lost that my inexperienced eyes had
ever seen, and it frightened me a great deal.
But it also excited me. How do I get in?
Buying cigarettes with a fake ID or giving a few dollars to an older friend to buy alcohol
was about as crazy as my 16 year-old conscience could handle. Being offered the chance to
gamble with the big boys was a whole new temptation that I really couldnt understand well
enough to prevent me from participating. While I had a good idea of what could happen in terms
of losing a great deal of money (like $10,000, in Skips case), I had never actually experienced
the adrenaline rush of losing or winning money against other people at least not like this. I
couldnt not try it out, at least this time.
Skip told me that while he didnt condone gambling under age, he also wasnt my
father and therefore allowed me to place a small wager I think it was $50 on that nights
NFL game. While that amount of money was small change in the arena of professional
gambling, $50 was the largest wager I had ever placed in my young life. I had the money, having
saved up the weeks tips, and at the time everything else I could have spent that money on golf,
gas for my Blazer, drive-thru meals, etc. all went out the window. What was even better was
that I didnt even have to pay Skip the money now; he just wrote my name in his notebook and a
big, bold $50.00 on the top line of the page. As I look back I also realize this was my first
experience with the idea of credit. All I had to do was sit back and wait for the game to start.
Work was a blur for the remainder of the afternoon and into the evening. I couldnt think
of anything other than the NFL game, and Skip would stop by the bag room every so often to
give me updates on injuries for the game, what the ESPN analyzers were saying about the star
quarterback, and anything else to keep my level of excitement on a the same level as his for the
upcoming contest. He had an extra pep in his step all the way up to kick-off at 8:00pm, when his
excitement once again switched to anxiety in anticipation of the football game. I finished
washing the driving range balls and walked back up to the pro shop to check out for the night.
Skip, who was closing the shop that evening, ushered me into the pro shop and handed me a
beer.

Whats this? I asked, knowing full well what it was and that Skip was looking for a
drinking buddy that evening.
Shut up and watch the game, Silky! This is gonna be a blast. Ive got a full cooler of
beer from the restaurant behind the counter, the game is on both TVs, and the game just started.
Skip was a little less excited now than he was just a few hours earlier, but it didnt seem to
matter much at the moment. I was 16, I was drinking a beer at work, and I was watching a
professional football game that I had just wagered money on through a bookie. So I sat down in
an office chair, put my feet up on a table and watched. Skip sat behind the pro shop counter and
kept his eyes on the parking lot just in case any members decided to stop by for a late night
discussion with the pro shop.
The game went on pretty quickly, and it was both the best and worst game I had ever
witnessed for a variety of reasons. While I was (and still am) a huge football fan, I had never
watched a game where I was a little drunk plus had a wager riding on it. Every incomplete pass,
turnover, or touchdown caused both Skip and I to rejoice or curse at the television in a way that
went a lot deeper than your average, run-of-the-mill football fan. My hard-earned cash was at
stake here! For example, when my team threw an interception in the end-zone, ultimately leading
to the other team scoring a touchdown, my heart sank. This was the first time I started
considering the possibility of losing $50 instead of winning, which immediately made me regret
the wager. How could I have been so stupid? Im never going to ever have $50 again in my life
for as long as I live! I was completely irrational.
Then it happened. My team was down two points with only a few seconds left in the
game and we were within field goal range. The rest of the story played out like any other
football game would in the history of the sport: my team drove down the field to within 15 yards
of the goal; time was expiring, and just before it ran out my team called a time-out. Skip and I
had our eyes fixated on the television screen, knowing that if my team kicked a field goal, the
game would be over and I would win my wager. After a commercial break the field goal unit
came onto the field, lined up, and the kicker sent the ball right through the goal posts. Players
rejoice on the field, and an intoxicated 16 year-old bag room attendant was jumping up and down
right along with them. I had just won the World Series, the Super Bowl and the lottery in one
glorious moment. I have only felt that level of excitement a handful of times since.
But I was the only voice that evening in the Alvarton Country Club pro shop. I noticed
and turned around to see Skip, sitting in his office chair behind the counter, with his head in his
hands. I walked over to him to see why he wasnt jumping around, and I immediately
understood the opposite emotions of wagering money on a sporting event, especially when you
needed a win. I understood what happens when $50 becomes much more later on in life,
especially when bills need to be paid, food needs to bought, and peoples interests such as a
significant other- are important. When I looked at Skip just moments after my first experience

with winning a bet, I also got my first experience with what can happen when the opposite
happens.
Skip was sitting there, crying into his hands. Clearly, he had needed that field goal to sail
wide.
I never learned how much Skip lost that evening, but it didnt really matter. He would
eventually break even a couple years later at least thats what Im told and any losses he
experienced were recouped. I also learned that when he lost that night, his wife had recently
discovered his gambling habits. While they are still married that was certainly the most trying
time in their relationship. Skip was no longer gambling for the thrill of winning; that evening he
was placing his happiness and the lives of more than just him in the hands of Lady Luck and
ultimately the foot of a professional football player. He had lost control of what he held to be
important in his life and was hoping for a miracle that would not come.
Over the next few months I admittedly placed another wager or two on a football game or
basketball game, but never to the extreme of needing the win to pay a bill or not. I would
eventually lose a bet, pay my money to Skip, and then move on to cleaning more clubs and
filling more sand bottles. My days of high-stake gambling were sparked and extinguished in the
same evening, on the same play, in the same game. That experience, of course, was much more
valuable than anything written in Skips notebook.

Chapter Seven
Golf appeals to the idiot in us and the child. Just how childlike golf players become is proven
by their frequent inability to count past five.
-John Updike
Camaraderie among the bag room employees became sacred throughout the years. What
started as introductions between two new employees eventually grew into friendships for many,
especially among the bag room guys and golf professionals. Billy and Carlos became very close
friends of mine (and remain so to this day), as did the golf professionals Skip, John Flock, and
even the head pro Paul Brewer. As with most friendships, however, times could get a little rough
when one (or more) people thought of their job as a playground instead of a place of business.
One Fourth of July at Alvarton falls squarely into this category.
The country club would have numerous tournaments and events for the members
throughout the year, especially around spring and summer holidays like Memorial Day, Veterans
Day, and Independence Day. A huge team of bag room employees would be scheduled for each
tournament sometimes as many as 7 or 8 attendants in comparison to the normal 2 or 3 and
we would work our tails off for 15 hours straight. While many other lines of work have similar
hours on a regular basis, this was not common for a bunch of high school-aged golf course
employees wearing dress clothes and running around during a work shift. Throw in the
occasional irate (and drunk) country club member well, things would get a little stressful.
One particular Fourth of July tournament took place around the time I was 18 or 19 years
old during a summer break for college. I would come back to Alvarton and work at the club to
save a little money, before ultimately heading back to college and wasting all of it on food, beer,
and whatever else. On this holiday, however, I was on the schedule with Billy and Carlos a
team that we jokingly referred to as The Dream Team. We were all the oldest employees in the
bag room at the time and were as well-known as the golf pros themselves, so we tended to get
away with goofing off a lot more than any of the younger bag room boys. The members had
grown to respect the three of us throughout the years, and we even established minor friendships
with a few.
The tournament work shift that day started at 5:30 in the morning, when Billy, Carlos,
and I opened the golf shop and bag room along with both assistant pros and Brewer. For
tournaments, the golf professionals were required to dress in full suits for the bigger
tournaments; the bag room boys wore the same color golf shirt and khaki dress pants. Everyone
was on their A Game that morning, hustling to get the range carts set up for the tournament
start later that morning, writing out scorecards and tee-events for the tournament, and making
any final, last-second changes to the tournament format as needed. We would hardly sit down,
but we knew generous tips would be the result of our hard work. Assuming the members drank
enough during their round, of course.

Billy was older than I, and we were both older than Carlos. However, this Independence
Day was one that we were all going to remember: Carlos was now finally over the age of 18, and
therefore could legally purchase fireworks. Thinking back to this time, I often wonder why we
hadnt thought of doing this before that particular year.
Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, Carlos, Billy and I contrived a master
plan of not only purchasing fireworks in the spirit of the holiday, but purchasing fireworks and
setting them off at the country club that evening. Skip and John were also in favor of this event
presumably so they could both get stoned and look at the shiny things in the sky and we all
agreed to keep this whole thing quiet until all the members left for the day. We also promised to
not let head pro Brewer know about the plan. None of us needed to get fired that evening, but we
all totally needed to see a fireworks show. During a lull in the action, which usually occurred
after all the tournament players were on the golf course, I eventually made my way out onto the
course and chose an area that would serve as Ground Zero for the fireworks spectacular. I settled
on a large fairway bunker on the eleventh hole that had a great deal of sand, making it deep
enough to stick fireworks into and hidden from the view of Alvartons parking lot. Billy agreed
this was a prime location, so all we needed now were the fireworks.
Towards the end of the afternoon Billy and Carlos made the 45 minute drive while on
the clock, of course - to the Indiana border to purchase the fireworks. Brewer had already left for
the day (as was normal for the head pro, especially on the day of a tournament), leaving myself,
Skip and John in the pro shop. All the golf carts were put away except for four carts that would
serve as our chariots for the evening. All the members clubs were cleaned. Even the driving
range was closed up for the rest of the night. Within a few moments Billy and Carlos returned to
the club with three large boxes of fireworks and smiles from ear-to-ear. This was really
happening, and it was going to be awesome!
Skip and John had put together a few coolers of beer for us to take out onto the course. I
had a few long grille lighters in my Blazer to light the various noisemakers we had purchased.
Billy and Carlos were pulling up three golf carts for us to use as our getaway vehicles you
know, just in case. We sat around in the bag room for a little while waiting for the last club
members to go home and for the night sky to fall over the golf course. Once we agreed that that
coast was clear and it was dark enough outside, we loaded up our carts and made a dash towards
the eleventh holes fairway bunker. Beer was already flowing at this point, which probably
wasnt the greatest idea considering the amount of ammunition we were about to light on fire in
a fucking sand pit with absolutely zero prior experience.
Setting up the firework show was a lot easier than we originally thought. In an effort to
not lose a limb or kill one another, we all decided to light one firework at a time. Many beers
were drank, many lights and sounds were seen, and most of the eleventh hole became a
graveyard of used fireworks and ash. One particularly large firework failed to light right away,
that is until Carlos walked over to kick the bowl-shaped brick of explosives. Carlos quickly

jumped back beer still in-hand just before the fireworks started spraying all over the golf
course. When it had finally fizzled out a small patch of grass in the fairway had been charred.
None of us seemed to care, however. We were having an absolute ball.
Hey, whos that up at the top of the hill? Billy asked as he pointed with his beer bottle.
We all turned to look. Sure enough, at the top of the hill was what looked like a golf cart
carrying two people, one of which was holding a flashlight. The cart was stationary and we
couldnt hear anything the two people were saying to one another, nor could we determine who
our visitors were.
Skip had just finished taking a huge hit off of a bong he had brought along for the show.
Not. Sure. Man, he said just before exhaling a large puff of smoke. Probably just one of the
cooks or something. Who gives a shit? None of us did. We certainly did not give a shit.
We probably should have.
The following day at work was rough for all of us. I had the luxury of working the late
shift that afternoon, however Billy and Carlos were on the schedule for the morning. While
walking from my car towards the clubhouse I saw Billy riding in a golf cart towards me. He
didnt look happy.
Dude. Heads up. Brewer is on a rampage. Billy had a lip-full of tobacco, which he
only chewed when incredibly stressed. Remember that cart we saw at the top of the hill last
night? That was the General Manager of the club.
I rolled my eyes, which was just about all I could muster thanks to the horrendous
hangover I was fighting that afternoon. Lemme guess; he called Brewer?
Mmmhmm. Billy patted the seat next to him as he nodded. I climbed in the cart and
we made our way to the bag room where Brewer was already waiting for me. I climbed out of
the cart and walked towards Brewer while rubbing my head. The head pro was sitting on the bag
room workbench and had an expressionless demeanor. Go upstairs Bill. I need to talk to Silk.
Brewer then turned his attention to me as Billy walked through the Mens Locker Room
door in the back of the bag room. Silk. I want you to listen to me very carefully, and I want you
to be very careful when you answer this question, because I already know everything. Were you
one of the employees out here last night shooting off fireworks?
Yep. I was. I didnt even consider telling a lie. I didnt feel good enough to think of
any excuses let alone a fabricated alibi. I apologize.
Brewer nodded and continued, Look. I know youre sorry. But that doesnt really cut it.
You have to understand something, Silk. Regardless of whether I am here on the property or not,
I am still your employer and am therefore responsible for my employees which includes you,

Billy, Carlos, and the pros and the well-being of those people. Do you have even the slightest
idea what could have happened if you or someone else injured themselves?
No. I just kept my eyes down towards my feet.
Exactly. And that is what pisses me off the most. None of you even stopped to consider
what the consequences would have been if someone blew off a finger or something. Now Im not
your parent, Silk. But for fucks sake you gotta be smarter than that. You and the others put
me in a horribly difficult situation. This country club has a Board of Directors, and now I have
to explain to them why five of my employees were on the golf course last night lighting illegal
fireworks and drinking beer. Underage drinking, in most cases.
Brewer went on to explain that he had suspended both Skip and John for a few days with
no pay for their part in the evening. He mentioned that their reprimand had to be more strict
because they were supposedly the responsible parties. Carlos, Billy and I were not going to get
suspended; we were just getting a warning this one time.
When he was finished explaining Brewer looked at me and said, It should go without
saying that if you ever get involved in something like this again, you will no longer have a job. I
will not hesitate to fire you right there on the spot. You have to understand something, Silk
and Im going to tell you this not as your employer, but as someone older than you. I understand
you wanted to have a good time. I understand its fun drinking a bunch of beer, smoking a little
pot, doing whatever you want to do at your age. I did the same thing. But you have to learn
when to say No to some people. You have to learn from experiences like this and understand
that just because something sounds like a good idea doesnt mean it actually is.
Paul Brewer saw us more than just his bag room employees. I truly feel that he
eventually saw us as friends and then maybe something a little more than that throughout the
years. He and his wife never had children, despite trying numerous times from what I have been
told, and he would have his country club employees come over to his house every so often to
help out with lawn work, have a barbeque, or even just sit around and talk. That afternoon inbetween being scolded for my role in the fireworks situation and not being more responsible for
my actions I learned something about Brewer that I hadnt seen before that weekend. The man
worked hard for his job, and he expected the same dedication from everyone else on his team of
employees. He never expected anything less than perfection from us, and we were able to
provide that level of service for him and the country club most of the time.
However, at times like that Independence Day we disappointed Brewer. I truly believe
that he saw our lack of responsibility as a slap in his face more than a bunch of employees
goofing around. Because of that we agreed as an bag room team to not put ourselves or
Brewer in that position again.

Chapter Eight
Golf is essentially an exercise in masochism conducted out-of-doors.
-Paul O'Neil
While golf tournaments for the members of Alvarton Country Club were highly stressful
work days, the various Monday golf outings for local companies were the exact opposite. None
of the participants in these hospital, chamber of commerce, or commercial outings were actual
members of the country club; they just shelled out a great deal of money to book an outing at one
of the better courses in the area (which isnt saying much for the citys golf course options). As
such, the bag room employees and golf professionals took a rather laid-back approach to these
long work days.
One particular outing was for a larger health system that covered most of the hospitals in
the northern part of Illinois. There were a number of doctors and surgeons and administrators at
the county club that day, which really wasnt very impressive to any of the A.C.C. employees.
What was impressive, however, was the number of actual people golfing in the outing: over 300.
Events that size required the country club to rent out additional golf carts from a third-party just
to account for the substantial playing field. These extra carts were parked on a hill behind the bag
room and then wrapped with the infamous silent security cord.
Due to the large number of participants, there was a great deal of downtime in the bag
room and pro shop as the golfers embarked on what usually became a five hour round of golf.
The bag room was staffed with six employees for the event, but many of these employees went
home for a while and then returned towards the end of the day to help clean up. Brewer would
always allow Carlos, Billy and I to stay on the clock and at the club and usually sent the newer
employees home after the tournament started. It was an arrangement that basically meant The
Dream Team was able to sit around, watch television, and get paid to do it. There were times,
however, when we would become so bored that we had to improvise in order to pass the time.
Billy was sitting on a range bucket in the corner of the bag room with his head atop his
folded arms, presumably trying to take a nap. I was attempting to throw a golf ball into a
Styrofoam cup standing on the cement floor in the corner of the bag room; however, this is
extremely difficult since the golf ball kept bouncing out of the cup. I was able to overlook this
tedious practice due to how goddamn bored I was at the moment. Carlos entered the bag room
through the Mens Locker room, holding a sandwich he presumably stole from the restaurant.
What you guys up to? he asked through a mouthful of bread and meat.
Billys sleeping in the corner again. I replied without taking my attention away from
the makeshift basketball game. Billy lifted one hand up from his lap and extended his middle
finger before slowly lowering it back down. I looked up and asked Carlos, Been visiting the
grille again, I see.

Mindya business, Carlos said. Im hungry and this outing isnt anywhere near being
done. What the hell are you trying to do with that cup and golf ball, anyway?
Dude, I dont know. Im bored out of my mind and I saw this cup lying around. At least
Im not sleeping in the corner or stealing food. Billy again raised his hand and extended a
middle finger, this time peeking up from his arms.
Carlos walked over closer to where I was sitting. Wanna make this interesting? Betcha
you cant make your next shot. Five bucks.
Carlos would place a wager on anything. I was pretty sure he didnt have money most of
the time when he started making wagers, but this didnt stop him one bit. I dont have five
bucks, Carlos. And Im pretty sure you dont either.
Chicken, Carlos replied. Assistant golf pro John Flock entered the bag room from the
Mens Locker room entrance and walked towards the garage door with a cigarette already lit in
his hand. The bag room served many purposes at Alvarton. Not only was it used as the golf cart
area and golf bag storage for the members, but it also became the impromptu smoking lounge,
after-hours drinking locale, and in some cases a place to sleep during long golf outings. It was
perfectly normal for the golf pros to come down throughout the day to smoke a quick cigarette,
since Brewer prohibited smoking upstairs near the pro shop.
Flock looked over at us and laughed. Hard at work again, eh boys? Shouldnt you all be
filling sand bottles or folding towels? Im sure I can find something for you to do. Flock
always talked a big game and did his best to enforce some level of authority over the three of us.
I tended to ignore him more often than not. Flock was no more than 28 years old at the time,
single, and a really terrible golfer. How he became a licensed golf professional is still beyond
me. We all enjoyed his far-fetched stories that couldnt possibly be true, yet we were certain that
he just liked to hear himself talk. When he wasnt trying to boss us around at work, he could be a
pretty cool guy; in fact, Flock would often contribute to our hunger for beer and cigarettes as
only a dysfunctional brother figure could.
Youre just in time, Flock! I was just about to win five bucks off of Silky here in this
stupid game he made up. Come on Silk, five bucks and one shot. Carlos wasnt about to let up.
Of course, I also didnt have five dollars to wager. I decided to improvise.
Ill tell you what. Loser has to do whatever the winner says he has to do. Carlos looked
at me like I was propositioning him. Oh fuck off Carlos. Dont worry, youre not gonna have to
get naked, dipshit.
Alright, youre on.
The cup was leaning up in the empty cart area, against the back wall, which was made
entirely of concrete. What Carlos didnt know was that I had placed a small folded towel under

the cup to serve as a cushioned base, thus increasing the chances of my golf ball remaining in the
cup. Regardless, I was still having difficulty with landing the ball inside the cup and keeping it
there, especially since the ball would bounce violently off the back concrete wall if I was off the
mark by a millimeter. Since I had been playing this stupid game for about half an hour, I learned
that if I put backspin on the ball when I threw it, the ball would have a better chance at catching
the rim of the Styrofoam and remain inside the cup. Carlos didnt know that I had figured out
this little trick before our bet. I aimed the golf ball at the cup which was about 20 feet from
where I was standing cocked my shoulder and elbow and tossed the ball with just enough
backspin to make it land safely in the goal. The ball took a high hop off the wall, but the
backspin prevented the ball from ricocheting and instead dropped straight down into the cup.
Bogus! Carlos exclaimed as he realized he just lost the bet. You cheatin sonofa
How am I gonna cheat at this? You lost, I won. A bet is a bet!
Flock finished his cigarette and walked over to us. Will you two please get back to
work? And wake Billy up before I send Brewer down here. Im sure he would be ecstatic to
know hes paying you guys to do nothing but goof around. Flock left the bag room without
anyone really listening to him. Billy didnt budge and I was still defending my amazing cup-toss
accomplishment. The only question now was what I was going to make Carlos do.
Poop in the cup. I said, really without thinking twice about it. When the words left my
mouth I was even a little disgusted at myself for uttering something as ridiculous as Poop in the
cup. Nevertheless, I said it. I had asked Carlos to do the most ridiculous thing I could think of.
What the you want me to do what? Carlos looked at me like I just told him his
mother died. Or like I just asked him to defecate into a beverage container.
Good thing you two are 5 years old, Billy uttered from the other side of the room. He
still kept his head down, but was obviously not having much luck sleeping. Besides, who could
sleep at a time like this? Carlos had to make good on perhaps the most ridiculous bet in the
history of the bag room. This was going to be historic!
Carlos looked at me, looked down at the Styrofoam cup, and then back at me. Then,
without saying a word, he raced for the cup, grabbed it, and headed for the Mens Locker room
toilets.
***
A few minutes later John Flock came busting into the bag room cigarette in hand, of
course which caused Billy to about fall off his bucket seat. Alright guys, weve got a cart
thats down on the 13th hole. You two need to go grab it and replace it with one that actually
works. Flock obviously took a lot of enjoyment in issuing this task to Billy and I, thus ending
our afternoon of sitting around and making Carlos agree to stupid bets. The golf carts at

Alvarton were electric; they needed to be plugged into a charge generator overnight so they
would be fully juiced the following morning. Every so often a golf carts battery would not
receive a full charge during the night, thus leaving the carts user stranded the following day.
This wasnt really a huge deal for the day-to-day operations; it was more of an annoyance. And
it served as an opportunity for the assistant pros to blame the bag room and claim we werent
doing our jobs properly. They kind of had a point, however; more often than not a bag room
employee would simply forget to plug a cart in before leaving for the day.
***
Flock lit his cigarette, took a long drag, and then asked, Where the hell is Carlos?
Shitting in a cup. Billy said while stretching to stand up.
Flock looked at him and then at me. What do you mean, shitting in a cup? Please tell
me you are joking. As soon as he had finished his sentence, Carlos opened the bag room door
and walked through its threshold. He was holding the Styrofoam cup in one hand, covering it
with a towel with the other, and smiling from ear-to-ear. There was silence in the room as he
continued to walk his way to the three of us, who were now watching with a mixture of disbelief
and disgust. As he walked closer to us we noticed that Carlos had started laughing so hard he
was crying yet not making a sound.
I swear to everything Holy, if there is shit in that cup I am going to punch you in the mouth.
Flock pointed at Carlos and then the cup as he said this, which prompted Billy and I to run away
and jump into a pair of nearby golf carts and head for the 13th hole. While we were making our
getaway we heard Flock scream you sick bastard! followed by the sound of a Styrofoam cup
being dropped onto cement.
Billy and I continued on our way out to the stranded golf cart, which was literally halfway across the Alvarton property in relation to the bag room. The plan was to switch out Billys
cart with the dead golf cart, which I would then gingerly assist back to the bag room by
pushing it with the cart I was driving. In essence, I would be playing bumper cars with Billy for
about 2000 yards, and there was nothing he could do to retaliate. How much more perfect can a
situation get?
Once Billy and I arrived to the stranded cart, we hurriedly took the golfers bags off the
dead cart and threw them onto the new, freshly-charged golf cart. Billy then climbed into the
drivers seat of the dead golf cart and I drove around until I lined up perfectly behind his cart. I
eased up to his golf carts bumper, and then accelerated slowly until we were both moving
towards the bag room. Things were going smoothly until I decided to push Billys cart towards
the driving range; you know, just to be a complete ass.

Uh, Silky why are we going this w Billy couldnt even finish his sentence before I
slammed on the accelerator and smashed into the back of his golf cart with enough force to
basically give him whiplash. What the hell are you doing?!, he exclaimed as he turned around
and peered back at me through the back of his cart. I didnt know what I was doing. Maybe it
was pure boredom; maybe it was a sudden independent act of aggression. I ignored his pleas for
me to stop ramming the cart and proceeded to bump into his vehicle one more time, sending his
cart flying forward deeper towards the driving range hills. I was laughing like a complete idiot
as I continued to bump his cart over and over again, eventually heading towards a steep hill on
the east side of the driving range.
One terrified fit of acceleration later, I was pushing Billys cart up this large, steep hill
towards the top of the range where my plan was to leave him stranded and then drive off towards
the bag room. My golf cart was working as hard as it could considering the severe lack in
horsepower an electric golf cart had, especially when pushing another cart and a bag room kid up
a steep incline. Billy was glaring back at me without saying a word; however, his eyes were full
of anger as he figured out what my plan was. Suddenly, as we neared the top of the hill, Billy
jumped out of his cart and ran down the hill towards me with arms flailing and fists swinging. He
was a man possessed, and he wanted nothing more than to beat me to a pulp.
I tried to swerve my cart away from him, but he managed to grab onto the bag securing
straps on the back of the cart and started riding my cart like a water skier. I jumped out of my
own cart in an effort to escape Billys fists, and he was faced with the task of gaining control of
the cart before it rolled into a nearby willow tree. I stood there laughing even harder as I saw
Billy try to grab the steering wheel and hit the carts brakes, but my laughter was suddenly
interrupted as a white object caught my peripheral vision off to the left. I turned towards this
blur and recognized the dead golf cart the one which I was originally assisting up the hill
was now racing down the steep incline and gaining a hell of a lot of speed! I looked ahead of the
cart and traced its path. It was on a direct course for the driving range creek at the bottom of the
hill.
SHIT! I yelled as I took off in a dead sprint down the hill in an effort to catch the
runaway cart. I was running as fast and as hard as my legs would manage, trying with all my
might to reach the cart as quickly as possible. Within seconds I had calculated my steps just
enough to take a running leap and grab onto the bottom rear bumper of the cart, however I was
now sliding along with the cart on my stomach. Every bump, rock, and crevice on that hill was
quickly becoming a permanent fixture on my torso, and my small frame wasnt nearly enough
weight to stop the cart from heading towards our future demise in the creek down below. I
closed my eyes and hoped that either we would slow down or the death would be quick.
Within a few seconds both I and the runaway golf cart came to an abrupt stop. I hit the
crown of my head on the carts back bumper. I flinched, anticipating the second large crash of
the cart falling into the creek but the crash never came. I could hear Billys footsteps in the

grass as he came running to where the cart and I had stopped. I still did not totally realize nor did
I understand why I wasnt covered in creek water and moving downstream.
You lucky sonofabitch Billy said under his breath. I opened my eyes and looked
ahead of the cart to see why I was still on firm ground and not in the water: the carts driver-side
wheel had become tangled in a small protective netting which ran along the face of the creek.
This netting was in place to help keep any golf balls from rolling into the creek; however it
would routinely fail miserably at its assigned task. Regardless, the net had performed admirably
at not only stopping a 200-pound golf cart from falling into the creek, but also a 145 pound
moron hanging onto the carts back bumper. After realizing that I had just been saved by a
driving range net, I let out a long sigh and rested my face in the driving range grass.
Billy and I would eventually release the cart from the netting and return to the bag room,
laughing the entire way. Carlos and Flock were still having a discussion on proper employee
etiquette in the pro shop, but we would share our adventure with Carlos that evening as we
walked to our cars after the outing had finished.
The next morning both golf carts went back into play with no problems.

Chapter Nine
They say golf is like life, but don't believe them. Golf is more complicated than that.
-Gardner Dickinson
In the Alvarton bag room there became a sense of complacency among the long-term
employees like Billy, Carlos, and I over the years, so a lax attitude among the three of us towards
our regular duties went overlooked on a daily basis. We could have basically done anything (or
not done anything, for that matter) and not gotten fired. Many members at the club became
friends of the bag room employees, and as the veteran employees grew older, these friendships
would filter over into real life away from the country club. Furthermore, as more members
became comfortable with the older bag room employees, the members discovered that many of
us enjoying playing golf as well. While I was still learning the finer aspects of the game, Billy
was already an accomplished amateur golfer and by far the best golfer at the country club.
At least, Billy was the best player at Alvarton in the eyes of everyone but 12-time club
champion Tom Porter. Porter was certainly the best member-golfer in the area, carried a
handicap of around +2 for most of the time he played at Alvarton, and would routinely win the
annual club championship with ease. He was actually the very first member I caddied for when I
was 15 (when I had forgotten to wet my towel and gotten no payment following the loop), and
immediately proved to me exactly how much of a jerk he was on a daily basis. He was hated by
most members at the club thanks to his stoic demeanor, annoying arrogance, and unmatched
tightness with his wallet. The man barely paid his membership dues on time, never offered a tip
to any bag room employee (he always kept his clubs in the trunk of his car as to avoid the
possibility that a bag room boy might accidentally clean a club), and routinely forgot to post
a bad score in the Alvarton handicap computer. But most of all, Porter loved nothing more than
being seen as the best golfer in the clubs membership.
Over the years Billy and I would be allowed to play golf after our early work shift
(primarily due to a decreasing membership and an equal decrease in how much head pro Paul
Brewer cared to enforce the Monday-only rule for employees), so this particular Saturday
afternoon was a great chance for the two of us to kill some time and play a quick 18 holes. Since
most of the afternoon groups would usually tee-off just after lunch, Billy and I headed to the
back-nine to start our round on the 10th hole to avoid any traffic jams during our round.
The tenth hole at Alvarton is a relatively short par-4 (spanning between 298 310 yards,
depending on the tee settings for that day), pretty straight-forward, but is lined entirely by trees
along the right side. A large fairway bunker is also featured on the right side of the fairway, and
another tucked to the left of the green. Most mid-handicappers will hit a reliable, high-accuracy
fairway wood or long-iron to hit the narrow fairway; however Billy always pulled out the much
riskier driver on this hole and aimed for the flag. One thing about his game always confused me:

he had a ton of talent, but always seemed to lack game management when he needed it the most.
Then again, today was a practice round for Billy, so he was going to grip it and rip it.
So he did. Billys golf swing was one that any player should want to emulate, but very
few players would ever be able to duplicate. Having played hockey for most of his life, he had
essentially transformed his swing into a elongated slap-shot that used an insane amount of
muscle torque, shoulder turn, and clubhead speed through impact. For most people at Alvarton,
Billys golf swing was about as close to a PGA TOUR golf swing as they would ever see. Today,
on his first tee-shot on the 10th hole at Alvarton, Billys swing was as pure and explosive as it
had ever been.
His drive swept through the right side of the hole and drew back around a tree limb
towards the middle of the fairway. The sound his driver made when he contacted a golf ball was
something that I had never heard before and would not hear again until I attended my first PGA
TOUR event (what was then the Western Open held at Cog Hill Country Club before changing
to the Cialis Western Open and finally the BMW Championship following the dawn of the
FedEx Cup Playoffs). The golf ball finally landed on the fairway about 50 yards from the green
and took a huge hop directly towards the flagstick. The ball would ultimately roll past the
flagstick and come to a rest some 20 feet away from the hole just off the green. Billy had hit a
drive somewhere around 330 yards with his first swing of the day. In a town like Alvarton, golf
balls dont typically fly 330 yards, especially when hit by a 19 year-old kid.
Billy would go on to birdie the hole and go one-under to begin his round. How I did was
irrelevant, but not to Billy. No matter how well he played he would always offer suggestions to
me so I could improve my efforts. That was the friendship I had developed with Billy over the
years: he always seemed to care more about how I played and less about how he fared for the
round. He was certainly the more talented between the two of us, and I always asked him to pay
a little more attention to his game, as I firmly believed it could take him to places many of us
only dreamed about. Still, sitting at one-under par after his first hole, Billy shrugged off his great
drive and following birdie. It simply didnt matter to him; he had been there, done that.
This trend would continue for Billy throughout the round. No matter what he was doing
on the course, including great shot after great shot, we would always think of new swing changes
or techniques for me to try on my next tee-shot or before my next putt. This would also continue
even after Billy had made the turn towards the back nine after recording an opening-nine 33;
three-under thus far.
The membership at Alvarton only featured a few members that could actually score low
on a regular basis. Tom Porter was one of those members, and every so often he would
(legitimately) record a solid round of golf that impressed even the employees who usually
despised the man. Three years prior to our round that afternoon, Porter had recorded what was
the Alvarton course record: a 67, or five-under-par. On the professional golf tours, this number is

a norm; however, most people at Alvarton would never even come close to this number for a full
18 holes (some would even score worse on nine holes). When Porter had recorded his recordbreaking score in the Alvarton handicap system, it was discussed for many months to follow. It
had become a record that would surely stand for years to come; no other member was nearly as
talented nor as experienced with making multiple birdies in one round. For many, a round under
the mystical 70-mark would be a golf dream come true. For Porter, the 67 wasnt even his career
best (at the time he had recorded a 66 on his handicap record at another course in the area).
Teeing off on our tenth hole of the round, Billy and I were aware of his score at the
moment but really thought nothing of it at the time. My score for the first nine wasnt even in the
same universe as Billys, but we were still more concerned with making my next nine holes the
best they could possibly be. Billy had given me a few pointers on how to play my natural fade
(which would ultimately transform into a draw over the following years), and I was having a
slightly easier time keeping the ball on the fairway. On the other hand, I was more concerned
with Billys score than my own; if I remember correctly, we were both thinking about each
others game more than our own.
On the par-4 18th hole, Billy had a 20-foot birdie putt standing between him and a
staggering final score that I have yet to witness in-person from anyone other than a professional
to this day. I remember him lining up his putt, but I had to look away. I was more nervous about
his next shot than I had ever been for any shot in my brief golfing career. Looking away at a
nearby pond, I remember hearing the soft ping of Billys Scotty Cameron putter as it made
contact with the ball. After a few brief seconds, the unmistakable rattle of Billys golf ball
landing into the cup filled my ears. I turned around to look at Billy, who was now smiling from
ear-to-ear. He had done it. He had broken the course record. He had shot an impressive 66, or
six-under-par.
The only issue with a bag room employee breaking the course record at Alvarton Country
Club was that none of the members were going to acknowledge the feat. Well, thats not entirely
true; every member was going to accept the fact that Billy had broken the course record except
for Tom Porter.
As soon as he caught wind of what Billy had accomplished, Porter immediately made his
way to the pro shop to speak to Brewer. According to Porter, the score that Billy posted was
completely fabricated and couldnt possibly stand as Alvartons new course record. I took this
as an insult more than Billy, since Porter was basically calling me a liar for attesting to the score
on Billys scorecard.
Everyone knows those two kids are friends, Porter had complained to Brewer. I would
be shocked if that bag room kid putted everything out. Theres no way to tell; besides, hes not a
member.

Brewer who was in favor of acknowledging Billys score did his best to stand up for
his employee despite the numerous complaints from one of his members. Alas, after a few days
of constant bickering and protests from Porter, the head pro had no choice but to break the news
to Billy.
Im sorry Bill, but Im catching a ton of slack from Porter on this. We all know the truth,
and I believe both you and Silk but my hands are tied here. The members are the people who
pay the money to keep this place going, and therefore we have to keep them happy. Simply put,
if a member didnt break the record, then none of them are going to believe it. As much as I
would hate to admit that. Brewer certainly seemed genuine in his delivery, and both Billy and I
knew that the pro had to do what his paying members wanted from him. After all, we were in a
service-based industry and had to provide all we could for those who paid the dues and kept the
lights on at the club.
Billy, however, wasnt about to hear any of it.
I broke that record fair and square. Silky saw it, he attested the scorecard, and everyone
knows I am capable of it. You know I normally wouldnt make a big deal out of this; but to fold
to a punk like Tom Porter? Billy and Porter didnt get along very well, and that was not a secret
for anyone at the club. Billy would routinely play in area amateur golf tournaments, in which
Porter would also compete. The two golfers had been paired together many times as well, and
there was certainly no love lost between the two men. Porter would also routinely lose to Billy in
competition, which undoubtedly played a large role in his quest to have Billys course record
thrown out of Alvarton.
Regardless, Billy was willing to make a deal. Ill tell you what Brewer. Ill play another
18 holes on any day of the week, and Ill play it with Porter. And I promise I will post another
66. Brewer agreed, and Porter would eventually also agree to the round.
The chosen day was a Saturday morning during the early afternoon Porters normal tee
time. The stage was set for both players, although only one person had anything on the line for
the round. Whether or not Billy could shoot the course record again was irrelevant. The fact that
a member at the club had the gall to challenge an employee to a stroke-play match was more
embarrassing than anything. Porter was completely oblivious to his own display of immaturity.
A crowd had gathered around the first tee to watch the two players opening tee-shots and to
cheer for Billy by not saying a word at all. The silence was deafening as Porter stepped up to the
tee that afternoon, and the words of encouragement for Billy as he walked to the tee spoke
volumes as to who the favorite was for the other members.
A round of golf is an interesting look into the mind and soul of a player. You have no one
else but yourself to count on or do you have anyone else to blame. Golf is an experiment in selfcontrol, mental toughness, and independence. Mastering this balance between what can and
might happen during a round of golf is what separates the professionals from the amateurs.

Rebounding from an errant shot to save par, or focusing just enough to fly a fairway wood over a
small pond are beyond critical if a player wishes to beat his personal best round. The mental
aspect of this type of golf round is incredibly tiring for many, which is probably why some
players prefer to play golf while intoxicated. Billy was now being asked to undergo this mental
task beating your own personal best score - on demand. He was no longer relaxed, and he was
being asked to prove his worth and honesty.
At the conclusion of his forced round of golf, Billy impressed not just me that day, but
the entire Alvarton Country Club membership. He had proven his talent for all of us, even
though it was only necessary for one, disbelieving member who had nothing more to hold on to
than a golf round in his name.
Billy shot 66 once again that day, and Tom Porter has not come close to breaking that
score since.

Chapter Ten
Golf without mistakes is like watching haircuts. A dinner without wine.
-Jim Murray
As my time at Alvarton Country Club became more limited due to my college schedule,
during summer break I became dedicated to working as many hours in the bag room as I could
manage. My freshman and sophomore years consisted mainly of goofing around college for most
of the year, and then coming back home to continue goofing around at the country club. I began
to take my job for granted at Alvarton, especially since most of the regular bag room employees
including Carlos had moved on to other positions in other cities. A group of younger high
school kids had taken control of the bag room, and Billy and I were the only veterans, taking
turns opening each morning during the summer. Since neither he nor I had much connection with
the new group of bag room employees, the golf pros allowed us to basically spend the entire day
in the pro shop where we would greet members and bark orders at the younger employees. In a
way, both Billy and I had graduated to a level that required us to do very little work and were
being paid relatively well at the same time; and we certainly were not about to complain.
Spending as much time in the pro shop as we now were, Billy and I became pretty wellknown at Alvarton. The members would greet us by name, we would be invited to play golf
during work hours with a group that needed an extra player, etc. None of the members even
seemed to care that we were literally sitting around the pro shop with Brewer, Flock, and Skip on
a daily basis. What had once been an eye-sore to the membership two young kids sitting on
their duffs was now commonplace for the country club. Looking back I now understand that
Alvartons notoriety in the community had faded considerably, and the overall atmosphere at the
club had fallen from a once-prestigious golf community to just above the level of your typical,
run-of-the-mill municipal course. Now of us knew this at the time, of course; we just went along
our day continuously pushing the boundaries of laziness and apathy.
One particular member at Alvarton took advantage of the party-like atmosphere to a
level that neither Billy nor I had ever seen. P.J. Sworski was a well-known name in the
community for many reasons (related to the community development), but none more evident
than his say in most construction projects in or around Alvarton. Any time I would drive through
a construction zone in the city, the bulldozers and cranes would have a large P.J. logo painted
their sides. The mans name was literally everywhere you could look in that small city, and when
the mayor approved a budget to bring professional stock-car racing to Alvarton, Sworski was the
man who built the race track.
Sworski was by no means a regular member; he would make a few appearances here
and there throughout the summer. He never played in any tournaments at Alvarton; however he
would always spend a ton of money at the pro shop and in the restaurant. Sworskis clubs were
shelved in the bag room, of course, but we hardly ever had to bring them down for their owner to

use. The man was more of a social member than anything else, but Brewer didnt care; he paid
his dues on time and tipped everyone considerably well on the rare occasions he visited Alvarton
during the summer. To say that the man had money was an understatement; anyone could see
that by the numerous foreign cars he would drive in rotation throughout the week. Simply put,
Sworski was the epitome of business success and a major source of jealousy for the other
members at the club. His appearances at the club were viewed as a means to grace us with his
presence.
There was a kind of unspoken rule at Alvarton among its members. If you were going
to show your face at the clubhouse, then have the common decency to play golf every so often so
other members could socialize and learn about you. I always found this rule interesting,
especially since so many members would complain to Brewer and the other pros when a fellow
member wouldnt play golf for weeks. Businessmen wanted to pick the brains of other
businessmen in an atmosphere that could only borderline on comfort for that type of
conversation. When Sworski would come around only a handful of times, however, this
prevented other members the opportunity to learn from one of the most successful and powerful
men in the city.
An interesting and unfortunate aspect of many country clubs stems from the very
notion that these establishments are private clubs. In the most literal sense of the word this is
true; only certain people could apply for and be accepted as a member at Alvarton. In fact, any
applicants had to be invited by another current member before their application would be
considered. As soon as membership was granted and the subsequent dues were paid, however, all
privacy was thrown out the proverbial window. Members were at the mercy of other members on
a daily basis. Everyone wanted to know everything about everyone else. This particular country
club although I doubt others are much different had become less of a specialized fraternity
and more of a botched high school reunion. In short, there is nothing private about Alvarton
Country Club. P.J. Sworski knew this fact very well.
During summer break between my freshman and sophomore years I was working the
opening shift in the bag room when I was told that Sworski was, in fact, playing golf that
morning. Assistant pro John Flock had asked that I get P.J.s clubs loaded up on a cart and stage
it near the first tee. Sworski was also bringing out a few guests that morning to play, so I
immediately knew I had to be on kiss-ass mode once he arrived. While guests to the club never
really tipped much of anything, the member host would notice the effort of Alvartons
employees and usually compensate everyone substantially.
Sworski arrived about an hour before his scheduled tee time that morning in what a brand
new sports car. The sleekness of the car -which included a blood-red paint job, huge chrome
wheels, and a spoiler that extended up and away from the rest of the vehicle was as loud and
flamboyant as the wealthy lifestyle that bystanders assumed a man of Sworskis ilk would enjoy.
The motor shook the windows of the pro shop when it drove past. He walked out of this

impressive vehicle looking like he had just attended a wedding or some other formal event. His
suit was without a doubt designed by a name I couldnt pronounce, his shoes cost more than the
value of my entire wardrobe, and his sunglasses were customized and framed in gold. The man
looked like a movie star and walked with a slow, confident cadence as if he had just won an
Academy Award. He was already holding what appeared to be a money clip in his right hand,
which prompted me to run out to his aide.
Good morning Mr. Sworski. Is there anything I can help you with today? I dont believe
your guests have arrived yet, but we have your carts set up for y I was babbling, and I could
feel it. Sworski simply smiled and handed my three $20 bills from his money clip.
Just make sure you take care of my guys today, Sworski replied without even looking
at me. Thanks. Hopefully the grille is open; I need a drink.
Taking care of Sworskis guests had immediately become more important to me than
breathing at that moment. What I hadnt noticed was that Sworski had mentioned his desire to
have a drink at 8:30 in the morning, but no matter. I had instantaneously become $60 richer for
simply saying a few words to this guy, but I knew I had to wait in the parking lot for his three
guests. I heard the pro shop door open followed by a chorus of Hello Mr. Sworski! by the golf
pros as Sworski entered. Other than that, my full attention was focused on the parking lot and
every car that drove through, anticipating the rest of P.J.s foursome. When these players finally
arrived whom I identified by the additional sports cars pulling in next to Sworkis car in the lot
- I assisted each man with loading their golf clubs on their assigned cart, gave them directions to
the Mens Locker Room, and staged their carts next to Sworskis up near the first tee.
Within the next hour all four men were ready to tee off and were standing next to their
golf carts, smoking cigars, drinking beers, and laughing heartily. I couldnt tell if these men were
all close friends from high school, from the construction business, or however else they may
have been related; regardless, all four guys seemed rather comfortable with one another and
prepared to enjoy a day on the golf course. Just before teeing off, Sworski waved me over to his
cart and extended his hand out to me.
Thanks again for taking care of these guys. Sworski was already on his way to a rather
intoxicating morning as evidenced by the deep stench of whiskey I noticed on his breath. He
handed me another crumpled $20 bill, which confused me slightly. Sorry for not catching you
earlier.
As the foursome left the first tee and made their way down the fairway, Skip had walked
over to me near the pro shop. Did P.J. hit you up with some grease? Skip always had a funny
way of asking if a bag room kid was tipped well for their efforts.

Yeah but it is kind of weird, I whispered to Skip. He tipped me $60 earlier this
morning and then another $20 just now. Then he apologized for not tipping me earlier? Is that
guy already drunk?
Skip laughed a little and then slapped me on the back. Knowing Sworski, Im sure he
started on the sauce before he even left the house. Consider this your lucky day, Silk. He then
went back into the pro shop to finish writing out the tee time schedule for the morning and I
made my way back down to the bag room to pull up a few more golf carts.
Private country clubs, as I alluded to earlier, were establishments built around the nobility
and immaturity of powerful men. The idea of what a country club meant grabbed my attention
even as a child, which at one time prompted me to conduct a simple internet search on the topic.
I would learn how these clubs were originally meant as a means for men to gather in a
controlled, comfortable setting where ideas could be shared and business ventures could be
established. In a way, this is still true for many of the most prestigious clubs in the world.
However, as time went on, the definition of what a country club was changed. According to
the Encarta English World Dictionary, for example, the term describes a club for social and
leisure activities with facilities for golf, tennis, and other outdoor sports, usually located in the
suburbs or the countryside. In addition, these clubs would normally require members to pay an
initiation fee usually a pretty hefty amount, I might add followed by annual dues for as long
as the individual wishes to remain a member. Location of the facilities, surrounding community
economies, and overall club popularity would either increase or decrease these financials over
time. In exchange for paying these outrageous fees, members would presumably be welcomed
into a community of individuals with common interests and mutual respect for one another.
Sadly, the latter was not always the case.
Alvarton, despite being one of the few private clubs in the area, was undoubtedly on the
lower tier in terms of revenue and popularity. While the membership was still relatively strong in
terms of volume, most individuals came to Alvarton because it was less-expensive than any of
the other establishments in surrounding suburbs. As such, the membership basically treated the
country club as an adult playground. Employees especially those who were newer were often
treated with disrespect and snide comments. While Alvarton featured a member-based Board of
Directors, these individuals cared more about winning a silly board election than actually helping
the club grow in terms of profitability. Immaturity and a complete lack of self control was the
norm at Alvarton; however the club employees were forced to accommodate this atmosphere
of encouraging men and women to behave badly.
We had all sorts of drama over at Alvarton. Wives were cheating on husbands who were
also cheating on their wives. Gambling ran rampant throughout the club, especially during latenight poker games in the Mens Locker Room. Thousands of dollars were lost and won right
under the noses of law enforcement officers mainly because they were also members of
Alvarton. Alcoholism was the norm at the country club; this was mainly shrugged off as guys

just being guys. Numerous members both male and female would come to the country club
with emotional baggage that they threw to the curb once they entered the Alvarton parking lot.
Reality outside of the club was anything but enjoyable for these wealthy individuals; however,
on the inside the club was one huge party.
There was no bigger party animal than P.J. Sworski, or so we would soon discover.
Later that afternoon, Brewer called down to the bag room and asked that I take a cart and
a small cooler of beer out to Sworskis foursome on the ninth hole. They had already been
playing for over two hours at this point, but it seemed that whatever beverages they had with
them were now dry. P.J. and his boys needed a refill, and I was the man tasked with delivering
the goods. After making a quick stop in the clubs restaurant area to stock a small bag cooler, I
jumped into a golf cart and made my way out to Sworskis group.
When I arrived their group was on the ninth green I noticed signs that all of the men had
been drinking a healthy amount, such as numerous empty beer bottles in the each golf cart.
Regardless, all of the players were still relatively coherent and thanked me generously for
bringing them more alcohol. I even offered to take back their empty beer bottles and cans on my
departure, which filled the basket on the back of my golf cart. I headed back to the bag room to
throw out their garbage when I noticed the head pro smoking a cigarette by the bag room
entrance.
Those guys sure can drink, eh? I asked Brewer as I walked over to a nearby garbage
can with two handfuls of aluminum and glass.
Something like that. Sworskis always been a fan of the sauce. There isnt a day he
comes to this place when he doesnt have liquor on his breath. Brewer never really connected
too deeply with any of the members he served as head golf professional at Alvarton; however, he
would eventually befriend a choice few who enjoyed fishing and hunting as much as he did. To
Paul Brewer, the head professional position was just another job that he needed to pay the bills.
He took great pride in his work and made sure that all of his employees did as well, but one
could not help but wonder if this job was really what Brewer was meant to do with his life. When
he would discuss the habits of the more wealthy members at the club, I could always sense a sort
of envy in Brewers eyes despite how much he bad-mouthed a member. He often came across to
me as a man who once had the opportunity to make a ton of money working in an industry he
loved, only to fall into this shit job at a low-level country club in Alvarton. Brewer wanted more
out of life and his career; anyone could see that. Hell, you could feel it.
Many employees and a few of the more middle-class members resented men like P.J.
Sworski for a variety of reasons. Having wealth and overpowering stature in the community are
characteristics that most people would kill for; however, for Sworski these attributes seemed to
mean about as much to him as the bottle cap on his most recent beer. While he certainly earned
everything he was ever given in terms of his professional life, Sworskis behavior at the country

club and in most social settings left a great deal to be desired. It was obvious that the man lived
life in excess; booze, women, cars, fashion, money. He had become the envy of most men at the
club, even in the wake of embarrassing drunken escapades that occurred during the brief
encounters we all had with the man on an annual basis.
Phillip Joseph Sworski felt safe and comfortable at Alvarton Country Club; that much
was abundantly clear. While his behaviors and drinking habits caused many rumors to fly around
the hallways of Alvarton, Sworski never uttered a negative word in the direction of any member
and he always treated the clubs employees with respect and generous gratuity. He was also
abundantly clear of his status in the community, often contributing enormous amounts of money
to charities and neighborhood improvement projects that would ultimately bear his name around
town. Because of his wealth and business, Sworski knew that he had certain responsibilities to
the city of Alvarton and its citizens. The man had numerous politicians as friends, was often seen
on the news to discuss the next big city improvement initiative, and with the dawn of stock car
racing at his new racetrack was quickly becoming known in the professional racing circuit as a
track designer. Life was good for Sworski, even if that life included a few bags of emotional
baggage that he could keep away with just enough alcohol and a few rounds of golf.
By 4:00pm that afternoon, P.J. and his foursome rolled into the bag room to return their
golf carts and head into the Mens Locker Room to shower before dinner. Because I had chosen
to play golf after my shift for the day, I was able to speak to the group when they returned from
their round. All of the men we incredibly intoxicated at this point, however none of them
seemed to be stopping anytime soon. Sworski greeted me with a large smile and again handed
me a couple dollars to help clean his golf clubs and store them away in the bag room. Be sure
you pay attention to that damn 7-iron, my man, Sworski mentioned as he handed me more
money. Theres a mud cake attached to it! The odor of alcohol and tobacco smoke filtering off
of P.J.s breath was immense.
When I came back in from finishing my round of golf around 5:30pm, I walked back
down to the bag room where the evening crew including Billy was filling sand bottles,
parking the last of the golf carts and preparing to close for the evening. I could hear a great deal
of commotion on the lower patio of the restaurant, which was located just a few yards away from
the bag room.
P.J.s in rare form tonight, Silky. Billy said to me while he backed a golf cart into the
corner of the bag room garage. Hes been up there throwing back shots for the past three hours.
All of his guests have already left, too.
Is his wife here? I asked. Surely there had to be someone who could drive the guy
home; what better person than the mans wife? Billy just shook his head and shrugged.
Not sure man. It is what it is, I suppose. That guy should probably just end up sleeping
in the Mens Locker Room again. I think last time he ended up curled up in the towel bin. Billy

and I chuckled at the thought of seeing one of the wealthiest men we knew sleeping in the used
towels of other members. At that point the sheer absurdity of the party-like Alvarton atmosphere
had already made itself at home in our minds and opinions. It kind of grew on you after awhile
like a fungus.
I stepped out of the bag room and peered over to the back patio where Sworski was
sitting at a table along with a few other members. Everyone appeared to be having a good time,
but Sworski was considerably louder than anyone else on the patio. From what I could decipher,
he was going on and on with another, younger member about sports cars. Sworski appeared to be
half-asleep at times, however his eyes would widen just before he took another swing out of his
glass or when he attempted to make another point about horsepower and torque. The younger
member seemed to be getting rather angry for some reason.
Ill tell you what, P.J.! the other man yelled. You and me. You pick the stretch of
road. $2000. Any car in your damned garage. I guarantee you mine is faster!
This comment caused everyone on the patio to let out a collective ooooh! followed by
even more laughter. Sworski, obviously feeling threatened, attempted to stand up from his seat
but instead managed to tumble over his chair and onto the floor. A few of Alvartons waiters
quickly ran to his aide, but Sworski was laughing as hard as the rest of the group as he laid there
covered in whatever liquid he had been drinking. I merely rolled my eyes and headed back into
the bag room to say goodbye to Billy. Shortly thereafter I headed up to the parking lot and drove
home.
Alvarton Country Club is a funny place for a lot of reasons. While the employees at the
club did everything they could to make a members experience as comfortable and enjoyable as
possible, I often felt that the employees did this job too well; often to a fault, in other words.
Whatever the members asked of us, we provided. They were the ones paying the big bucks, so it
was our duty to meet the needs of these members as long as we didnt break any laws. Im fairly
certain a few of the female waitresses even assisted the male members with other requests on
occasion.
Billy had called me later that evening sounding shaken and slightly upset. He explained
that Sworski and the other members had continued to drink and argue well into the evening,
which Billy and Skip watched until about 10:00pm. Billy had left for the evening and was just
about home when Skip had called him on his cellphone to describe how Sworskis night ended.
Apparently the discussion Sworski and the younger member started earlier regarding cars
continued into the later stages of the evening. Both men reportedly climbed into their respective
cars completely belligerent and decided to race through downtown Alvarton. Sworskis car
was later found by the police department wrapped around a viaduct barricade under the Alvarton
Railway. His body was found 200 yards away from the wreckage in a nearby field. P.J.
Sworskis body had been torn into two halves. Skip informed Billy that investigating officers,

whom had contacted the country club following the accident, and crime scene specialists
estimated Sworskis car had been traveling roughly 180 miles per hour at impact.
Employees were asked to spoil members at Alvarton Country Club, and most of us had
no problem doing that. However, just as he did with many parts of the city with his talents as an
architect, P.J. Sworski changed that mindset in one night.

Chapter Eleven
As we all know golf is a puzzle without an answer.
-Gary Player
When we pulled up to the apartment we noticed only one car in the driveway Flocks and
dark windows in the apartment. We walked up to the doorway and knocked, and after a few
minutes we were welcomed by a sleepy assistant golf pro dressed in his work clothes with a
cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
Come on in guys, I was just catching a nap.
John, its nine-thirty at night, Billy said. The matches started a half hour ago. Where is
your girlfriend?
Ah, dont worry about that. Shes on her way now. Did you guys bring any beer?
Billy and I looked at one another and rolled our eyes. Of course we had beer with us
again purchased off of Billys fake ID because Flock obviously had nothing in his apartment
despite what he had offered at work earlier that evening.
After a rather tiring shift at the country club, Flock had invited us over to his apartment
where Billy and I could meet his new girlfriend. Flock had promised that he would spring for the
beer that night, order boxing matches on pay-per-view, and then ask his new girl to dance for
everyone. At the last detail, Billy and had I had asked why any self-respecting woman would do
that for two teenagers and her boyfriend.
Flocks response was quick. She would do that because shes a stripper! Of course she
was, Johnny. Of course she was.
During my later years at Alvarton, Billy and I would often go out after work with the golf
pros and have a few beers either at their house or a nearby local pub. Since both Billy and I were
under legal drinking age, the span of bars that would allow us to drink was extremely limited.
Whenever Flock would want us to go out, however, he never wanted to go to the establishments
we could comfortably frequent because none of those places have any tail. While Flock was
certainly one of the funniest men I have met in my life, he was also incredibly driven by his
incessant need to meet women. As time went on, I realized that this was more for show than
anything else as Flock somehow believed he needed to prove his worth to two kids 8 years his
junior.
We walked into the apartment and sat down on two chairs with our 12-pack between
Billy and I, disappointment creeping into our minds slowly. The apartment was dark, completely
unkept, and by no means prepared to have visitors. Flock, looking rumpled and exhausted, had
slouched back onto his couch and fumbled to find the remote to turn the television on. After a
few seconds he threw the remote at me and told me to find the boxing channel. He then
reached over to his coffee table and grabbed a small baggie of a substance that neither Billy nor I
could recognize. Whatever was in the bag was not legal, and it was clear that Flock had been
imbibing in this substance for the past two hours.

Drug use at Alvarton was the norm for most of the golf professionals and even some of
the other club employees. I would even smoke the occasional joint here and there; however that
was the extent of my experimentation despite the obvious availability of other substances
floating around the club. Rumors circulated as to where the heavier drugs would originate from,
especially considering two of Alvartons narcotic detectives were members of the country club.
Head golf professional Paul Brewer knew about everything that was going on at the club, yet
never seemed interested in either reporting the situation to authorities or partaking in the fun
himself. His assistant professionals, however, definitely took advantage of what was regarded as
a perk to employment in the golf industry. After all, what else would a bored golf professional
do while working amid acres of open land?
John Flock seized the day as often as he could, and today he caught all of it. Needless to
say, Billy and I quickly realized that there would be no boxing matches watched that night, but
more importantly there would be no stripper girlfriend. Within minutes Flock was snoring on the
couch and would not wake up until the following morning. Billy and I left without even opening
a beer.
***
Assistant Golf Professional John Flock was somewhat of an enigma at Alvarton Country
Club. Everyone seemed to like Flock; however he also managed to completely piss off every
employee at least one time during his tenure at the club. One moment he would be the funniest
man to ever walk the planet; the next, you wanted to see him fired and/or arrested. He was
certainly one of the most interesting characters I have met in my life, but also one of the saddest.
His inner demons were well-hidden most of the time, but every so often you could tell that he
was on the brink of a complete meltdown. While he never reached the point of physical violence
towards others, he would routinely demonstrate judgment so poor that you were often left
wondering if he would wake up the next morning. It appeared that Billy and I were in for another
shining example of Flocks poor judgment once again.
John Flock was really nothing more than an older bag room boy that happened to make
his way into golf professional status somehow along the way. He was a mere six years older than
the most veteran bag room employees, but he often acted like he was ten years younger. Never
married, Flock would also showcase a rather impressive rotation of female acquaintances at
least according to what he would tell his friends in the bag room and pro shop (none of us ever
had the privilege of meeting any of his girlfriends). Flock would tell stories upon stories to our
group of employees, each of which more entertaining than the next. Whether or not any of the
stories were actually true didnt seem to matter to anyone, including the storyteller. He was as
entertaining and enjoyable to be around as he was completely stubborn and immature. In
essence, Flock fit in well with the rest of Alvarton Country Club.

The bag room employees were rather mystified by the stories Flock would contrive for
everyone on an especially slow day at the golf course. He would walk into the bag room, stare
outside of the entrance, smoke a pack of Camels and just start rambling about whatever
happened to be on his mind that morning.
Most stories would begin with Flock referring to himself in the third-person, as if he were
an outsider looking in to the life of a golf professional bachelor. Once the scene was set for the
story, and once he had captured the attention of his bag room audience, Flock would dive deeper
into what would become a lengthy monologue for us to enjoy.
Flocks speeches which the bag room employees jokingly called his monologues
were always focused on something awesome he had done the night or weekend prior. The
awesomeness of these feats were completely subjective, of course, but the bag room employees
listened intently to the entertaining manner in which Flock would speak. He would include
inflections in voice, make outlandish facial expressions and always included thick layer of
profanity that he believed improved the quality of his tales. In fact, Flock was one of the
founding linguists who pieced together the bag rooms profanity dictionary, which we discussed
earlier. However, despite the enjoyment we all experienced with listening to Flock speak, none
of us were prepared for another, mysterious side of the golf pro that Carlos and I would one day
discover.
***
Bag room boys at Alvarton were also experts in golf club repair and maintenance. We
would often change a members golf club grips when asked, and did so in a timely and efficient
manner. Despite the fact that the tools needed to perform a particular club repair were old and/or
broken, I had become rather skilled in changing grips, replacing clubheads, and other quick jobs.
John Flock, on the other hand, was a magician with his talents on golf club repair. I was not
aware of this until late into my bag room career.
One evening, while many of the members were leaving for the day after finishing their
round, I was cleaning golf clubs when the unspeakable happened. In this particular case, I was
cleaning the clubs of Alvartons President, who was extremely loud, obnoxious, and disliked
among the clubs employees.
Every bag room boy had their own method of cleaning a bag of golf clubs. Some would
take each club out of the bag individually while others would simply pick the clubheads out of
the bag, scrub the face with the towel, and then drop the club back into place. The latter method
was much faster in terms of clubs-per-hour, so this was by far my preferred method of cleaning.
Unfortunately, this quick clean approach would often mean that I would drop the bag of clubs
which I would brace between my knees, as if supporting the weight of a podium or someone
who had collapsed in my arms while standing causing a ton of noise but never any damage to
the surface of the clubheads. This lapse in concentration would occur roughly once a week, but
nothing was ever damaged, so it was more of an annoyance than a cause for concern.

Today, however, would be different. While cleaning the club Presidents clubs, his golf
bag managed to slip ever-so-slightly across my knees which caused the bag to fall towards my
right side. I had felt the slipping golf bag across my lap, but the combined weight of the golf
clubs, golf balls and other items within the bag caused the entire package to come crashing down
quickly. Unfortunately the bag room work bench was also located on my right side. As the golf
bag fell in what seemed to be slow-motion, the bag made contact with the work benchs corner
side as the bag came crashing down onto the bag room floor. Thinking nothing of a fairly
common spill, I bent down to pick up the bag so I could continue cleaning the clubs.
Cleaning a golf club with water and a towel and a steel brush, if you really wanted to
kiss a members ass and earn an extra tip was typically very simple. You would grip the head
of an individual golf club in one hand, pull it up from the bag a few feet, and clean the clubs
face with a towel in your opposite hand. This process should normally take no more than a few
seconds per club, and an entire bag of 14 golf clubs could be cleaned thoroughly in less than
eight minutes.
When I had reached the 7-iron in this particular bag, however, I immediately held my
breath as I noticed something was amiss. The steel shaft had suffered a large dent. The dent was
so deep that the shaft actually bent to one side, leaving the clubhead out of alignment with the
rest of the club. Carlos gasped behind me, startling me in the process, as I noticed the damaged
club.
Holy cow, dude. Did you just break that dudes club?! Carlos stood there, staring
wide-eyed at the club I was now holding in my hands. I will never understand why people ask
the most obvious questions in the time of stress or excitement.
Yeah, Carlos. No shit. I was on the verge of panic or anger, neither of which would
have helped in the situation I now found myself. Quick, go get Flock from the pro shop. We
gotta fix this somehow.
Carlos ran upstairs to the pro shop. I looked down at the broken golf club, mortified, not
realizing if this was the final straw that would cause my termination at Alvarton. Before too long
Carlos and Flock were back in the bag room examining the damaged iron.
You sure did a number on this one, Silky. Prez is gonna be pissed if he finds out. Flock
said while holding the club, again stating the obvious. In usual circumstances or in the event of a
minor golf shaft dent, you would be able to heat the shaft with a blowtorch to make the metal
softer. After doing so you would then be able to push the dent out of the shaft until the club was
back in alignment. This technique was for smaller dents, however, and would not be helpful in
this situation. The only thing I could think of was to offer to pay for a replacement club or shaft
and tell the member what had happened.
Look; just take the cost of the repair out of my paycheck, I offered, conceding that my
cellphone and credit card bill was going to be late this month. We cant fix this dent.
Flock looked at me and shook his head. Dont be serious; you cant afford to pay for this
repair. I know where you work. He tossed aside his cigarette and held the club closer to his eyes

so he would examine the damage from a closer angle. By this time I was already punching
numbers on a nearby calculator to figure out exactly how much a replacement club would cost.
By my estimation, and based on the new club model, I was looking at a $150 bill, minimum.
That was going to certainly hurt the pocketbook this month. Furthermore, I wanted nothing to do
with paying money to help out a member I despised.
Well, I dont know what else to say, John. I said as I looked down at my calculations.
You and I both know we cant fix
Both of you. Get out of the bag room. Flock said, interrupting me. Carlos and I
looked at one another in disbelief. Im not proud about what Im about to do, but I dont want
you guys in this room to see it. So get out.
Carlos and I didnt ask any questions. We both headed for the Mens Locker room,
leaving Flock alone with the golf club. That guy is nuts if he thinks he can fix the club, Carlos
said with a chuckle. You bent that mother good, Silk.
It was nice working with ya, Carlos. This is my last day here for sure after that. I was
already preparing my speech for my mother when I arrived back home after presumably being
fired from a job I had for the past six summers.
Our imaginations started to get the best of us at this point as we attempted to guess what
Flock was doing in the bag room to fix the club. We both figured that there was no way he could
actually repair the shaft with the tools available in the bag room; the dent was too large and the
club was bent too much. We also tried to listen for any sounds coming from the bag room as a
means to determine Flocks club repair plan. After a few moments Carlos placed his ear on the
bag room door to listen.
Suddenly the bag room door opened, startling Carlos. Flock emerged from the bag room
holding what appeared to be a brand new 7-iron. He looked at me and handed over the club,
which was still caked with grass and mud from the members golf round. I took the club into my
hand and examined the steel shaft closely.
Not only was the dent and bend fixed on the shaft, but there were no noticeable marks
that would provide a clue as to what Flock had just done.
You wont find any marks. Flock said as he walked past us towards the back of the
Mens Locker room. Do me a favor and dont tell anyone about this. He then turned the corner
and headed back to the pro shop. Carlos and I spent the next half hour contemplating what had
just happened and how our assistant golf pro could have fixed the golf club. To this day, neither
of us have a clue as to what happened.
***
John Flock was an interesting individual; that much is certain. Whether he was entertaining the
bag room employees with outlandish tales from his weekend, bragging about his newest female
companion or magically repairing golf clubs, there was never a dull moment when associating
with the assistant pro. Even when he would eventually be fired from Alvarton for stealing gas

out of the maintenance shed to fuel his new car, Flock never seemed to offer anything less than
an unusual story to share for years at Alvarton.

Chapter Twelve
A golf course is the epitome of all that is purely transitory in the universe; a space not to
dwell in, but to get over as quickly as possible.
- Jean Giraudoux
As time went on at Alvarton Country Club, the divide between the role of the bag room
boy veteran and golf professional narrowed considerably. Friendships were strengthened
between the two sects within golf operations and coming to work each day became more a matter
of hanging out with friends as opposed to actually working. Carlos had moved away to
college and ultimately a career in real estate (which he has become rather successful in, from
what I hear), so Billy and I were left working at Alvarton during the summer months. Since both
of us attended college at the same school in downstate Illinois, our ability to work during our
school breaks was appropriate and allowed us to work later into the year than some of the other
college-aged employees who attended school out-of-state. We had become fixtures within the
pro shop and barely performed many of our bag room duties after a while.
During this time the bag room atmosphere changed. Newer employees were either
incredibly young (barely old enough to legally work according to state law) or neighborhood 20somethings who needed a summer job. Employment longevity had become an afterthought,
which only increased the notoriety and acknowledgement of Billy and me from the members
who saw two familiar faces every day. Billy and I would take turns training the new employees;
however none of them seemed to care about the job as they would only be here for a few months.
Work performance and member satisfaction would ultimately suffer because of this mentality,
which also undoubtedly contributed to a decrease in overall membership volume from one year
to the next.
When I started working at Alvarton at the age of 13 as a caddy, I knew nothing about
what it meant to be a member of a private country club. I just figured that a bunch of rich people
got together and built a golf course, hired a few people to run the show, and then sat back in golf
carts, pool lounge chairs and bar stools for the rest of their lives. Membership at that time was
nearly 500 members from a variety of different cities and states, and Alvarton even offered
tennis leagues as a recreational activity at the club. By the time I was 15 and working in the bag
room, however, membership numbers were down to roughly 300 and the tennis courts were
demolished. A practice putting green was put in the place of the tennis courts, but at least the
members still had their swimming pool.
By my fifth year working at Alvartons bag room, the swimming pool was closed and
membership sank (pun intended) to about 220 members, most of which golfed on a weekly basis.
The original pool clubhouse was demolished to make way for more parking as Alvarton
contemplated becoming a municipal course, thus dropping the private notion. Within a few
months, however, the Board of Directors changed their minds, reopened the pool, and introduced

a Pool-Only membership option to new applicants. This brought the total membership back up
to about 280 and a new pool house was constructed. A new team of lifeguards and pool
maintenance crews would soon follow, and Alvarton Country Club would become profitable
again for the first time in quite some time.
Then a funny thing happened on the golf operations side. A few members expressed their
displeasure with how the golf course was laid out and wanted to change a few holes while adding
a few others. This small team of radicals presented their case to Paul Brewer, who humored the
idea of a course redesign out of sheer politeness. I couldnt care less if they burned this whole
thing to the ground. Brewer would later admit to Billy and me in confidence. If they want to
mess this whole thing up, then letem do it. This course layout has been the same since 1930, but
now they want to fuck it all up.
To help drive their idea even further, the Golf Course Committee (which they ended up
calling themselves) put together some far-fetched notion that changing the layout would increase
the difficulty and value of the golf course, thus making it more popular and eventually draw
more members to joining Alvarton. They even had financial impacts, profit and loss statements,
and a petition drawn up to present to the Board during its next meeting. Everything but the
petition was complete conjecture and had no basis of fact, but the Board eventually agreed to the
proposal and passed a motion to begin construction on the course the following Spring. The Golf
Course Committee was ecstatic, Alvartons membership was divided, and golf operations were
furious.
To reconstruct the layout of a golf course requires a great deal of money (which
reportedly totaled upwards of $300,000), especially when cart paths, earth, and trees need to be
moved to create two new holes. The plan was to remove the 18th hole which was a par 3, and
one of the only par 3 finishing holes in the area and replace it with additional parking and
driving range facilities just off of the pro shop entrance. The original lay-out of the course would
be completely changed, including the addition of two brand-new hole constructions deep into the
tree-lined property near the 12th hole. In order to account for these changes, the Board voted for
(and approved) a motion to temporarily suspend vacation allowance to full-time employees in
order to make room in the clubs budget. Other costs were to be cut around the clubs day-to-day
processes as well, including the termination of a few waitresses in the restaurant and multiple
part-time course maintenance workers. What would not change, however, were any membership
dues nor would any members be asked to contribute any additional funding into the budget for
construction. In essence, the Board was forcing the employees of Alvarton to pay for the new
golf course redesign that the members wanted.
As I learned early on in my career at Alvarton, employees did not like being the butt of a
bad joke and really despised having money taken out of their pockets. In what became a
secretive agreement among all golf course employees including the bag room, pro shop,

restaurant, and maintenance crew members at Alvarton were officially under attack without
even knowing it.
The level of control employees of the country club had over the membership differed
from one employment area to the next. For example, the restaurant and grille could really mess
your day up with adding inappropriate items to your sandwich (ranging from I didnt order any
tomatoes to My pastrami carries the distinct odor of feces), but that is where that areas power
ended. The locker room attendants could perceivably hide your shoes or ruin a good pair of
slacks, but that would just be mindless vandalism and become more of an annoyance than
anything since the rich fucks could purchase a replacement in no time. Furthermore, employees
in these two areas were likely part-time and were not as drastically influenced by the Boards
recent decision to cut vacation. No; the real backlash would have to come from other sources that
would directly impact what the members loved the most: golf.
The initial backlash against the members was small. Billy or I would leave a few clubs
un-cleaned in a Board Members golf bag; the golf course maintenance crew would choose
ridiculous pin placements on the golf courses greens. While these independent acts of
aggression were minor, they did cause a few members to complain to Paul Brewer in the pro
shop. After a few employees became comfortable with the member-response to these actions, the
pranks increased in severity from one day to the next. The bag room boys began placing the
members clubs into their golf bags upside-down; maintenance allowed the rough and fairways
to grow longer after a few missed days with the lawnmowers. The complaints continued to
file in to the pro shop, and Brewer sarcastically scolded his employees for their unprofessional
behavior.
Goddammit Carlos; how many times do I have to remind you that the members would
not appreciate their clubs being cleaned with spit? At least dont drink orange juice beforehand.
You get the idea.
While members were becoming agitated with the sudden drop in professionalism at
Alvarton, the golf course redesign was still underway and on-schedule. The Board had already
commissioned an architect team to begin demolition on some areas of the course, executed by
gigantic bulldozers and other machinery that left deep tire tracks throughout the course grounds.
Needless to say this did not please the golf course maintenance employees, and the level of prank
intensity was adjusted appropriately. As per the bag rooms allied warfare agreement, we also
joined the maintenance crew in this effort. After all, if the bonds between two allies are not to be
respected, all hope would surely be lost in battle.
As the Boards architects continued to ransack the grounds of Alvarton Country Club, the
clubs maintenance crew would routinely set the sprinkler system timers to turn on in the midafternoon instead of the normal early-morning routine. This would not only drench the course
architects, but it would also make the ground saturated with water to the point that bulldozers

would become stuck in mud and work would have to stop for the day. The timing of the
afternoon showers differed from one day to the next and caused considerable grief for the
workers. Members who would be on the course when the sprinklers activated would also be
forced to halt their rounds, which cause an obscene amount of complaints to the pro shop, where
Brewer would simply turn a blind eye to the issue, replying, Ill be sure to speak to maintenance
about it in the morning.
However, the fun didnt stop on the golf course. As players would return from their
water-soaked round the bag room employees would allow their clubs to sit on the members carts
for hours at a time. This allowed their golf bags to soak up any excess water from the sprinklers
and bake in the warm afternoon sunlight. Over time, this would fade the colors and markings on
the nylon and leather golf bags, which the bag room boys would simply claim ignorance to.
Weve been swamped and need to make a few additional hires, Brewer replied to the
complaining members that followed. Ive got three interviews lined up next week. Within a
few weeks, Alvartons golf course had become a literal marshland and the members golf bags
were all but falling apart at their seams.
One of the members on the Board, Casey Lucas, caught on to our efforts and found them
to be incredibly amusing if not brilliant. Let me get this straight you guys, Casey said one
afternoon to Brewer, Billy and myself one morning in the pro shop. Casey often stopped in to
chat prior to starting his golf round. You and the course crew have been purposely sabotaging
the golf course and members because we voted to renovate the course. Is that about right?
Pretty much it in a nutshell, Casey. Brewer replied. Well, that and the fact that none of
my employees are taking too kindly to the idea that their vacations have just been cancelled
because you members arent happy with a course that has been around since 1930. These guys
bust their asses every morning for the membership, but just because a few people got some wild
idea about how the course design should look, my employees are losing out on time off they
have earned. The maintenance crew has the same story.
Plus, I spoke up. None of these guys want to close the course down during
construction, which is making our jobs that much more difficult.
Come on guys; you all work at a golf course, Casey responded. How hard can that
be?
Casey must have seen the three faces staring back at him change in demeanor, because
his next statement was: Alright, alright. Just kidding around. I get your point.
Look guys; all three of you know that Im on your side in the long-run. I dont want to
make your days any more difficult than they apparently already are. That doesnt help anyone
out especially the membership, which you have all shown. But the vote has already taken
place, gentlemen. The Board agreed that a course facelift is needed to boost membership

popularity and volume. Everyone in the area knows that if this place doesnt bring in more
money and soon Alvarton is going public. If that happens, then none of you will have jobs.
Im not sure what to tell you guys. Casey knew what we also knew; public courses didnt have
bag rooms, and they sure as shit didnt have bag room attendants.
Casey had a point. If Alvarton did go public and the course changes did not guarantee
that it wouldnt still there was no telling if Brewer would be kept on as the head golf pro and
the bag room would no longer be needed. The membership would be disbanded and golf
operations would be limited exclusively to a few pro shop employees and a new pro. As much
as we all hated to admit, the course redesign was our best shot. At least, thats what we thought.
Why dont we focus more on the pool and other members? Brewer asked. People
fought hard to keep the pool on the membership docket, and now we offer a membership
specifically limited to pool access only. While this doesnt necessarily help out the golf
operations side of things, those membership dollars still fall into the conglomerated Alvarton
budget. Plus, membership numbers can be counted towards the total record, which could make
the Board happier in terms of volume.
Casey nodded and shrugged. Sure, that makes sense, but that would still only bring our
total volume up to just under 200 members. That is still not nearly enough to keep this place
open, especially considering the discounted dues that pool members pay now. The Board is also
not going to agree to increased marketing efforts for pool membership because theyre not worth
as much as golf members.
What did you mean other members, Paul? I asked.
Why are we only limited to pool and golfing members? Brewer asked. Casey, Billy and
I listened intently. When I was first hired on as the head pro, Alvarton consisted of two main
memberships: tennis and golf. Everyone fell into either of those two categories, and some of the
better-off members paid for both. Those who paid for both were also granted a complementary
pool membership. Within a few years the pool membership became its own option and a ton of
people took advantage. That was when total membership was over 600 people, all areas
considered.
But then the Board voted to remove the tennis courts, making the tennis membership
completely worthless. That automatically caused this place to lose a quarter of its net worth and
membership volume. Luckily, we replaced the courts with a better driving range to appease the
golfers; but now here we sit, some 15 years later, in a situation where you guys are asking to tear
it all down once again. You cant keep tearing down parts of this place and hope that things are
just going to get better.
Instead, we need more people in the door. So we should allow more people to come in
to Alvarton. Casey, you said that the Board isnt going to put more money into marketing, right?

Well let the membership market itself to people in their families and their friends. Let the
members bring their relatives into Alvarton in a different capacity. Offer a third membership
option again. Hell, you can even call it a social membership and limit their privileges to the
grille and the clubhouse.
Casey thought this over for a bit before replying, What makes you think that people are
going to pay to just come to the clubhouse?
Brewer shrugged. What makes you think that tearing up this course is going to work?
Casey didnt have an answer. None of us did, because quite frankly none of us knew what
would and what would not work. Brewers idea was at least something other than just covering
up the old with something new, which is exactly what redesigning the golf course was
attempting. Brewer was absolutely correct; no one knew what the end product would look like
after the course architects left Alvarton. This redesign was a huge gamble perhaps the biggest
Alvarton had ever seen and if it wasnt successful then the entire history of the country club
would be rewritten. For the money involved, I knew I wasnt happy with putting my summer job
on the line because a few men without my best interests in mind wanted a new course to play.
Furthermore, I was certain that Brewer wasnt about to lose his livelihood on the same wager.
The four of us continued to hash out the details of what the social membership would
entail, and what these details would ultimately mean for Alvartons budget and membership
volumes. Casey was eventually persuaded to our train of thought, but before too long he had to
stop the conversation.
This all sounds great and makes a ton of sense, guys, Casey was shaking his head. But
Im just one guy. Im gonna have to convince nine other people on the Board that this is the
direction we want to head. Plus, most of those guys are really sold on the idea that a course
redesign in the answer. All I can say is that Ill bring it up to them for consideration.
And so Casey did at the next Board of Directors meeting. In all honesty, none of us
really expected the idea to pass through that initial meeting, let alone whether Casey would be
brave enough to even propose the idea. Perhaps it was the fact that Casey had absolutely no
expectations going into that meeting that allowed him to make the proposal. Regardless, the
motion passed to consider the implications of allowing a third membership option to Alvarton
Country Club. Course reconstruction would continue that much was clear but at least now
other options were available that would (hopefully) limit the amount of Alvarton that would be
destroyed.
Over the next two weeks the pranks from golf operations and maintenance ceased while
the Board continued to discuss their options. Finally, Casey came back to the pro shop one
evening to discuss what the Board had decided. Billy, Brewer and I were again ready to listen.

The Board initially shot the idea down after about two weeks of consideration, Casey
said. But it was by no means a unanimous decision. In fact, the motion had to go to a vote,
where the proposal was defeated 6 to 4. However, I just got off the phone with the Board
President, and he had another idea that I think youll all enjoy.
The Alvarton Board of Directors consisted of various long-time members that had been
voted into position by their peers. The only issue with this process was that these long-term
members Casey included were complete derelicts who had peers that were also derelicts.
Lets not forget the obvious point here: this was Alvarton Country Club and not the Supreme
Court. Therefore, everything was up for negotiation or wager, including membership proposals.
Casey explained that the Board President and he came to an agreement that the proposal
would be decided over a contest the following morning on the 18th hole. We were also both
piss-ass drunk, but Im sure you assumed that. Casey would later add as he continued his story.
The agreement was simple: both men would hit two fairway iron shots into the 18th green in a
closest-to-the-hole contest. The winner of the contest would then be able to change the votes of
two Board members for Brewers proposal. The winner could choose any two votes one way
or the other and whatever the final vote total turned out to be would determine if the proposal
passed or not.
And lemme tell ya, that guy is not gonna vote in your favor. Casey smiled as he left us
with that information. Billy and I knew exactly what needed to happen, and Brewer was in
agreement.
The following morning the entire Board of Directors, a few straggling members, and
most of the Alvarton employee brigade gathered to watch the contest. Casey would hit second,
so the Board President stepped up to the 150 yard marker in the 18th fairway and lined up his
approach shot. The President was a rather skilled golfer not the best, by any means; but skilled
and could certainly land his shot close to the pin if he needed to. Prior to the gathering rumors
had spread that the President would like nothing more than to officially squash the proposal
once and for all, especially since he wasnt very pleased that the whole notion would be settled
on a golf shot, despite what he had agreed to earlier with Casey. Nevertheless, he addressed his
golf ball, took a deep breath, and hit his approach shot towards the 18th hole.
Billy, Brewer and I were seated in a golf cart behind a tree near the 18th as we had been
named the official judges of the event. Billy had a tape-measure, I held a large poster board,
and Brewer was announcing the results to the crowd via a megaphone. The Board Presidents
golf ball landed on the front of the green and rolled a few feet towards the flagstick, eventually
coming to a rest roughly 15 feet away from the cup. Billy and I ran out to the green with our
tools and measured the distance, which turned out to be 16 feet 7 inches; not a bad shot by any
means.

Casey is gonna have to hit a gem, Silky. Billy said to me as Brewer announced the
distance to the cheering crowd. Casey was next up, and he tossed his golf ball onto the fairway
near the yardage marker. The crowd fell silent as he aimed his shot towards the green, then
addressed his golf ball skillfully and quietly. After taking a few extra looks at his target Casey
made a pure golf swing and sent his ball towards the green with a slight draw. Both Billy and I
lost the ball in the sun as we attempted to follow its path towards the green, but were then
surprised to see the ball land on the back of the green some 30 feet past the flagstick. Suddenly,
after making a large hop on the greens surface, the balls backspin forced the ball back towards
the flag. It would eventually come to rest at a distance that appeared very similar to what the
President had just recorded.
Shit, I muttered as Billy and I ran to measure the distance. The crowds silence was as
deafening as they awaited the results. Billy looked down at the tape measure and gasped; the
ball had to rest 16 feet and 9 inches away from the hole. He and I looked at one another in
disbelief.
Make it count, boys. Make it count. Brewer whispered to us under his breath. I took
the hint from Brewer and wrote down 16 feet, 6 inches on the scoreboard. Casey was
unofficially the winner of the contest. Brewer announced this to the crowd, and both Casey and
the Board President shook their heads in either disbelief or acknowledgment of what happened.
Depending on who you ask, of course.
In the days that followed, and in line with the wager agreement, Brewers proposal to
offer a third membership at Alvarton was passed and implemented within months. Course
construction had continued during this time, but thanks to the proposed increase in revenue from
the new social membership option, the project was limited substantially and finished with minor
changes to the course layout (despite the members still getting their two new golf holes). Most
importantly, however, vacation time had been reapproved for employees at the club.

Chapter Thirteen
If you wish to hide your character, do not play golf.
-Percey Boomer
Paul Brewer was a boss that anybody could appreciate, regardless of whether you worked
at a golf course or not. Our relationship expanded beyond that of a mere employer/employee
arrangement and reached the point of friendship in my later years at Alvarton Country Club.
While he could certainly become upset or loud in a tense situation such as when fireworks
were exploding over the golf course or when an employee trips the silent alarm on the golf cart
cord - Brewer was normally a pretty easy-going guy most days.
To say that Brewer wasnt blessed with admirable physical qualities would be an
understatement. He was incredibly thin, had horrible eyesight as evidenced by the thick, bottlelens glasses he had to wear each day, and had a vocabulary that would make a truck driver blush.
When he walked, Brewer would often stand hunched over with rounded shoulders that seemed to
carry more weight than any of his employees suspected. He always seemed to be stressed even
during slow business hours and was an avid smoker, which would cause him to cough often and
project an image of being unhealthy. Still, he was an extremely talented golf professional in both
playing ability and golf shop management.
Due to his normal agitated state, Brewer liked to keep his employees working throughout
the day, just as any good employer would. While a veteran employee like me would sometimes
be allowed to sit in the pro shop and watch that weeks PGA golf tournament on television,
Brewer still liked to give me small tasks to do around the club just to keep busy. These tasks
would range anywhere from folding shirts in the pro shop to mopping the bag rooms cement
floor during slow days, but I didnt mind the tedious nature of these small jobs. After all, I was
on the clock and Brewer wasnt going to let his money go to waste.
In an attempt to reach out to his employees on a more personal level, Brewer began to
trust me and the other bag room veterans with other jobs, many of which involving his own
personal possessions and home. On particularly slow days at Alvarton, Brewer would often toss
me the keys to his large truck and ask me to take it to the car wash to get detailed. You can
imagine my surprise the first time he made this request, especially since I was being entrusted
with the care and cleanliness of my employers truck! Was this guy nuts? Didnt he know that I
had routinely driven his golf carts and driving range picker into some compromising situations
on more than one occasion? Regardless, Brewer trusted me enough to drive his truck to the car
wash, which I would eventually do numerous times in the following years.
In addition to washing his truck, Brewer would also have the bag room boys and assistant
pros come by his home on occasion to help with various odd jobs on Mondays when Alvarton

was closed. Over the course of three summers, for example, I learned how to lay mulch, build
and paint a fence, and even developed somewhat of a green thumb when it comes to shrub
planting. Following our day of landscaping and gardening, our makeshift team of lawn workers
would all gather around Brewers fire pit (which we also helped install into his back yard) and
have a barbeque. While working in the sun wasnt how I wanted to spend one of my days off,
our gatherings afterwards always made the day seem worthwhile.
Brewer was and is a kind and determined man; however, he always seemed to want more
out of the life that he had been given. His not having any children or family members close by
seemed to bother Brewer and he would often remark to Billy and I that he appreciated the work
we did for him because no one else was around to do it. Brewers family was still located in
Indiana at least as far as we knew since he barely spoke about them and he spent most of his
time at the country club, thus leaving very little time for a social life. Had it not been for his team
of bag room employees and his assistants, Im not sure what Brewer would have done with his
time outside of Alvarton.
Despite the time spent at his home and around him at work, Brewer never seemed to
allow others into his personal life easily. As such, I never felt like I got to know my former
employer very well, contrary to what the open nature of Alvartons employee fraternity would
otherwise lead one to believe. Out of the few regrets I carry with me to this day, not getting to
know Brewer better remains one of the biggest. Underneath his troubled exterior seemed to exist
a fun-loving, incredibly intelligent man who could undoubtedly be successful in any business
venture he decided to pursue.
Perhaps the quality that I appreciated and admired the most about Brewer was his ability to
approach a stressful situation with a calmness that he otherwise rarely showed. This quality was
never more evident to me than the day my employment at Alvarton Country Club came to an
end.

Chapter Fourteen
But in the end it's still a game of golf, and if at the end of the day you can't shake hands with
your opponents and still be friends, then you've missed the point.
- Payne Stewart
By 2005 my time at Alvarton Country Club was nearing its end. I had graduated college
the summer prior and was now working full-time at Alvarton for the entire golf season. During
the colder months in the early spring and late fall, I would often be the only bag room employee
on the schedule as my compatriots had moved on to bigger and better things. Carlos was already
a well-established realtor in the area and Billy was finishing up at college in downstate Illinois. I
was ready to move on into my own career in the health care field, but for some reason I simply
could not let go of my position at the country clubs bag room.
Alvarton had become a shell of its former self as well. Despite the course renovations and
a few changes in employee clientele including the subtraction of both Skip and Flock from
their assistant pro positions, and a complete overhaul of the clubs President and officers
membership numbers were at an all-time low. Many blamed changes in the countrys economic
structure as a whole, and in most cases that was true. The country was still trying to recover from
a post 9/11 mentalities that not only caused many of the older members to live in fear, but also
caused an economic downturn that nobody could have predicted. The number of new members
applying to the club became smaller and smaller over time until it eventually halted altogether.
Skip Pavin and John Flock had left Alvarton for more lucrative golf course positions in
South Carolina and Florida, respectively, leaving head golf professional Paul Brewer to run the
pro shop and golf operations mainly by himself. This proved to be more than a one-person job,
so by 2005 Brewer hired his cousin, David, as his new assistant golf pro. David had been
working at another country club in the northern suburbs where he was presumably making a
decent living; however, when a family member is in need of help well, you know the rest.
David was welcomed with open arms to Alvarton as many members and employees had met
David throughout the years when he would come to town to visit Brewer.
David Hewitt was a laid-back, kind, professional worker who took great pride in his craft
as a golf professional. Originally from Indiana, he was also a strong amateur player and
certainly more talented than his older cousin; however he was also very talented in the art of
non-sobriety. Regardless, Davids knowledge of the game of golf was unparalleled among most
fans of the game, and I admittedly learned a great deal about the golf swing from David. He was
also loved by the members due to his calm demeanor, incredible sense of humor, and uncanny
ability to extinguish a stressful situation such as running a golf outing or addressing a member

complaint. I include this information about David not because he was an important part of my
Alvarton employment experience, but more because in my limited time working with David I
learned very little about his life. Two paragraphs-worth, for example.
I also tried my best to help around the pro shop wherever I could, including working the
tee sheet, pricing items in the pro shop, and other every-day tasks. As the weather continued to
turn colder after that summer, however, there simply wasnt anything additional to do during the
day than sit around and play online poker on one of the two pro shop computers. By that season I
had negotiated a salary with Brewer to the tune of $11/hour, which at the time was the most
money I had ever made at a job. Combined with any tips I would receive from the few members
that still frequented the golf course, I managed to save enough money to make monthly payments
on my student loans from college (which were still manageable). Regardless, both Brewer and I
knew that I was making money for sitting around the office every day. As much as he enjoyed
my company during slow days at Alvarton, I had also become a money-pit of an employee
because of my experience and tenure at the club.
One day I was playing online poker on the pro shops main computer when Brewer
walked into the shop from outside. The weather had been grey and cold the entire week, thus
keeping the golfers to a minimum. Brewer had been out on the course keeping track of the
members that decided to brave the elements and play a few holes. When he entered the pro shop
his face was red and chapped from riding in a golf cart and allowing the crisp autumn air slap
across his nose and cheeks. In a way, Brewer looked like a bag room boy.
Cold as hell out there today, Silky. Wow. Brewer took off his Callaway Golf stocking
hat and threw it on a nearby desk. Those guys are nuts to play golf in this shit.
Without looking up from the computer screen I said, Mr. Wallace and his group are
coming out in an hour to play nine holes. Ive already got their bags loaded onto golf carts
downstairs. Ill bring them up in a second. I was in the middle of an online poker tournament
and couldnt be bothered with any outside distractions like members coming to play golf. There
were much more important and pressing matters at hand.
Brewer shook his head and laughed. I dont know why I ever let you guys play that
game at work. I know how little you make! How can you afford to play poker with your own
money? Brewer laughed again and walked into his office to grab a sweater hanging on his door.
He had taken off his jacket and placed it on the sweaters hangar after donning his new shirt.
Having been my only real employer for the past 10 years, Brewer and I had become
somewhat close in terms of the employee-boss relationship. I looked at him more as a friend than
my employer, and I liked to think he looked at me in the same way. Over the past couple of years
the two of us began to speak more frankly to one another, often joking around and complaining
about the members without worrying about professionalism or workplace etiquette. Brewer also
had similar relationships with Billy and the other bag room employees, and I attribute this

change in demeanor to the dropping seriousness that existed around the country club over
time. One could say that Brewer simply stopped caring so much about his job and instead
decided to enjoy life for once.
I had developed and still have a deep respect for Brewer by that season. Just as he had
seen many of his long-time bag room employees grow into young adults, we also witnessed the
changes associated with age and maturity in Brewer. He had long-since divorced his first wife
and was enjoying life as a bachelor, which allowed Brewer to slowly relax over time and buy-in
to the hanging out atmosphere of Alvartons employees. Furthermore, now that his cousin was
working at Alvarton, Brewer and David would often engage the bag room employees in tales of
how the two of them would get into trouble growing up in their hometown. I began to see
Brewer for the person he really was; a dedicated, loyal businessman that also yearned for nothing
more than to be comfortable in life. Looking back, I now realize that I saw a person I wanted to
become in Paul Brewer; I just wasnt aware of it at the time.
Silky, how long have you worked here now? Brewer asked as he emerged from his
office in the back of the pro shop.
Ten years, boss. I clicked off the online poker site as I had lost all of my credits in the
tournament I had been playing. Ten years of dealing with assholes like you and the other guys
around here.
Brewer laughed and asked, But you keep coming back, right? Why is that? Dont you
have a degree now?
I rested my arms on the top of the pro shop counter in front of me and thought about my
response. I hadnt really thought about why I came back to Alvarton every year, especially since
I graduated from school. I dunno Paul; maybe comfort. Maybe because Im just used to it.
Ah, youve become complacent. Thats not good, Silky, Brewer leaned up against a
display counter and crossed his arms over his chest. If you stay here too long, things start to
grow on you. Just look at me; hell, it cost me a marriage and a ton of money. My head is still
spinning from that shit.
Thats because you never went home, Paul. Im surprised your dogs havent left you
either.
Well, the dog that mattered left, right? Brewer said with a smug look. But seriously
Silk; are you even looking for another place to work? What did you go to school for anyway?
I informed Brewer that my original plan was to earn my degree in Physical Therapy;
however that eventually changed to a concentration in Psychology, which then changed to a
combination of Health Science and Psychology. I ended up with two degrees when all was said
and done.

Brewer looked at me with a smirk on his face. Youve got two fucking college degrees
and you are still dumb enough to come back here?
Alright, alright, I succumbed to the fact that yes, I was still too stupid to look for a job
anywhere else. But I still didnt know why I was suddenly being quizzed about my desire to
work at Alvarton. Brewer and I spoke freely about many topics including the best way to clean
a deer you had just shot in the ass, seeing as though Brewer was a hunter and a terrible shot but
we had never really discussed my future career plans. What are you getting at, boss? You
trying to tell me Im fired or something?
Brewer shook his head and chuckled. I couldnt fire you even if I wanted to. The
members all love you, the other employees look up to you, and no one else is available to open
the pro shop when Im not here. Brewer stood up straight and walked over to the pro shop
counter. Thats why Im asking you to leave.
I looked at Brewer with a confused expression. I Im not sure I understand, Paul.
Look Silk, Brewer now leaned against the pro shop counter and looked me in the eyes
with a slight smile. Despite his facial expression I could tell that what he was about to tell me
wasnt something he wanted to admit, but he couldnt hold it in any longer. You have been at
this place for 10 years. Over that time Ive seen you grow up, Ive seen you fall down, and Ive
damn near fired you more times that I can count
Seven, Paul.
Whatever. My point is this: youve got a college degree. You have interests in things
other than this country club, and I am pretty sure many of those plans involve a place other than
Alvarton. You, Billy, Carlos none of you guys can ever be replaced here. Youve made your
mark and it is time for you to move on to the next boss that youre going to bother for over a
decade.
This place has gone to shit, Silk. You know it, I know it; even the membership knows
that Alvarton isnt going to be around forever. Even though those assholes wanted a new golf
course, a new membership, whatever none of it worked. Sure, we have enough invested in
this club to where it will likely stay private for a few more years, but I have no idea how long
that is going to last. I dont even know how much longer the Board of Directors is going to keep
me on as the head golf pro. I dont have any control over that. But you have control over what
you want to do.
I could tell that Brewer was completely serious and had been thinking of bringing this up
to me for quite some time. Still, I felt like I needed to break the serious tone of the conversation.
Youre just telling me that I cost too much, right?

Well, theres that, too. Brewer said as he walked away from the counter and towards an
unfolded golf shirt. I pay you more than any other guy in that bag room, and I cant pay you any
more. If I do, then you reach another tax bracket thanks to the amount of hours I have you work.
Unfortunately the Board doesnt allow me to pay a bag room employee over a specific amount.
Hell, Ive really only been paying you slightly more than minimum wage for the past three years;
all the rest is cash. People are catching on to the budget though, and I cant keep them off my
books any longer. Brewer finished re-folding the golf shirt and laid it neatly on a nearby table.
I backed away from the pro shop counter and looked outside towards the driving range.
One of the new bag room employees was out on the range attempting to start the driving range
picker. It was evident that he had no idea what he was doing, much like I didnt when I was
younger. As I peer through the darkened pro shop window at this young employee struggling
with the picker, my eyes eventually focused on my own reflection looking back at me in the
tinted glass. I looked away from the window and back at Brewer, who was now standing closer
to the counter. He had his hand extended.
I looked at Brewer in the eyes and shook his hand. Well, I guess I see your point, Paul.
I know, Silk I mean Brian. And dont think youre going to be forgotten around here.
But you gotta go, my man. There are places other than Alvarton Country Club that need you.
Brewer let go of my hand and smiled. Ill make sure I send your check to you in the mail. But
the next time I see you here, it better be because youre playing golf and not because youre
working.
With that, I walked out from behind the pro shop counter, shook Brewers hand one more
time as his employee, and then walked out of the pro shop and into the parking lot. As I was
walking towards my car I looked over at the young bag room employee stopping on the gas
pedal of the driving range picker. Before too long we both heard the pickers engine turn-over
and the picker finally came to life. Within seconds the employee was driving the picker towards
the driving range, scooping up golf balls along the way.
I sat in my car for a moment and watched a foursome of golfers drive past, headed
towards the back nine of the golf course. I looked over towards the Alvarton clubhouse and pro
shop, where I saw Brewer walking out towards the first tee where a few members were waiting.
It appeared as if business would carry on as usual despite my absence, and in a way it made me
feel smaller for a brief moment. I placed my car key into the ignition and turned my cars engine
on.
I looked out into the driving range one final time to see the young bag room employee
take a hard turn towards the driving range creek, causing the front of the picker to drop into the
water below. I laughed a bit to myself as I saw the employee get out in a frantic motion,
undoubtedly believing that his time at Alvarton was over. I simply shook my head and pulled

out of the Alvarton Country Club parking lot and onto the street, not really knowing where my
next destination would be.

Glossary
Approach - A shot hit towards the green or towards the hole.
Birdie Completing a golf hole in one stroke fewer than that holes par value (ex. scoring a 3 on
a par 4). This is a common score for professional golfers and incredibly uncommon for members
at Alvarton Country Club. In fact, the only birdies seen at Alvarton were often signing in trees
and shitting on the heads of aforementioned members.
Bunker - A hollow comprised of sand or grass or both that exists as an obstacle and, in some
cases, a hazard. Bunkers also serve as wonderful foundations for an amateur fireworks show.
Caddie Also known as loopers, a person hired to carry clubs and provide other assistance.
Other assistance may also include being hired to perform other duties, such as running to your
car to hide your cellphone so your wife wont see your girlfriend calling you during a round of
golf. This task will normally cost the golfer upwards of $50. (see also: Tiger Woods)
Draw A shot that flies slightly from right to left for right-handed players (or left to right for
left-handed players). A well-hit draw will usually equate to greater distance on a golf shot due to
the side spin administered onto the golf ball. An extreme draw otherwise known as a hook
will also equate a great deal of distance onto the golf ball, especially as it flies deep into a forest
or into a lake.
Driving range - Another term for a practice area. Also known as a golf range, practice range or
learning center. Driving ranges also provide adequate privacy to smoke a cigarette, drink a beer
or court a lifeguard while still on-the-clock.
Fade - A shot that flies slightly from left to right for a right-handed golfer (the opposite is true
for a left-handed player). A fade will typically equate to a shorter shot for most players.
Handicap - a number that is used to adjust scores so players of different skill levels can compete
on an equal basis. For example, a player who normally scores an 80 on a par-72 golf course will
have a handicap index of 8. Golfers at Alvarton Country Club often had handicaps of the more
traditional variety. (see also: mental incompetence)
Loop a slang term for a round of golf.
Par - The score an accomplished player is expected to make on a hole, either a three, four or
five.
Picker a slang term used to describe the motorized tractor used to retrieve golf balls hit onto a
driving range. This vehicle is also useful for taking naps, imbibing in various substances and also
the bane of most bag room employees existence.
Tee Box - The area where players tee to start a hole.

Yips - A condition, generally believed to be psychological, which causes a player to lose control
of his hands and club. (see also: normal Alvarton member golf swing)