The Titleist

August 21, 2006

Dear Susie,

I've decided that I need to know you better before asking you to read a book about golf. But I will tell you a golf story instead.

I grew up next to a public golf course, the Asbury Park Golf Course. From our house it was just a short walk through some woods to the #8 hole, a wide 180-yard par 3, with a deep gulley in front of the green. We didn't have much money, so one way we got some was to hide in the deep gulley. We would wait there until a golfer's shot fell short of the green, landing in the gulley, and we would grab the ball and sneak back into the wood, and giggle while we watched the errant golfer search for his ball. That's a pretty long par 3 for weekend hackers, so we got a lot of balls this way. Once the golfers had dropped another ball and played out, we would wait for the next foursome and do the same thing again. Sometimes more than one would hit into the gulley, which was a bonus. Later in the day, or the next day, we would take the balls up to the tee of the 7th hole, and sell them, two for a quarter, to other golfers.

We also played #8 a lot, without paying. It was usually me, my brother, Bobby White and Tommy Nay. Few of us could hit the ball 180 yards, so we would come through the wood with one driver, one short iron and one putter. During the time I lived next to the golf course, I played this par three 1,463 times. I parred it 107 times, and birdied it only once. I wasn't a very good golfer. Often we would get chased off the course. There was a slight rise going up the long #9 hole to the clubhouse, so we couldn't see far in that direction, and every once in a while one of the maintenance men would come tearing over the rise in his truck, trying to catch us. They never caught us, but they scared us a lot. We would run toward the woods, and the truck was often right on our tail, but we knew if we got into the woods where the truck couldn't go, we were free. We always made it, though it was close a few times. The pro and the caddy master and the starter all knew who we were, because we caddied there at times as well. They knew we were stealing and selling balls, too, but they could never prove it was us.

As we got older we got bolder. We didn't want to play #8 over and over, so we would arrive at the course very early, like 5:30 in the morning. Everything was dew-covered. We would play #8 and #9, which put us at the clubhouse before it opened, then play #1 through #7 and walk back home through the woods. We were pretty vulnerable because we were a long way from our part of the woods, and often we had to escape the maintenance men by other routes. We did this dozens of times.

One evening my Uncle Bob and his family were over for dinner, and I was telling Uncle Bob about our strategy for playing for free and our escapades escaping from the men. Uncle Bob was my youngest uncle, much younger than the others but still 20 years older than me. So it surprised me when he said he would like to join us the next morning for golf. He was going to sneak on with the kids, which I thought was very cool, since my father would never ever consider doing such a thing. I liked the idea since it sort of legitimated what we were doing, having a grown-up along. Uncle Bob was a new school teacher, and very poor, so he was really doing it not for adventure but to save some cash. So the next morning at 5:30 we go outside and Uncle Bob is indeed sitting on the stoop with a few clubs in his hands,and we head off to play. Everything went fine until #7, a long par 4 and our last hole. We're about half way down the fairway, when the truck appears over the rise, racing toward us. I'm feeling kind of smug, because I figure we're with a grownup, who will talk our way out of this, so I just stand my ground. But then I look around for the others, and everyone, including Uncle Bob, had sprinted into the woods and safety. I was stuck, no place to run to, and was surrounded and caught for the first time.

The details of my arrest and punishment are an uninteresting blur, because I was so focused on my betrayal by my favorite uncle. It took me a long time to forgive him. He's still my favorite uncle.

Titleists were the most popular golf balls on the 7th tee of the Asbury Park Golf Course. A clean one without nicks could sell for a quarter. Every story needs a title, and a titleist.