The Feathery (4 page)

As he drove toward El Camino, Detective Ross formulated the lecture he would give to the boys before they met Sandy McNair. After a short drive he got off the freeway and continued on for less than a mile before turning into a roadway lined with palm trees. It led to the El Camino clubhouse parking lot. He pulled into an empty spot, shut off the engine, and turned around to face the boys in the back before taking a key from his pocket to release their hand cuffs. Ross’ eyes shifted slowly from Scott to Matt before he spoke. "Okay, here’s the deal. You guys are headed from petty theft to more serious crime unless some changes are made. You’re going to have to work on those changes, and you’ll need help to get it done. Do you both want to hear about a program at El Camino that could improve your attitude?"
Scott and Matt looked at each other for a moment and then both nodded.
"I’m going to introduce you both to Sandy McNair in a few minutes. He’s helped kids turn it around. Sandy is going to keep you busy at the golf course and out of trouble. You must report here at El Camino after school and on weekends. Do you both go along with that plan?"
Scott agreed readily, "Okay." He looked over at Matt, but there wasn’t a response to Ross’ question from him.
A nudge from Scott’s elbow produced a delayed answer from Matt…"Yeah, guess it could work."
One of Ross’ eyebrows raised, and he stared at Matt for ten seconds before he asked. "Any questions?"
"Do we get paid, and can we play golf?" It was Scott who asked that question.
"Yes, it’ll be a variety of jobs at minimum wage and some work as caddies. As far as golf is concerned…that’ll be up to Sandy."
Scott smiled for the first time in a while and said, "cool."
Detective Ross paused for a moment before he spoke again. "Let me tell you a little about Sandy McNair. He’s eighty-five-years-old, and according to
Golf Digest
magazine he is rated as one of the top-ten golf instructors in United States. Sandy was a thirty-year-old assistant pro at Saint Andrews, Scotland, when his wife and two-year-old son were killed in a vehicle accident. Anger about their loss consumed him. Sandy’s surroundings at Saint Andrews were haunting him, so he left there for the United States. He focused on teaching golf here, and gradually the anger left." Ross had their attention, so he asked, "Do you know why I’m telling you guys about Sandy?"
"Because we’re both pissed off about our dads being killed like Mr. McNair was about his wife and kid." Scott’s eyes filled with tears as he said that, and the same was happening to his friend seated next to him…tears were a rare occurrence for both boys.
"Right on," said Ross. "The anger is making you defiant. It’s causing you guys to steal and trespass on a golf course. It’s up to you to work with Sandy and turn it around." He stared both of them down before he asked the key question, "Are you ready to give it a shot?"
Scott nodded in agreement, and it took another elbow nudge from him before Matt slowly indicated his okay.
"All right. Then let’s go meet Sandy McNair."

They passed by several golfers stroking putts on the practice green while waiting to be called to the first tee. Two of them greeted Ross with respect. Ross was the first African American man to become a member at El Camino, and Sandy was the one who convinced the board of directors to let him in. Others followed, and two years after joining El Camino, Ross became the club champion.

Ross, with the two boys following him, entered the clubhouse and walked toward the counter, passing by displays chock-full of golf clubs and clothing. An assistant-pro told Ross that Sandy was waiting for them in his office.

Ross knocked once, and they heard a brusque voice in response, "Come on in."
Sandy’s tone made Scott wonder if they were about to meet
a tough, kick ass and
t
ake names
kinda guy…That expression came from some marine-speak he’d heard from his father.
They entered the office. The walls were covered with framed photographs. One was of Arnold Palmer. Others were of Jack Nicklaus and Ben Crenshaw. In the photos, they were standing next to Sandy. The much older Sandy than in the photos got up from a chair behind his desk and approached them slowly like his eighty-five year old joints were stiff from sitting. Sandy was dressed in old-fashioned golf attire: a leather necktie, a Harris Tweed jacket with elbow patches and red plaid plus-four knickers like the boys had seen worn by the late-great Payne Stewart.
Sandy stuck out his right hand to them, and he smiled. Sandy’s face was wrinkled and browned from his many years in the sun, playing and teaching golf. His hair was mostly white with a few strands that hinted at the red color it had been in his youth. He greeted Detective Ross with a wink. "Are these the two lads that need a lob wedge? We have a few of those around here." He shook Scott’s hand first and then Matt’s.
Scott recalled his dad teaching him the correct grip on a golf club. ‘
Soft…like holding two baby birds’
, he’d said. Sandy McNair’s handshake was like that…soft, but not limp or wimpy. Scott noticed that the blue in Sandy’s eyes was clear, not clouded or milky like some old men’s.
Sandy’s eyes shifted to all three of them. "I haven’t taken lunch." Sandy said. "How about joining me?" He looked directly at both boys. "They make a great cheeseburger with fries at our Hole 19 Lounge."
The distress of their day had masked their hunger until the mention of their favorite food brought it quickly to the surface.
Sandy put a hand on each of their shoulders, and they headed out the door of his office and down a hallway toward the restaurant. His hands resting on their shoulders were not only a gesture of acceptance and welcome, but helped to steady his stiff, arthritic gait.
"I’ll bow out of lunch. I’m going to hit a few balls on the range." Detective Ross said, "catch you later." After saying that, Ross turned in the opposite direction and walked down the corridor toward the pro shop.
The table reserved for Sandy overlooked the 18
^th
and the practice green. As they sat down, a foursome was making their approach shots to the 18th green.
Sandy broke the ice. "See that player in the red shirt who’s about to make his chip shot from ten feet off the green?"
Both boys zeroed in on him.
"Most likely he’s chipping for an eagle on that 542 yard, par five."
They watched as he made the shot. The ball rolled straight to the cup and stopped an inch away from dropping in. The golfer walked up to the ball and tapped it in for a birdie four…if Sandy’s guess was correct.
"That’s Ray Billings. He owns Billings Manufacturing. They manufacture auto parts and are a Fortune Five-Hundred company. Detective Ross brought him to me when he was sixteen after he got in trouble stealing cars and stripping them for parts. He went to work here. We taught him to play golf and handle life. There were many others that got the same help at El Camino. Some went on to bigger-better things. We tried with some others, but they never made it."
The boys were silent as they watched Ray Billings shake hands with the other members of his foursome and make his way off the green. As he passed by the window next to Sandy’s table, Billings waved before gesturing with both thumbs held high. Sandy smiled and waved back.
Sandy leaned forward, folded his arms and placed them on the table. His clear blue eyes narrowed. "Okay lads, let’s cut to the chase. I’m here to help you. Tell me what’s going on."
They opened up and told Sandy about losing their fathers. They both agreed when he surmised that those feelings caused them to rebel and to flout the law by stealing. Scott started to trust the wisdom of this old man sitting across from them who talked softly and held their attention with his bright eyes peering straight at theirs. It also helped for them to know he had suffered from a loss like their own.
Their cheeseburgers and fries with cokes arrived at the table. They all ate in silence, looking out at the golf course. After they finished, Sandy laid down the rules.
"Okay, I know about anger like that. I lost my wife and young son years ago. It took me a long time to get over the rage, but dedicating myself to teaching golf helped me do that. You have to get away from the anger by committing yourselves to a worthwhile activity instead of getting in the kind of trouble you’ve been in. Do you both want to work here and learn about golf?"
Scott immediately answered in the affirmative. There was a delay of five seconds before a stare from Sandy caused Matt to say, "okay."
Scott asked his first question. "What will we do?"
Sandy noted Matt’s reluctance to show any enthusiasm and thought he should be turned over to Harry Gladstone who had a way with the hard ones. "Many different jobs…I’m going to split you up. Matt, you’ll work with our greens keeper at first. He’ll keep you busy, and I want you to know every part of the course before you start to caddie for the caddie master, Billy McGinnis." Sandy shifted those clear blue eyes toward Scott. "Scott, at first, you’ll stay with me on the range when I give lessons. The arthritis in my joints is getting worse and I need help there. Later on, you’ll be working for the caddie master doing loops for members."
"Will you teach us golf?" Scott asked, "and can we play the course?"

"I plan to give you lessons. You’ll play the course every Monday when I think you’ve learned the game and improved your attitude. This includes keeping up in schoolwork and not getting in the kind of trouble that brought you here. Do you both agree with my plan?" Sandy peered from one to the other waiting for an answer.
Scott said, "yes sir."
Matt hesitated again before he answered with "yeah."
"Okay. Tomorrow is Sunday. Be here at eight sharp." Sandy paused to look up and down at their over sized shorts and sweatshirts. "And, lads, in the morning, I’d like to see those Padres baseball caps turned around so the visors are in front instead of in the back. Also, those shorts and shirts you’re wearing are at least three sizes too large. On your way out, pick up some in the pro shop that fit you and charge them to me. As far as the hair is concerned, you can keep it long, but please wash it."

They were on their way to the driving range to meet Detective Ross when Matt protested, "Jeez, Scott, this sucks. I don’t know if I’m ready to get decked out in tight clothes, turn my hat around and become a frigging fag overnight."
Scott stopped walking and grabbed Matt by the arm. "So, you’d rather get busted, asshole? And by the way, I was onto your act taking so long to agree when asked by Ross and Sandy if you’d go along with the program."
"Yeah, I could feel your fucking elbow."
"What’s your problem, Matt?"
"I’m not sure I want to be told how to dress and get tied down working on a golf course. It takes too much time away from surfing and my rap music."
"Best that you give it a shot. It’s better than jail, and you’ll still have time to take on that weird combo of rapper and surfer."

Detective Ross drove into the Beckman circular driveway and let Scott out in front of the huge colonial style house with a tennis court beside it that covered an area twice as big as Ross’ own back yard.
To support a place like this
, he thought,
Mrs. Beckman has to sell hell of a lot of real estate.

Ross turned around to speak to the boys in back. "Good luck at El Camino. I’ll be checking up on you from time to time. By the way, you might mention something to your mother, Scott, about the tennis program there. It’ll make things at home go a lot smoother for you."

"Yeah, she’s trying to push me into tennis. Hates golf. Gave my dad a hard time about playing it." Scott stood before Ross’ open window a few seconds. "Thanks, Detective Ross." He reached through the car window to shake Ross’ hand and felt the firm grip of Ross’ large one not ready to release his own.

Ross increased the pressure to make sure he had Scott’s attention. "Your mother is still going to give you a hard time about golf. She has a thing about it, so you may have to pick up a tennis racket once in a while at El Camino."

"I understand." Scott looked at Matt in the back seat and spoke to his friend saying, "Later."
Matt scowled back at him.
Ross watched Scott walk up the steps to his front door. His baseball cap was turned around so the visor was in front. Ross glanced in the backseat. Matt’s cap was still on backwards.

S
andy McNair was awake at six in the morning. He prepared his breakfast in the little kitchen of his one bedroom apartment above the El Camino clubhouse. Sandy had lived alone ever since the tragic of loss of his family. On this morning, he looked forward to the challenge of turning the lives of two more kids away from trouble.

His gut feeling was that Scott would make progress at El Camino to shed the anger and resulting defiance brought on by the death of his father. He’d detected a harder, more unwilling attitude in Matt. But the greens keeper, Harry Gladstone, could work on that. This morning he’d turn Matt over to Harry.

During his meeting with the boys he’d observed that Scott was keen to start learning golf. Years of experience in the game suggested to him that Scott had the build and the hands to be a player. He would work with him to lay down some good fundamentals as a start.

Sandy sipped on his breakfast tea and looked around his small apartment. Golf antiques and memorabilia were placed on shelves in a maple cabinet. The items originated from St. Andrews in the 1800s and were handed down to him through generations of McNairs. The McNairs of that era in St. Andrews were golf ball and golf club makers. They’d also excelled at the game of golf.

He opened the glass door of the cabinet and removed a small wooden box. He slid back the cover and stared admiringly at his most prized possession inside. It was an antique golf ball called the feathery. It had a leather cover and was stuffed with goose feathers from the shop of his great grandfather, Hugh McNair. Hugh had used this same feathery ball when he set the course record score of 78 at St. Andrews in 1849. Another glass case held Sandy’s trophies won in golf tournaments during his younger days at St. Andrews. The name on each trophy was "
Alan
McNair" instead of Sandy. His nickname came from once being a sand colored redhead and it stuck with him through the years, even after his hair had turned almost white as snow.