Bad Boys

 

The foursome in front of us was grinding over every shot—checking yardage, changing clubs, tossing grass into the air, taking practice swings. And that was on the fairways. On the greens it was even worse. Brick, my partner, had seen enough.

“Geez, Sharon, we’ll never finish our round before dark. This is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, you’re right. What should we do?” I checked my watch. We had about an hour of daylight left.

“The hole in front of them has to be wide open. Let’s pick up and go around them, tee off at number seven.”

“Good idea.” I went to retrieve my ball.

We jumped into the golf cart, Brick behind the wheel, and raced for the cart path. As we sped by the foursome, still agonizing over their approach shots to the sixth green, they looked up in shock.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” one of them yelled. “Assholes!” he added.

Brick took his foot off the accelerator and our cart nearly came to a stop. I knew him. He didn’t take shit from anybody.

“Let it go, Brick. They are the assholes. Let’s just finish our round.”

Brick hesitated, then hit the accelerator and we moved on to the next tee.

 Twilight golf on Monday nights was an institution with my group of friends at work. On most Mondays, we’d have as many as six players. The local municipal course would set a time for the start of twilight green fees, adjusting an hour or so for the time of year, and we were always the first on the list for tee times. We’d tee off at say, 5:00 pm, and play until dark. In the summer months, it was possible to get in eleven or twelve holes, though we usually stopped at nine. We’d step off the ninth green and head for the snack bar where they had a special deal we loved: a pitcher of Miller Genuine Draft and a large basket of fries for ten bucks. The beer tasted great after golf and the fries—thick, steak-cut, golden brown—were always delicious. The joke was we were there more for the beer and fries than for the golf. There were times when we’d refill that pitcher more than once, hanging out on the patio next to the snack bar, telling stories that seemed to get funnier with each glass of MGD. But on this particular evening, it was just Brick and me. The rest of the guys (I was the only girl) couldn’t make it.

When I heard it was going to be me and Brick, I was all in. He was a fun guy to hang out with, always with a new joke to share, or an adventure riding his Honda Goldwing, or a story about his “career” as a competitive rugger. Rugby was his true passion. In his mid-fifties now, he had played and refereed all around the world. His rugby stories were the best. I’d learned the rugby crowd was without doubt the rowdiest bunch of people on the planet; that is if just half the stories Brick told were true. And he was the anti-hero of most of his tales, the quintessential bad boy.

What can I say? I like hanging out with bad boys.

I would explain if I could, but it’s just who I am. I’m drawn to guys who are pretty and fun and a little dangerous, and I always think I can fix what’s broken. And believe me, there is always something broken. So far, I’ve never been able to fix it, which has caused me a lot of grief, and no doubt explains why I’m in my mid-thirties and still looking for Mr. Right. As for Brick, he’s just a friend, a buddy, somebody to have fun with. But oh my, if he were twenty years younger, it would be full speed ahead, Katie bar the door, pick your cliche.

So, we pulled our cart up to the seventh tee and sure enough, the fairway was open, no sign of the group ahead. We hit our tee shots—Brick’s about 240 yards, in the short rough; mine just under 200, but dead center in the fairway. On most days, I could hang with the fellas. I didn’t hit it as long, but long enough, and I consistently hit the short grass. We were heading for the cart when the foursome we’d passed came racing up behind us, shouting at us for jumping ahead. It was like we’d insulted their mothers.

Brick slammed his driver into his bag. He’d had all he was going to take. He stood about five eight, weighed maybe one-eighty, solid as a rock, and if you know anything about rugby, you know he was tough as nails. He walked toward the foursome while they continued to hurl insults our way.

“Who yelled ‘assholes’?” he asked, his voice calm and even.

No one in the group answered. They were stunned. Who was this guy?

“You heard me …” Brick said. “Who yelled ‘assholes’ back on number six?”

A guy stepped out of the second cart and came forward. My jaw dropped just looking at him. He had to be six four and weigh about two-fifty if he was an ounce. He walked slowly up to Brick and looked down at him.

“I did,” he said. “What about it?”

“Apologize,” Brick said, in that same calm voice.

“What did you say?”

“I said apologize. Now.”

The big guy grinned, took a step toward Brick and pushed him—hard—with both hands. Brick stumbled back a couple of steps but regained his balance. He stepped forward, set his feet, and I could see it coming, like a steam locomotive out of a dark tunnel. He threw a straight right that came from the ground up and landed square on the big man’s jaw with a sickening Crack! The guy stumbled back a couple of steps, sat down on the cart path, then slowly toppled over, flat on his back. His three buddies rushed to his aid, kneeling beside him, asking if he was okay.

Brick turned and walked back to our cart where I had pulled out my 1-iron, ready to bust some heads if necessary. He smiled. “Our work here is done, Tonto.”

My hands were shaking and I was speechless for a minute. And I’ll admit I felt a tingling in my lady parts. I found my voice. “Nice punch, Kemo Sabe!” I croaked. “I think you broke his jaw.”

Brick just chuckled. It was over as far as he was concerned.

 We finished the ninth hole and headed for the snack bar. I really needed a cold beer, maybe something stronger. Bernice, our favorite waitress (we called her Bernie), delivered the pitcher and fries and we dug in, adding lots of salt, dumping katsup on our plates. As we sat there, laughing over something that happened at work, Jerod, the guy who managed the course for the city, came out of the pro shop and approached our table. He’d heard one side of the story and he was not happy.

“You want to tell me what happened out there? They practically had to carry their man to his car. They may have to take him to the hospital. What the hell did you do?”

Brick told him the story, step by step, exactly as it happened. I backed him up.

Jerod’s face was red, his eyes blazing. “They were talking about calling the cops, for God’s sake! I should probably call them myself.”

“Hey, go ahead and call the damn cops,” Brick said. “He pushed me. Almost knocked me on my ass. As soon as he put ‘hands on,’ it was ‘game on.’ Them’s the rules, pal.”

Jerod was quiet then, staring at Brick, mulling the events over in his mind. After a very long minute, he glanced away and shook his head. “Okay, look …” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t want this kind of crap around here, and the last thing I need is a lawsuit. You need to find another course to play. Got it?”

Neither of us said a word. Jerod turned and walked away.

Every week, as we finished our fries and beer, Brick would go into the pro shop and sign up for the coming Monday. That’s how we always managed to be first on the list for twilight tee times. He looked at me and grinned.

“Why don’t you go in and sign up for next week. Jerod doesn’t want to see me right now.”

“My pleasure,” I said. I got up from the table and headed into the shop, wondering what kind of reaction I’d get with this in-your-face move. The tingling sensation was back.

What can I say? I like hanging out with bad boys.

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Authors note: This one is for my friend Sam Reagle. I should have given him a byline. 

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