Struck!

THE CADDY

 

Hallelujah, It's Thursday at Hillsview Country Club. Once a week the men's golf committee has ordained that ladies may go off the tee from 8 to 10 a.m. The unhappy men will have to follow us if they like it or not–and they damn well don't like it. We second class members must wait on all other days until the last group of men golfers are in play. That is never before 2 p.m. The women utilize the lunch room, gab and make the best of a lousy, unfair situation. The first few ladies make life miserable for the last few men waiting their turn. We do nag them, tell them to move, stay out of our way and they ridicule us, don't care that we have to play in the heat of the day, get home and have their dinners ready. We women hate them except when we love them.

 

On our early Thursdays we are blessed with the few caddies who need a few bucks, can no longer carry the men's ten ton bags. Somehow they will each carry two of ours as we walk to our shots. Ralph and Jack are assigned to us. Sonia, Lottie, Ruth and I are second on the tee this lovely summer day that is not yet hot. First off are four of the oldest, once excellent golfers, who, after only 3 of the four have teed off, already can't find a ball. Criminy, I saw the ball go left, out of bounds and they are searching around the bunker on the right. This is not a good omen.

 

As we wait and try to cool our heels, Sonia looks especially uneasy. We blame it on the old folks ahead of us. Finally we can go, but not for long. Lottie and Ruth hit good shots right in the middle of the fairway.
Mine is longer but I'll have to get over the trap to try to be on in 3. Sonia addresses her ball, and stops. She tries it again and muffs it. We give her a mulligan. Her next shot is better and we are on our way. Sonia is not in condition to hit her second shot. I ask if she wants to go back, if she feels sick. She shakes her head and tells us all that she is nervous because she quit smoking. Taking a moment, we applaud. 'Super!', 'Terrific, when did you start?' Dead seriously she tells us, 'Just now on the first tee.' We can't help but laugh, grimace when she hits her shot and lights up another cig.

 

Play would be slow, aggravating, but then a slight misfortune happens to the old folks ahead of us. One cart died. All four of them manage to squeeze into the one still working and head back to the clubhouse. We are free, nobody is in front of us. This, we hope, will be a very special round. The soft drink cart is waiting for us at the top of hole #7, Dead Man's Hill. More than one club member has had a heart attack on this hill, two, that I recall, died. I look at our caddies, young, virile and sweating and buy them each a cold drink. At the end of the ninth, just about everyone stops for a snack. We do, too and get sandwiches, drinks out of the machine, treat our caddies and head right out.

 

One would have to be part blind not to notice the sky turning a bit gray on the horizon. Lottie is the first one to mention the breeze getting stronger, the sky roiling. 'Stop worrying and talking so much. We can be through before the first rain drop falls,' Ruth the weather maven says. Just as she finishes her weather report, far, far away, we see a bolt of lightning, then hear the cymbals crash. I vote to skip the last three holes and go in. Sonia agrees so we are two against two. With only the short 16th and dogleg right on 17, maybe we can finish the 18 that will put us right at the club house. But the lightning flashes again. The golf alarm sounds to get off the course. Who are we to disobey? We run faster than Ralph and Jack, know danger is out there. The rain hits us like a tidal wave. Our caddie's can't run. Rain is filling our golf bags so they must be heavier than ever. 'Put mine down, Jack. I don't care if it gets stolen. Let's get inside.'

 

The siren continues to wail. The lightning promises trouble. We all see it strike a tree on the other side of the long metal fence. 'Oh, god,' I think. I'm going to die here.' But I don't. My group is the first ladies group in and I pity, worry about the many still out there. The pro shop has sent several caddies and carts out to bring fools in. In the locker room and surely all over the clubhouse, the lights flicker, go off for a few minutes. As soon as we can, we put on dry clothes and go into the Grille room to be with other disappointed wet rats. Hot coffee and chocolate drinks are available. All of the tables along the window are vacant. All heads turn, eyes look toward the front gate when we hear sirens, lots of sirens, see flashing red lights.

 

Not a soul goes outside to find out what is wrong, maybe help. When at last calm returns and we get our cars we have to go thru the gate.
An ambulance is still there. I see what I think is Ruth's golf bag lying on the wet macadam. I look at it again and decide hers is not the only red bag with black club covers and drive home.

 

My husband didn't even hear the storm, slept right thru it he tells me.
I am worn out. There was too much running, too much lightning, rain. I kiss my guy on the neck and go to bed.

 

In the morning, I get the newspaper from our front porch, sit down at the kitchen table, and am immediately shocked.The headlines shriek to me. Pictures don't lie. 'Caddie struck by lightning dies. Ralph Burger, carrying two golf bags as he was coming in from the course at Hillsview Country Club, reached out to push open the large metal gate, when a bolt of lightning hit him. Hillsview Country Club will be having services for him Tuesday afternoon at 3 p.m.'

 

My three friends and I attend the service.