Character Happens!
The 5 Most Important—But Fleeting Virtues
Garry M. Graves
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 by Garry M. Graves
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Manufactured in the United States of America
(Print Version) ISBN: 978-0-9844462-0-9
Acknowledgements
A SPECIAL THANK-YOU TO my family and friends for their love, support and forbearance throughout this long process and who have always encouraged me in everything I do.
A VERY SPECIAL THANK-YOU TO my loving wife, Linda L. Graves whose thoughtfulness, direction and cheer-leading led me through difficult times. I could not have made it without your inspiration.
I would like to acknowledge the many scholars who have taught, writers who have written and leaders who set examples for such a difficult mission relative to the concept of character, ethics and virtue.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Chapter One
Honest and The Johnny Gando Story
Chapter Two
Integrity and The Jeannie Barkowski Story
Chapter Three
Courage and The Harry Hoberman Story
Chapter Four
Compassion and The Mark Hightower Story
Chapter Five
Humility and The Rick Wyatt Story
Afterward
References and Suggested Readings
Foreword
Here, five simple stories of the 5 Most Important Virtues. Has your Honesty ever come into question? What about Integrity, do people recognize this in you? Is your Courage quotient what it should be? Will your Compassion aid or hinder your life? After you’re dead, will others say Humility was your greatest legacy?
Character Happens! — reminds us if not defines for us how fleeting our use of these important virtues. From a golf storyline (a noble game, indeed), the author writes an earnest yet humorous, carefree yet compelling prescription to ‘do better’ with your decision-making. Each of the five chapters will aid your understanding better—for this 21st Century.
The book is made up of five chapters discussing the five virtues. The first chapter deals with ‘Honesty’ and how Johnny Gando, a house painter, solves his problem by confronting the reason for his angst first hand. Johnny’s honesty comes into question regarding a business decision. He struggles with the problem continually while playing golf with his buddies. Finally a golf event correlated his decision-making with his dilemma. A ‘word trigger’ causes him to act. From his acting—Johnny’s wealth increases along with his personal character makeup.
In Chapter Two, Jeannie Barkowski struggles as she confronts her college classmate’s sense of ‘Integrity.’ Jeannie’s character is steadfast while convincing her college friend to make a better choice about schoolwork. Her friend and Mother learn much from Jeannie’s understanding, and teaching.
Harry Hoberman in Chapter Three confronts his ‘Courage’ when his daughter’s the recipient of a smear campaign. A retired dentist, Harry’s usual placid and meek personality recedes when he emphatically confronts the accuser. Harry’s golf buddies are shocked beyond belief at his metamorphosis.
Chapter Four discusses ‘Compassion’ and how it affects Mark Hightower with his pending divorce. His golf buddies suggested a course of action Mark wanted to avoid. His capitulation secured a fairer remedy along with molding for Mark a stronger decision-making strategy.
Capstone Chapter Five discusses Rick Wyatt and his incredible teaching journey with the virtue, ‘Humility.’ Rick’s brother has a problem and needs help. A golf event conflicts with another event. The golf buddies are merciless in their effort to describe the urgency of what they favor. His decision shocks the golf buddies. Chapter Five is dramatically profound and a fitting end to the book.
Character Happens! is a character-themed book. The use of the golf storyline was intended and aptly illustrates many peoples feeling (me included) of a game infused with character. Given how golf’s rules are enforced, it is a hotbed of character revelation. Should you not be familiar with golf, then by all means try it. Better yet, teach your children. You’ll be glad you did.
It is my hope you are refreshed from reading my book. I’ve tried to provide stories that are heartfelt and compelling. The virtues selected are of my own choosing and I defy anyone to choose better.
In support of the book there exists a website:
The site will contain additional information about the writing of the book with updates posted. An author’s biography, book video, reader’s comments, pictures, gear, and free stuff are contained therein. Enjoy.
Additionally, there is a blog:
http://characterhappens.blogspot.com/
Interesting posts and reader comments prevail. Take a look.
Thank You.
--garry m graves
P.S.
The character Spencer Madison, who narrates the story, is very much like me. Exceptions being: I have a much better golf game than Spencer and he is more of an incredulous know-it-all, than me.
The stories are fictional as are the characters.
Names, personalities or incidents are fictional and in no way resemble or refer to a living person.
I’ve used paraphrasing of many authors’ ideas and concepts and have referenced them in a special section. Because of these references and the specific genre where the book is to be found (in a bookstore or library), it’s categorized as a non-fictional, personal development book.
Chapter One
Honesty and The Johnny Gando Story
"Hey Spinney whazzz' hap'nen?"
Johnny Gando in his youth thought he was black. He acted, spoke, and combed his hair thinking he was black. Johnny was not black—he was white. He thought being black was the hip thing, a cool thing—I think music drove most of Johnny’s decisions back then . . . he loved the music. Consequently, his sometimes speech and voice inflection was that of a Detroit street pimp. Actually, he was a tall white guy with a lot of soul. He captured the black 60’s vernacular and used it when wanting to make those around him aware of his presence and his self-proclaimed coolness. It worked great—even in present day. Johnny was quite the entertainer.
A tall, gangly, long striding six-foot-six giant rounds the corner of the clubhouse. I knew it was Johnny without looking up, that voice and salutation was vintage Gando. Johnny was a great guy and a friend—he wasn't a bad golfer, but not so good either. Our entire group looked forward to Monday’s as this was our favorite golf day—this day more than all the others you could count on someone in the group being there. Spending the afternoon with Johnny and the others in the group were good times . . . something I've enjoyed for a number of years and god willing, a few more.
"Not much, what's with you J. G.?" I retorted as I kept stroking putts on the practice green in back of the clubhouse.
I knew Johnny would be the first to show up as he was like me, never late for anything, particularly golf. I glanced at Johnny who strangely enough didn't have a stupid-looking smile or a ridiculous expression on his face, which was usually the norm. Either one of his slacker's, what Johnny called his hired helpers, didn't show up for work or Johnny is slow for future jobs . . . something was on his mind, other than golf.
Johnny was a painter . . . a house painter, an incredibly gifted, talented, professional, and expensive . . . house painter. He was a high-powered commercial and residential painter—a calibered, meticulous, measured individual who was sought out one time to paint some secretive military project. And, he was expensive. Johnny always said, "If you're good, you can be expensive." He knew he was good . . . and wished his painting talents bled into his golf game. It didn't.
Johnny never met a stranger. He was the kind of guy who would not only go out of his way to speak to everyone, but always made them seem like they already knew him but forgot his name. Sometimes people would receive Johnny's gregarious self-introduction with laughter and wholeheartedly embrace the meeting . . . for others it was a horrid shock. Johnny was in no uncertain terms perplexing. His physical size and overt demeanor typically put most people, at minimum, into a state of uncertainty. Most of the time however, it was fear.
Johnny Gando stood a little over six foot six weighing in at a paltry two-twenty-five. He was like a dead branch on a tree . . . like a stick-man caricature. His arms hung to his knees and his size fifteen shoes went on forever compared to a normal human being. "Stick" was Johnny's everyday name tacked-on by his buddies when he was young and goalie in the junior hockey league. It was difficult to imagine stick-man in goal, let alone playing hockey? Basketball was not his thing . . . it was hockey. And naturally, he said he was good at it.
“What time we going off?” I asked. “Who’s coming?” I continued.
“Dun no, I need a sandwich or something, I gotta eat!” said Johnny.
It seemed Johnny was eating most of his spare time—he loved good food. I’m not saying he was a connoisseur but he knew what he liked and always had a comment about his food. He always reminded the group of a special meal and the whereabouts of a newly discovered eatery.
Johnny was one of five miscreants I call my golf buddies. They were as varied in their golf games as their personalities. Johnny had a 50's flattop haircut, pencil mustache and olive brown complexion—and he was a funny guy. But today Johnny seemed somewhere else, deep in thought. It was weird, as J.G. was not normally deep in anything, particularly thought. He was always stringing independent "stand-alone," sentences together that made no sense . . . so the listener had to keep more than one story going at the same time. Today he was quiet. It was obvious something was digging at him besides making solid contact on the first tee.
I putted a few more balls while Johnny searched for something in his golf bag. Finally we went into the clubhouse and headed for the table in the corner, our usual spot. The waitress had already spotted us and was placing two frosted mugs of Bud on the table as we pulled up our chairs. This was our ritual on Monday's—it felt good, comfortable, like a pair of old socks, like a new haircut, like someone paying you off on an old golf bet you forgot about. Johnny’s dilemma added to my Monday’s excitement.
"This old lady put me in a fix!" Johnny said under his breath, in a low monotone voice . . . unusual for him.
Being your typical fifty plus male and hard of hearing already, I said "What?" With my best “you're a dumb ass,” expression for people who talk softly. I shaped my face with a crinkled, scowled and condescending look that most intelligent people picked up on, except Johnny. So I asked again with some louder emphasis . . .
"What did you say?"
Johnny spoke, again softly like he had just got his ass kicked by a bigger guy. "This old lady got me in a fix!"
I heard him right the first time. Now I'm thinking . . . what can be so important to this guy that I've only seen flustered standing over a two-foot putt, not business, not anything personal, nothing but golf. Also because it particularly a woman and specifically an old woman. This was just too good to be true. I chuckled as Johnny stared holes in me.
"You got some old lady pregnant?" I quipped with a smile.
He just sits there sipping his beer, his eyes shooting daggers at my face. He shifted in his seat and lit up another cigarette even though he already had one going in the ashtray. I gulped my beer while puffing on a cigar . . . waiting for his well thought-out comeback. He had a reputation for short and stinging verbal jabs with an acid tongue. I expected an FU, but his delay told me he wanted his comment more damning than normal.
"Spencer you're an idiot!" Johnny matter-of-factly shot back.
That’s it! He caught me off guard with his response. This was the damning comment taking so long to prepare. Further—it was a comment coming from an individual who is known in our group as having the complete makeup of an exemplar idiot himself. I continued to smirk and chuckle with my best abilities. Johnny’s reaction to my comedy presentation wasn’t wholeheartedly received. The situation still appeared serious with Johnny—a time I remember only happening in one other instance—last year when his Mom died.
I wondered what could have happened with an old lady to put Johnny into such a sober state. He sipped his beer and stared at the floor. Finally he said . . .
"It's not funny damn-it! I got a problem with this bitch that won't go away."
However . . . I did think it was kind’a funny. Here was Johnny Gando Super-Freak and he had what he thought was a serious problem. And with an old lady who was now a bitch. How serious could it be I thought? Was it personal? Was it business? I definitely couldn't see Johnny having a personal problem with an old lady, if you know what I mean. It surely had him paralyzed beyond belief. My initial thought was this was funny in itself, him being the kind of guy who is on top of things all of the time. But I held back my snickering and sorted through the kinds of issues might a house painter have with an old bitch lady.
Typically, an expression of feelings with my golf buddies never get beyond the ridiculous in our personal or work lives . . . spoken about for comedic effect only. The serious matters are held specifically for golf and golf related conversation. So, with my purposefully stoic and sincere sad face I prepared myself for the practical joke I felt Johnny was playing. I leaned forward and seriously said—"What's up?"
Knowing full well he was setting me up for a gigantic sting of a measure Johnny was good at bestowing, never mind his relishing in its delivery and final gotcha, I pretended to listen intently. At that moment the waitress reached from behind Johnny to place a bowl of soup in front of him. And as was his manner, he looked sensually at into her eyes. Her arm was near his nose, his bug eyes opened wide. Momentarily I wondered how serious Johnny’s issue could be—given how he now thanks the waitress with an adoring Johnny Gando look, and asks for another Bud.
Johnny surveyed his bowl of soup with delicacies of a Royal & Ancient board member, his expression again, somber. He wasn’t listening to a thing I had to say so I leaned back in my chair and inquired again . . .
“What's it about?"
He shrugged his shoulders and kept on eating as if what I thought didn't matter as he probably shouldn’t have told me in the first place. Nevertheless, it's a momentous occurrence when Johnny is captured in his thoughts and not heckling or harassing people at the tables around us. He took a huge bite from his BLT. A sandwich specially prepared by the cook from a half hour Gando conference three years ago on how to make a BLT. He then made a dramatic sigh, extolling air and some food fragments, leaned back into his chair and said . . .
"The old lady is a bitch now . . . how’s that?" Johnny said.
“You already said she was a bitch—so you’re emphatic now?” I said.
He stared with incredible disdain while crumbling crackers on top of his soup, driving them to the bottom with the tablespoon, He had to have a big spoon for his big mouth. I couldn’t help but be joyful thinking this was the beginning of a great story. Hopefully the only person Johnny tells . . . that way I’ll enjoy ratting on him to the others in our group about his miserable existence caused by the old bitch lady.
As I sit here puffing on my cigar and sipping cold beer—I blew smoke in Johnny's direction waiting for greater elaboration and explanation of his dilemma. The smoke breaks his attention, he says . . .
"It's a money thing!" he murmured. "I picked up my mail and here's a check from this lady, a deposit on a paint job she wants done."
I listened intently for more details . . . knowing full well Johnny's never disappointed about getting money in the mail.
He pushed the soup bowl away and lights up a cigarette, turns his chair sideways so he can unfold his legs, crosses them and looks at me as if he's waiting for me to respond. I don't. After he takes a couple more drags from his cigarette Johnny offers more of the story . . .
"She sends me a thousand bucks to start the job, a deposit you know," he mumbles.
"And the problem is?" I say.
More and more I'm thinking this story might be a ruse. It seems more elaborate than Johnny’s norm. He surly designed it for me to feel like a monumental dummy for taking this in—hook, line and sinker.
"She already paid me a thousand the day I was at her house quoting the job," he blurts out with this voice inflection like I should have already picked-up on what he was saying.
Instantly I knew what he’s talking about, I think. It’s what our group calls a kumquat. It's our silly way of saying you have a real-life, genuine, true-to-form quagmire. So I’m thinking . . . if Johnny's relating this story to his work then it very well may be a factual situation. No wonder the big numb-nut is confused, perplexed, and thoroughly kumquated. The lady has created a dilemma whereby Johnny has to make a decision and it concern’s his honesty. He’s thinking what he should do about this double payment. Does he call it the lady’s attention or keep the money? Was the money received in the mail an overpayment? Was the lady confused about how much she had paid Johnny, in total?
This ethical dilemma couldn't be a better start to the week. Having Johnny in a situation where he’s questioning himself and doesn't know what to do is beautiful. I loved it. I hoped I understood what he was saying . . . as our group sometimes purposefully speaks in minutiae as it's another way of getting on each others nerves. All this time I was thinking Johnny was setting me up for a big sting with this crap. To be sure, I slowly repeated what he had told me . . .
"You're saying a lady sent you some money in the mail today, a deposit for a job, that she had already given you when you were there, at her home?" She’s given you a deposit twice—is that what you're saying there, Slim-Pickens?"
Hoping this Slim-Pickens tag might jar any pseudo seriousness out of Johnny and expose his ruse, causing him to laugh and come clean with the hoax . . . I listened, leaning forward, observing his every facial expression.
"That's it!” he said with an expression similar to when a teacher acknowledges a child’s raised hand. Holy crap—Johnny didn't flinch or snicker. I wondered what that meant as well, him not flinching. He must be serious.
As we both stared outside the massive French doors that backed the clubhouse we saw another member of our group outside. It was Mark Hightower putting on the practice green. At that moment both our thought processes changed. We watched as Mark talked to someone, a guy we didn’t know. The other guy dressed very well, as well as Mark—which was hard to do. He looked like what our group commonly refers to as a metro-sexual. He seemed most interested in what Mark was saying . . . we had no idea what Mark was saying . . . but they were enjoying each others company, and that’s fine. As Johnny and I sipped our beer we sort of snuck a peek at each other—to see what the other was doing. Naturally, as you can imagine, neither of us said a word . . . we’re gawking at Mark and the other guy, occasionally catching a glimpse of each other—trying to find the appropriate words for the occasion.
Finally, I mumble . . . "What’da ya think?"
Johnny sips his beer taking a Bogart-like cig puff, inhaling deeply, crosses his legs, and says nothing. To me, Gando’s body language speaks volumes . . . he's saying, "What the hell we got here . . . and, does this confirm our belief about Mark Hightower. Mark always dresses to the nines, making a point of having his attire in a crisp and current fashion. Our group just thought he had no better way of spending his money. Johnny always noticed Mark, as Johnny tried to keep in current fashion too, buying a golf shirt every chance he got. Johnny had shirts from golf clubs, restaurants, paint companies, you name it. Johnny enjoyed receiving a comment from others who might notice his attire. It made him feel good but didn’t help his golf game.
Similarly, Mark Hightower was always an adorned type of person . . . making a real effort to dress in a current fashion. He usually had new clothes with the latest shoes, and even had several pairs of sunglasses that he alternated daily. He was fit, as you could imagine a person who makes an effort to dress well might be . . . his hair was in place and many of us believed had highlights. We all thought only women did this kind of thing but obviously not. Mark was thirty-four this year, divorced with a good job selling pharmaceuticals to hospitals and physicians. Mark’s game was average and like the rest of us had his moments in the sun when a few irons got close and the putter was hot.
Johnny and I sipped our beer we watched Mark putt and converse with other people around the green. I was hesitant to say anything more relative to Johnny's lady situation. Couldn’t help but wonder why he was telling me about this in the first place. Did he want to know what I would do? Was he asking for my advice or direction regarding the dilemma? Or did he even recognize it as a dilemma? Maybe he was just venting—having already made up his mind. The day’s golf would certainly be interesting if not most revealing.
"Mark seems gayer today, don't you think?" Johnny says with those bulging, big brown eyes under his flattop cut.
Our group decided long ago that we didn't give a hoot one way or the other about anyone in our group’s politics, religious beliefs or sexual preferences. We agreed however that it wouldn’t prevent us from incredible slander, name-calling and harassment to aid our golf competitiveness. Most of the time, we spoke only of golf not much else. Anything regarding work life, personal life, hobbies, problems, likes or dislikes we avoided. Golf conversation prevailed and we tried real hard to keep it that way.
It was getting close to the time we went off and we only saw Mark to make our group. That was O.K., as it was nice every now and then to have only three in a group. With three players we were faster and this would get us home sooner. Without our regular group of players to choose from, it was risky to pick up a fourth who we didn't know. We'd done this before and it didn't work out—in fact every time we picked up a stranger, it was a tedious, frustrating, a longer than normal round. It just seemed to never work out, guess that’s what made our group so special—we tolerated each other well.
"Let's get Mark and get going,” Johnny said, swigging down his beer.
I felt Johnny wasn’t through talking about the lady and knew our conversation would continue as time allowed throughout the round. I thought how I’d deal with his dilemma if someone inadvertently paid me twice for something. I felt I knew the answer for myself and how Johnny would respond as well. Anxious to advise Johnny of my thoughts I still was not completely sure what specifically to say.
"Three's plenty, maybe we can get outta here sooner tonight," as I quickly pushed my chair back.
"I'll pick up a six of beer, you get a cart," I told Johnny.
Mark was his same old self with a permanently pasted smile on his face . . . like he had just finished a sales presentation and was asking for the order. He clothes were crisp and clean in two subtle shades of orange, a color he later called tangerine mist. His golf shoes were spotless almost new with white leather tassels on the strings. The shoes were not new as I recognized the Nike swoosh on the side and had seen him wear them before. How he got them so snowy-white again was beyond me.
"Marcus my man, looking punk," Johnny hollered as we came out the clubhouse door.
Johnny was always embellishing someone's name to an extreme; most of our group was guilty of that. Mark had heard Johnny call him Marcus a hundred times in the past and he always perked up when he heard Johnny call his name. Probably because Johnny always had something nice to say about Mark's appearance and he dug it. That was probably it; Mark got few if any comments from the rest of the group about what he was wearing. Johnny was fast with the notice and the compliment to anyone, particularly strangers. Mark bubbled when Johnny was in the group.
"You’re off the back next, Mr. Madison," said Gil the afternoon club ranger. Gil was retired military with a pound of shrapnel in his ass. I always loved it when he called me Mr. Madison . . . most people like it when their addressed formally. It's like you in a tux or something and was just asked to speak before the group and accept this huge trophy for being the most beloved person and crack shot golfer in the community. If only it were so.
We pulled up to the tenth tee, Johnny and me in one cart, and Mark in the other. I thought Johnny's lady story would be a test of character, sort of a measuring device of his decision making. Would he decide to keep the money and not say anymore about it or would he let the old lady know she paid him additional money. Had this happened to Johnny before—what did he do then? Why did he feel he needed another person’s opinion? Maybe it was just the time in his life where Johnny felt he needed confirmation of the decision he had already made. Perhaps another opinion would not be the most popular decision. Popular meaning, what would the majority of people do? Would they keep quiet about the money or confront the lady. I hoped in our future conversation’s I was able to convey my thoughts clearly, so Johnny would understand. Rationale can be a tricky thing.
Mark had his cart ready to go and was on the tee. Johnny and I fiddled around with the beer and towels and readjusted the bags on the cart just right. Johnny liked to drive the cart which was fine with me. If he's not driving he's fidgeting around and talking up a storm with some silly story about his work, someone he had met, someplace he's about to go or a golf course he just played. It was hell. We walked up on the elevated tee box—the tenth was a beautiful par 4, strait-away with the tee ball usually falling over a hill leaving you about 125 yards to the green. Mark had his ball teed and was warming up with slow measured swings as Johnny and I stretched our old already worn-out bodies.
"Any game?" queried Mark.
"Dollar skins," Johnny quickly shot back.
Game was on—I’m sure each of us thought if we were on our game we had a chance to come out of these nine holes with three maybe five bucks. As Mark striped one down the middle about 240 yards over the hill both Johnny and I looked at each other and said, "It won't last."
"It'll be different today boys," Mark retorted.
We had seen him do this before. Mark starts out playing decent for the first few holes then seems to pick up a piano, like he’s run a marathon or something. It seems as if he uses up his golf energy about four or five holes in, loses focus and collapses. Sometimes he finishes better but it’s rare.
"Go Spencer," Johnny said in a low monotone voice.
I could tell he was still in deep thought.
"You go, killer!" I quipped with a wry encouraging smile.
Johnny gave me his go to hell look and stuck his tee in the ground. After three full practice swings and a couple of full waggles . . . he’s now almost ready, I think. He swings and block’s one pretty full down the right side, near a small pond that comes into play if you’re near it. Johnny’s so tall and gangly like string puppet—it’s hard to keep all that body behind the ball at impact. It looked like it flew the water but Johnny wasn’t convinced, he re-teed another ball in a flash. He does this when he get’s pissed. With much the same result Johnny watches as the ball takes virtually the same path as his first ball.
"I'll play that one," Johnny said.
"Great, said Mark, cause I think the first one is good—so now you’re laying three.” Mark knew that if his first ball was on ground and not in the pond then Johnny would have to play that ball, laying three. Golf has rules that tend to encumber the game for players who are nervous, like Johnny. It was hard to tell if either ball was good or if both caught the water. That stupid little pond hidden over a hill catches hundreds of balls from unsuspecting golfers.
"Up yours white shoes," Johnny fired back.
I took a couple of practice swings—trying to focus on keeping the club head low and slow coming back from the ball. It didn't work as I pull-hooked it into the tree line down the left. The ball may have gone through the trees as I heard a leafy, swooshy sound and not a thud from a tree limb.
We loaded in the cart and started to pull away. Mark was half way down the fairway and out of our listening distance when Johnny turned to me and said . . .
"What'da ya think?"
I said, "It looks like you flew the water both times.”
"No, not that, I mean about the lady and the money."
I knew by his facial expression and unusually quiet demeanor he was struggling with his decision about the lady and the overpayment. I tried to remember a time when he acted like this with such confusion about what to do next. I think he was fishing for my answer—he wanted me to offer what I would do in his situation. I wasn't about to let him off that easy, it was his decision and I wanted to know what he was going to do. I crossed my legs and leaned back in the golf cart seat, took a big gulp of beer, a bigger gulp of my cigar and wryly smiled.
"You'll think of something."
We pulled away from the tee box and proceeded toward his two golf balls . . . at least where we thought they should be.
I remembered reading some time back where this author described a poem whereby a person needed to decide for all of us. He was referring to decisions we have to make in life that affect other people—which are most of the time. The poem spoke to obedience to the unenforceable, whereby a person’s duty to the unenforceable decision is not his own, but the decision should be made for all people. I felt I knew what Johnny would do but why was he telling me about all this. If I was so sure about the decision he would make—then why now is he asking me what I think . . . like what I would do if the decision were mine.
“There it is," Johnny said, as he spy’s a ball about fifteen feet left of the tip of the pond. Thirty feet beyond is another, second ball.
"Both these yours?” I inquire.
Johnny look’s down at the first ball we come to—to see which ball it was—his first or second tee ball. This would be a good test of Johnny’s character I thought, and maybe relate to his situation with the lady. Which ball would he play? Would he identify the ball he hit second—the one Mark told Johnny he’d be playing his third stroke. The first ball had a large evergreen tree in its path-line to the green that would take a quick high shot to get over. The other ball, the one that was about thirty feet beyond the first had a clear pathway to the green, with no obstructions. Which ball would Johnny pick? Johnny didn’t announce on the tee the identity of his second ball, which is the rule about playing a provisional ball—he just hit it, because he was mad and probably thinking about the lady. Picking the ball that was minus the evergreen obviously would be the better shot—I really couldn’t refute his choice because I didn’t know which was which.
"Okay num-nuts what’s it gon’na be?"
Johnny stared down at the ball—the furthest hit ball, the one with the clear pathway. He looked up at the green, envisioning the easy shot he’d have with this ball.
“This is my first ball, damn it!” Johnny griped, as he picked up the ball and walked to the second ball, the one with the evergreen obstruction.
I sat there swigging my beer and re-lighting my cigar. I thought Johnny showed me something with his choice of the two balls. He confirmed his honesty and secondly he had a terrible shot to the green—both made me feel good. I gave him a big thumb up—smiling like a fox.
Our group was not real sticklers about the rules, only if a player really pushed the limits would anybody say anything about a rule infraction. In this instance, because I didn’t know which ball he hit second, I couldn’t say if Johnny was choosing the right ball. Guess there wasn’t any question in his mind though. Johnny hit a seven iron and his ball struck the top of the tree causing it to come up short of the green. He was now laying four.
My ball had dropped straight down, in the tree line. I hit a low-hooking five iron to the front of the green, just short of the fringe. This area is set below the pin and is always a good area to chip it close. Mark's second shot hit the green low and rolled to the first-cut in back of the green.
We were all up at the green and Mark was about to play when Johnny yelled out to the beer cart coming around the wood's that backed the green. Mark stopped his plum-bobbing routine and walked toward the beer cart. I was dumbfounded as Johnny normally would never do that, he would complain loud as hell if someone else did that too. He would scold any offending player for not continuing play and finishing the hole first—before shuttling over to the beer cart. He was the offender this time.
We got to the cart and Mark asked the girl if she could make a good double gin with Mike's Hard Lemonade. The day was full of surprises, not that he was ordering a double gin, but that he didn't require a highly branded gin, after all Mark recognizes labels. Johnny got double Jack-Black with some ice. We already had a supply of beer and here Johnny was getting some hard liquor . . . guess he thought a stiffer drink would clear his vision. Johnny always had a several lines he used in times like this—with the cart girl. "You in school? College? Where you going? Wha’da ya studying?" Not today, he was quiet and contemplative. It felt good somehow.
Mark was about to putt from the fringe, downhill.
"That's quick," I yelled to Mark, he nodded.
Mark softly tapped the ball . . . it rolled past the hole about six feet.
"You couldn't have done much better, said Johnny. “I coulda, but not you," he heckled Mark mercilessly.
Johnny was almost good as me at heckling other players, but I had made a real name for myself at the club and in our group. Spencer Madison was known throughout—as the best heckler of all; guess it was something to be proud of. Mark hurried to finish his putt, which was a mistake, as you should not hurry to finish a six-footer. He left it short and took a five on what began as a nice drive on an easy hole. Above the pin on this hole is a killer and there were several just like this on this nine.
I hit a nice runner that ended up with a tap-in. "How’s that?" I asked. Mark jeered, Johnny was quiet.
Johnny would never learn . . . he was always using a too-lofted club on an uphill lie. He flopped high leaving the ball short about eight feet under the pin. He knelt down behind his ball and slowly placed a dime behind it, picked it up, spit on it and rubbed it on his pant leg. He placed the ball down, picked up his dime and stood behind the ball staring at an eight-footer—an uphill breaker right to left.
"Scared!" I quipped, knowing full well he’s steaming.
Johnny flipped me the third finger. Mark laughed. Johnny stood over the putt longer than normal and then stroked it pretty hard. The line was good, just missing, rolling by a foot and half. When Johnny missed the bogey putt . . . the snow-man rule came into play. In our group a snow-man or what’s known as having an eight on a hole, always pays the other players a dollar. We made him continue to putt instead of picking up and conceding the hole.
Now he's got a lil-testicle, as we call them. This testicle description came from when I used to play with some genuine Scotsman; one generation removed who lived in Kansas City, where I came from twenty years ago. The Scotsman, there were four of them, allowed me into there group because I was a good golfer and tolerant of there antics. Also I was one of few who enjoyed there game and company, as not many at the club shared my affection for the Scotsman. Nevertheless they played a fast, decent game and it was entertaining most of the time. Anyway, I heard the testicle comment one time in this same situation—a short, difficult, usually downhill putt that had a hint of break in it. I come to find out later what they really meant by saying the putt was a testicle was that it was a tester. They obviously either embellished the tester word or they wanted to put a Scotsman’s label on it for humorous effect, resulting in testicle label. Naturally, I stole the saying for my own and use it to this day.
"Spencer, is that a testicle?" Mark hollered, knowing Johnny was listening.
I nodded up and down. Johnny stared at both of us with no comment, marked his ball again, rolled it in his hands, placed it down with the balls alignment line for the intended path to the hole. He tapped it softly lipping the edge and finishing beyond the hole about four inches.
Sometimes scoring in golf can be accomplished without swinging a club. If the heckle bothers you then you need to find another game. It’s similar to life which is a constant heckle. I wondered whether Mark's heckle or Johnny's lady caused him to miss that putt. I didn’t care much—he missed the putt and I had a four and he had an eight. All I knew was the hole garnered me a skin and a dollar snowman—beautiful.
"That's good," Mark chuckled to Johnny, giving him the four-incher for an eight. We headed for the next tee. I was driving the cart and Johnny was nipping his bourbon, swigging beer and staring at his ball.
I remembered someone describing honesty as having categories. There was right versus wrong and right versus right. The right versus right category was better defined as moral dilemmas. An example was; it is right to speak up in favor of a minority viewpoint and right to let the majority rule. Consequently, you have a dilemma whereby both decisions have merit and a situation pitting right versus right.
The right versus wrong category was defined as having one of three possible components. The first was your typical violations of the law, like stealing. What came next was departure from the truth, like calling in sick when you're really not. Last is deviation from good moral code, an example might be when a doctor recommends a more expensive procedure over a procedure that's just as good but less expensive. I thought this last honesty category was where Johnny's problem rested. His dilemma fell into the right versus wrong category and knowing Johnny as I do believed he was experiencing a hic-up in his already established moral code.
From my observations of life, people change in many ways as they age. Individuals mature or grow in a social and or economic status causing their moral make-up to change as well. Johnny's moral core beliefs were good and decent I believed. He was a person who never sought an advantage from another person’s ineptness or ignorance. It was my belief the lady forgot she paid her deposit in person, at her home, when she mailed a second deposit to Johnny.
However, I couldn’t help but wonder what made this situation different than other instances in Johnny’s mind to cause him not to recognize the mistake. Was he thinking that could make this situation okay in his life? Did he know and want to pocket the extra deposit?
We were waiting on the eleventh tee when one of our other golf buddies arrived. Pulling up to the tee box was Harry Hoberman. The starter told him that Johnny, Mark and I were not to far out in our game. Harry was the senior player in our golf group. He was sixty-nine years old, a retired dentist who handed over his business to his son not long ago. Harry decided he’d had enough of looking down patients’ mouths and so he turned his lucrative dentistry business over to his ungrateful son. It was good to see him join us and make a foursome—now we could pair up with a team bet and maybe I could make a little extra cash today. Good ole Harry.
“Hey Harry, you found us!” I said laughing.
“Gil pretty much knows where this group is all the time—they keep track of you.” he said.
“You’d think they’d keep that drink cart a little closer if they knew where we were,” Johnny quipped.
I thought the last thing the club wants is to keep the beer cart closer to our group—because the more we drank the more we slowed down and that was not a good thing.
Harry immediately grabbed his favorite club, a five wood, and began some practice swings, clipping the grass perfectly—he was good golfer and could be counted on in a pinch. Harry was calm and consistent . . . an attribute so incredibly valued in a close match.
“Me and Harry,” Mark said, as he searched for a nice level grassy spot to embed his tee.
“Spinny and me will play you hacks even-up, no strokes,” Johnny’s beer-speak confidently assured the group.
Johnny forgot about the last time he opposed Harry—it wasn’t pretty. He lost the nine bet along with three presses, totaling twelve bucks. Johnny usually lost more than his share of bets but he always had plenty of cash and was incredibly generous. I wondered about Johnny’s cash position and whether it had anything to do with his decision about the lady. Money can change decisions.
The eleventh hole was a beautiful uphill 168-yard par three with sand on each side and a monstrous sloping green. The green tilted from back to front maybe thirty degrees. It was the steepest incline green on the eighteen and hitting your ball above the pin, we always said, was like going to jail. It usually resulted in bogey or worse.
Mark either didn’t hit enough club or mis-hit his iron because the ball came up ten yards short of the green, in front of the trap.
I was standing there with Harry about to ask him something when Johnny came up and interrupted.
“What’s up Harry?” Johnny said.
“Life is sweet, that’s what’s up Mr. Gando,” Harry responded.
“Uh-huh, got it all figured out do you?” Johnny said.
Johnny was terse—obviously thinking about his lady problem . . . you could see it in his face, more serious than ever. He must be going over and over in his complex but shallow mind the fix the lady had him in. Johnny talked a hundred mile’s an hour and was never at loss for words or meaningless conversation. His silence now was pleasing for the most part—how long it would last we wondered—not long enough.
Harry was a trim 155 pounds, flexible as a gumby and could smack the ball about 225 on his best days—always in the fairway. Harry had timing and when his club-head met the ball every bit of his 155 pounds was behind the ball. Having Harry in the group was a treat . . . he was always ready to play. You never had to wait on Harry—sometimes he would hit while the other players’ ball was in the air—he was that ready. Harry was quick-minded, quiet and competitive. He added to our group and enjoyment of the game immensely. If there was a heavy-betting match, one with a lot of presses and Harry was your partner you could count on him bearing down and keeping his cool with meticulous shot making. He always sank an important five-footer to give you a win or a lead. Harry and I paired well together; like meat and potatoes and each of us respected the others game . . . we ham-n-egged it pretty good. Today, he’s my competitor. I didn’t like it one damn bit.
“How are you doing Spencer?” Harry asked.
Harry also had a beautiful deep voice—I often told him he could’ve made millions with that voice.
“Okay I guess, better than some,” I said, “One hole with a skin and a snowman,” I proclaimed.
“Good, good—glad to hear it, what’s up with Mr. Gando,” Harry said.
“That book’s an easy read,” I said, referring to Johnny’s lack of transparency and obvious irritation about the lady. “Problems, big problems,” I continued, “Talk to him Harry, maybe he’ll tell you the story.”
“Must be serious, he’s not ever this quiet,” Harry murmured.
Harry was up on the tee; he sweet-swinged it to the front part of the green about fifteen feet below the hole. Damn I thought, Mark jumped on Harry’s back before I could claim him as my partner—I should‘a paid more attention. This could be a long afternoon with Johnny’s focus on something other than golf—not that he was amazingly better when he did focus.
It was now my tee box honor while Johnny was in the cart nursing his beer. Mark was head-nodding me to go ahead and hit so I stepped back from the markers about five feet thinking a lazy five-iron was the club. I’d played this hole a hundred times and knew its handicap designation underestimated its difficulty. I envisioned a high slow draw hitting ten feet under and to the right of the pin, running up to within a couple feet straight below the hole—birdie for sure. Bull-Crap! I hit low on the clubface producing an awful blade-sound, causing a hooking line drive that quickly entered the sand fronting the left corner of the green. Damn! It’s tough to make par out of that trap—so much for a lazy five iron.
“Way to go partner, like I needed the pressure,” Johnny quipped.
“Make me proud stick-boy,” I retorted.
Hoping Johnny would give the moment his entire attention, which was never much at best, he appeared to be concentrating. Where his concentration was one could only guess. He took more time than usual, which invites crude comments from our group. He studied whatever it is that gives him confidence and swing memory to make a nice movement through the ball. He looked damn serious about this shot. Hopefully he’d give us a chance on this hole with Harry in a possible birdie position, Johnny and I needed a break.
“Is that wind I feel,” snickers Mark in Johnny’s direction.
“Shut-up,” Johnny said as he squares himself over the ball. He’s got a long iron, which I knew he’d have to make perfect contact in order to get the ball that distance. This hole is uphill all the way . . . the incline added another ten yards at least. Johnny was going through his pre-shot routine our group had already memorized—a couple long take-backs, looking at his target two times and at the last minute prior to pulling the trigger, re-adjusting his feet. His swing this time was quick, lunging at the ball trying to give it some extra distance. This usually mean’s he realized in the middle of his swing, he didn’t have enough club. He topped it, creating a baseball grounder to the shortstop—directly to the minuscule pond fronting the tee box. Johnny was the only one who ever hit it in that pond.
It was stone dead quiet. All of us were amazed . . . not at the shot we had just witnessed, a first-rate topper into the pond . . . but the lack of horrid curse words forthcoming after a ball like this. He stood there a moment looking at the pond. It’s still quiet, no one peeped. Finally, Johnny walked to the front of the tee, dropped another ball and quickly stroked a second shot . . . a ten-foot high line drive straight as a string at the pin. It hit the hill short not making the green, but he was in front, directly under the pin twenty yards from the flag. Again, all was quiet.
As Johnny got into the cart beside me I was thinking what could be said about his problem remembering the theory of right and wrong. He had good moral code I was convinced. Johnny was always the kidder so if I approached the subject again with a comical bent maybe he would not be so offended, I thought.
“Do you believe what you have done is wrong,” I said in my best monotone.
“You’re shot was not so hot either big boy!” he barked.
“I’m not talking about your golf shot, I’m talking about the lady—will you respect yourself in the morning?” I explained, smiling.
Hoping Johnny would pick up on the questions sexual innuendo and think it witty and funny I waited for his response. Maybe his lady dilemma and our present golf predicament would be thought of in a more humorous frame of mind. He grimaced at me saying nothing. Maybe he was contemplating what to say next—which would be a good thing, him thinking before speaking.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s the lady’s fault by double paying, she disrespected me!” he proclaimed. “It’s her mistake and that’s that. She’s the one causing all the confusion—I’ll wake up in the morning a thousand dollars to the good before I eat my eggs,” he proclaimed with a snicker.
Oh my I thought. This lady problem was going to be more difficult to talk about if Johnny seriously felt this way. He sounds serious. His last statement makes me think he’s given this thing some thought. However, two words Johnny used stood out in his statement—they were disrespected and confusion.
I loved Johnny but realizing he’s no genius—and particularly second-rate in producing a cogent sentence . . . the words seemed an obvious indicator of his feelings regarding the dilemma. It wasn’t the lady disrespecting Johnny . . . it was Johnny feeling less respectful of himself. And the lady’s dilemma was confusing him about what he needed to do about the second payment. Maybe he thought she made a mistake.
If Johnny had resolved himself to keep the extra thousand then why is he so captured in his thoughts? Why is he so preoccupied with things other than golf? His demeanor is normally joyful, gregarious and full of spirit. He hassles other players, loudly proclaiming his golf abilities to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen. This was not his behavior today. I knew he’d not dismissed the problem as simply her loss and his gain. If this were the case his behavior would be like the normal Johnny . . . it wasn’t and his previous statement was unconvincing.
I held my conversation as we approached the front of the green where you’re supposed to park your cart. As usual we traveled on up some so as to not walk the hill. Johnny hit first pitching a low runner about two and half feet below the cup. It was a nice recovery and for a moment I thought maybe he was content with his decision and had decided keep the extra thousand closing the matter.
“Too little too late big boy,” I said.
Johnny finished the putt giving him a double-bogey five. I was in the sand; it wasn’t a real difficult shot but certainly one I’d not performed well prior. I splashed it out high with some nice spin; fortunately ending under the hole a little right of the pin. It was an uphill right-to-left bender about three feet—not my favorite.
Mark putted from in front of the green, rolling it up nicely for a tap in three. I knew right then Johnny and I we’re beat if I missed my putt. Harry was farthest away and putting for a bird. His rock-hard nerves produced exceptional putting given his age, no yips, no hesitation; he was stalwart over a putt. Harry’s ball came off the putter head fast and smooth as silk but ran past the right edge about two inches, he tapped in for three.
“We’re big today Mark,” said Harry.
“Not so fast there numb-nuts, my partner will push this hole, right Jack?” Johnny quipped.
He always called someone Jack as in Jack Nicklaus, when he wanted that person to step up and make an important shot or putt.
It wasn’t easy—the putt broke a terrible amount but was up hill so I could charge the hole taking some break out of it. I stroked it firm, too firm. The ball streaked past the top edge rolling past twelve inches. We lost the hole, so I picked up and walked to the cart. Johnny and I watched as Mark and Harry laughed and high fived. It was sickening.
As Johnny and I sat in the cart near the third tee—drinking and smoking, belching and contemplating our one-down bet situation, we watched our competition search for a pristine place to tee their ball.
“What are you looking at me for? She’s the one who’s caused the problem!” Johnny snapped.
Welllllll, I thought, the monster stirs once again. Guess the problem is yet to be resolved. Apparently, Johnny is still brooding over the lady problem and hasn’t made up his mind yet. I may have been looking at him but I wasn’t thinking about the lady, I was thinking about the missed putt on the last hole. Nevertheless, he’s talking about the lady and obviously wanting to continue the conversation. What could I say next?
“I wasn’t looking at you, dummy! And how in the hell did she cause the problem?” I asked.
I’m getting tough now and I wanted him to know it. Johnny turned away and said nothing. He grabbed his driver and began searching the dozen or so zippered pockets in his bag for a new package of cigarettes, I’m sure. What his next comment would be god only knows—given my question about how the lady was at fault. What could he possibly say? How could he rationalize she created the problem. Only Johnny would do this, it’s as if someone has disturbed his normal life course and now he’s retaliating for the interruption. He said nothing—glanced at me and quickly took a few long-strides to the tee box.
Mark had already hit a soft sounding cut down the left side. Harry was waving at some guys in back of us and fiddling in his front pocket, probably searching for his lucky green tee.
“You’re up Hammer,” Johnny yelled at Harry.
“You guy’s wan’na press, I’ll give you one last chance!” Harry chided.
Typically if there is any press-speak it’s prior to the first person teeing off, which was Mark. This was Harry’s style of pressuring opposing players by broadcasting after the first hitter—to see if they’d offer another extra bet, just to get in there face creating havoc. It worked, Johnny immediately jumped on the press.