Armed Golf

I have often thought while playing a round of golf about all the horror and hell that has been plotted, dealt, and then easily forgotten on the course. Rank businessmen and corrupt politicians carving up parts of the world, dealing in oil and rare minerals, then slicing one more drive and another fat chunker-- all the while bombs being dropped on some country most of us couldn’t identify if we were air dropped there ourselves. Presidents authorizing air raids and then atrociously ripping drives down into some swath of trees. This game has truly been the thoroughfare of blood and war. For me, it was just a nice way to compete with my older brother.

We’re too old now for physical confrontation, but brotherly competition festers in my mind. Generally speaking, I want him to do well: to thrive, to love and live with purpose and compassion. But on the golf course it is my heart’s true ambition to see him stunned by my practice and exertion of muscle-- and I have failed many times in this endeavor. As the elder brother, he has reigned superior at our contest; but now, my heart grows bold. I have applied myself in terms of exercise and strength, put my time in at the gym while thinking about the swing. I have walked the course in my mind, aware of all the obstacles and threats that await any who would try and scratch a decent round. My efforts have been precise: I’ve jotted my notes, measured the distances with military accuracy. My little black notebook is worn from the markings, edits, and consultation, constantly removed from the back pocket and replaced again. My brother despises the book. Hates everything about it. He calls it the manifesto. “Only a crazy person would carry around a notebook and make illegible notes,” he says, claiming that I look like a white shooter on the evening news. I am not embarrassed by my little notebook: I learn more from putting things on paper. He-- the man who would take any advantage, any gimmick to make the ball go farther-- prefers the efficiency of technology, and says I am silly and outdated, a “pretentious idiot.” Well, I remember someone having a hard time with high school statistics, so I tell him to go ahead and try to compile all the data, it’s not like he could read all of it anyway: it just becomes numbers on a screen. Not real. Not tangible.

Our first round of the year was approaching, and I get there early. Early morning is the best time to play, not a whole lot of people bother you. I am not the strongest golfer, one of adequate skill for the amount of time I have played. My brother plays well when his temper is at bay; unfortunately, he has the tendency to get blood red with rage. He’s made a great golf shot before, he knows he has the ability to do that, and he gets real hung up on “So why can't I do it every time,” that’s how he thinks. He wants the swing to be perfect and the ball to go exactly where he wants it to, every time. He doesn't believe in the good miss: perfection is non-negotiable, impossible to achieve, man was born to err. But it is that erring that gives us opportunities to improve. My brother will go into wild rages against himself, the greens keeper, the sport of golf, god, and then of course me. He loves the game. He is also the most competitive man I have ever met. I have that nasty streak as well, but I believe I am more capable of handling and controlling that rage; after all, I have his template to look at. The great thing about golf is that however bad you are at it, even the smallest successes keep you coming back. I will never be great at this game, as is the truth for most weekend warriors. It’s incredibly difficult and requires time, so the working class stiff doesn't stand a chance. But he can go out there every weekend and try and break 90, and that is a thrill.

We begin the round with utmost eagerness. The sun is out, the grass a deep green. The smell of altered nature engulfs us, a chemical smell. Forget the deals of war and natural resource extraction, just think of all the chemicals seeping into the soil beneath our feet, god forbid the course be anywhere near the town’s water supply. The practice green is enormous, big enough for 18 players. But this morning we are the only ones there. He dresses well: khaki slacks, a green dotted shirt over a white background, bright green ball cap. His shoes look to be brand new. He takes golf attire very seriously, and one of his biggest annoyances is when he sees a grown man wearing jeans to the golf course. “Put some slacks on, you fucking pig,” he’ll say, when he crosses paths with these stylish gems. I am guilty of such sin in front of him. I once had the gall to show up to the course in fire hose wool lined work pants, worn and mud-adorned leather boots, and a flannel shirt that was missing the top 4 buttons. He was ashamed and furious, his adroit insults ripped through me. He dragged me to the pro shop and dumped charity on me.

I have never been a man of wealth: an infection of sloth sometimes finds its home in my blood. He is the opposite, a hard worker and an earner. My brother has the size and physique of a man who chooses aggression and the force of action. His knuckles are huge, swollen from contact with human skulls. He’s a driver and jumpman for an armored car company, escorting other people’s money all over the state. The jumpman is the one who gets out of the back of the truck and lugs the cash. He’s pulled his gun twice, but never fired. Physical alterations are numerous. He tells me one story as we are walking off the first tee box (two useful swings that delivered prime shots). One afternoon he and his partner were craving something greasy, the call of the brown bag. Well the truck won’t fit through the drive thru, so he has to go inside. He gets in the line, his partner stays in the car as he is not supposed to leave the cab of the vehicle. The line inside is long and full of cutthroats, a few bodies in the back make jaw jacking remarks loud enough for him to hear. The last comment he heard before the melee started was “Man I bet that gun isn’t even loaded, let me feel it!” and the scumbag made a grab for the piece. The moment turned grotesque quick as lightning. A steel baton flashes in the air, making impact on the assailant’s forearm, breaking bone. A furious knee to the face brings the attacker to the ground. Another baton strike lands on the shoulder of one of his buddies, and an upward palm strike renders him useless. Now there’s a swarm. Three brutes attempt to avenge their comrades. Blows are starting to fall on my brother at this point, and he’s soon knocked to the ground, tripping over one of his initial victims. All appears doomed. The brutes are really laying into him when the front door is blown wide open. His partner comes barreling in, gun drawn with the intention to kill, and the scum scurry away like cowards. This is just one of the many stories he’ll tell me throughout the round.

The first hole on our regular municipality. I consult the little black book. 149 yards to the green, no threat of the bunker as I managed to clear that on the drive. I sketch the trees and bumps. A 7 iron will do, I think. He is only 100 yards away, having smashed the hell out of his first drive of the year, “a true omen for great things to come,” he claims.

The round went well. I couldn't beat him, lost focus around the 12th hole. I was only down by 1, having held up like a grown man for 11 holes, playing with a focus and determination that is missing from the average weekend warrior, I like to think. But Big Brother wins again. He says the next round is on him, that he finally enjoys our games now that I can bring a challenge to his door. We’ll play again Wednesday, and it cannot come soon enough.

Wednesday morning rolls around, bringing furious black clouds and raindrops the size of tennis balls that pelt the earth with the force of bullets. No golf today, not in conditions that would make Captain Ahab himself turn his boat around. So my brother decides to go to work, pick up a jumpman shift for a few extra bucks. He’s good at it too, he can do an ATM in a minute. He was changing some shit gas station’s ATM. The neon lights were blown out, trash piled up around the front of the store, a couple of the pumps were out of order. The guy came out of the bathroom while my brother was kneeling down shoving twenties into the machine. He might’ve thought he heard a thunder crack from the storm when the guy fired his gun. The first bullet went right into his spine. Another shot, both made it through his vest. The guy grabbed the bag of cash and made for the door. His partner put the rig into gear and ran the son of a bitch over. He made it to my brother’s side moments before he took a short, final breath. He hadn’t been able to say anything, he told me at the funeral. Tears wouldn’t come that day, it hurt too much. Money and its draw killed my brother, my friend. I wish I had told him he was both to me.

I’ve stayed in the dumps for a while. Feeling sad, missing my brother. The winter was especially brutal. Where I live, the season has no regard for life whatsoever: searing cold that’ll freeze you to the ground if you stay stationary for too long, negative temps and vicious winds that hurt the bones. The cold does give one perspective, though. Makes you aware that there are forces that we cannot contend with. It is a difficult thing to be in this kind of cold, but it makes you stronger for having faced it. They say Spring is coming. We’ll see.

A letter came in the mail a couple of days ago. At first I thought it was just more bullshit condolences, wishing my family thoughts and prayers-- I hate that phony fucking line. It was a check for $20,000. My brother had taken out wrongful death insurance when he started working at the job, and named me the beneficiary if he was killed in the line of duty. The money was no conciliation, nothing was bringing him back. I’m thinking of using the money to take a trip to Europe to play some serious golf to commemorate him. Maybe I’ll be able to find a cool stationary shop while I’m over there; my little black book is almost full.