Church Golf League
The St. Lawrence Golf League’s 20th season began on a sunny May afternoon at the Ironwood Golf Course in Fishers, Indiana. Clad in shorts, golf shirts, baseball hats and golf shoes, the four seniors stood on the tee of the first hole at Ironwood’s Ridge nine. They were happy, it was time for golf.
The first hole – a makeable par four, thick with spring rain and fertilizer, green and beautiful, –rolled slightly uphill to the flag, 330 yards away. Jake loved this hole; a good golfer would disdain it as not challenging, but Jake was not a good golfer. Only the small pond in front of the tees, a clump of trees to the right, two sand traps guarding the green, and some rolling rough on the right and left caused problems. Seniors jump – not very high – at the chance to play an easy hole.
Dan Joiners (DJ) hit first. Holder of the highest handicap of the group, he still pridefully, stubbornly hit from the white tees. After a few practice swings, he said, “This is gonna be interesting. Haven’t swung a club in months.” He banana sliced one out of bounds.The other three moved up to the forward tees. Bob the Elder dribbled one into the pond. Responding to the generous, rule-violating cries of “Mulligan, Mulligan,” he hit again. His second mishit barely cleared the pond. The Elder smiled wryly and said, “I’m out there.” Jake wacked a low line drive and his ball skidded to a stop about 130 yards out. At least it was in the fairway. Not much roll in the wet grass.
“Not bad for the first swing of the year,” Left Wing Eddie observed. Left Wing’s smooth swing produced a respectable senior drive, settling 170 yards out in the middle of the fairway. One good shot out of four. They boarded their golf carts – DJ & the Elder in one, and Jake with Left Wing. This was a cart-path only round, not surprising given the soaked course. Jake had mixed feelings on cart-path-only golf -sometimes he felt he had mixed feelings on most subjects under the sun. He – like Left Wing – strove for 10,000 steps a day, so the extra steps walking back and forth to his ball from the cart path increased his step count. But cart-path-only irritated and caused problems; judging distances became more difficult because you couldn’t effectively use the yardage information on the cart screen. Also, sometimes standing by your ball 40 yards from your bag on the cart you realized you had the wrong club but were too lazy to walk back to the cart and instead just swung away, hoping for the best. The golf gods responded badly to poor club selection.
Left Wing and Jake chatted easily as Left Wing drove the cart. Left Wing always drove; he liked to drive. Jake didn’t mind. His wife Jill always drove their car too. To maintain golf cart peace, Left Wing and Jake had conversational rules: avoid politics and religion. These rules had developed due to Left Wing’s craziness. Left Wing often broke the rules, and Jake could not resist counterpunching. Their disagreements mirrored those of their country. Jake wondered how much longer their foursome could play together. Could politics ruin golf with his buddies? On the first hole they observed the rules. Left Wing’s craziness, his political craziness, had started two years ago, with the election of a new President, a renegade Republican. Left Wing responded as if Satan himself had taken possession of the White House. It was hard to figure – Left Wing had quickly regressed through the political gears of Republican, liberal Republican, Democrat, to Leftwing Looney. Jake and Left Wing’s backgrounds mirrored each other: retired white men; degrees in business; family men; fortunate with pensions and inheritances; golfers and walkers; Catholics.
But they had landed on different political planets. Something happened to Left Wing. He turned Churchill’s adage on its head: as he aged, he forsook the conservative wisdom of reality and embraced the youthful folly of utopian visions. When the new President put his hand on the Bible and swore to uphold the Constitution, Left Wing dove straight into the deep dark turbulent waters of the radical Left. Jake thought those waters spiritually poisonous and did not ake the plunge. He tried to understand why Left Wing, a suburban American Catholic, considered the leftists his brothers-in-arms. He didn’t particularly care for the new nan’s personality or incivility but supported some of his policies; they were an improvement over those of the previous president. And friendlier to the Church.
Left Wing and Jake carded sixes on the first hole; DJ and the Elder did worse. Jake walked off the green not feeling terrible. A double bogey was not good, but after a mediocre senior drive and a chunked chip, he knew it could have been worse. “Great start to the year,” Left Wing joked.
“At least we’re out here,” Jake replied. They both knew they were fortunate to have the health and money to be playing golf in their seventies. The St. Lawrence Golf League was a league of mercy. It placed limits on the draconian pagan rules of the PGA. Like the church that sponsored it, the league understood human failings, especially those of seniors. The Church ministered to the sins of her sons and daughters while the golf league brought blessings to golfers, especially high handicappers. There were two critical deviations to the PGA rules. First, you could move your ball one club-length from its lie, but not closer to the hole or out of a hazard. Second, if by some strange quirk of fate or the actions of a malevolent pagan god, your ball ended in a sand trap, you could rake the trap and place the ball on level ground. These rules seemed to Jake and others to mitigate the effect of the bad bounces of blind chance. These rule changes emphasized the essence of the Christian God, who in His Heart of Hearts, personified mercy.
DJ’s drive on the second hole sounded good; the ball jumped off his club head but sliced badly after 75 years and plunked into the pond stretching along the right side of the fairway. “That was a better swing,” the Elder said hopefully.
DJ shook his head and said, “Hope I’ve got enough golf balls.” The other three hit good drives from the forward tee, which provided a better angle and less exposure to the water than the white tees. And, of course, a shorter distance to the par four second hole.
Jake asked Left Wing about his wife’s birthday party. “Not the best of subjects,” Left Wing replied.
“Because?”
“Because neither of the girls volunteered to host. We always host, we host everything, even for Nina’s birthday. She gets upset but doesn’t utter a word. The girls brought nice little gifts and side dishes, but I did most of the cooking.” Left Wing was a foodie and liked preparing food, so he was upset for Nina but not for himself. “Despite all this – her anxiety, her anger – all dissolved when our granddaughters walk through the front door.”Left Wing smiled and added, “I do like drinking craft beer with my sons-in-law in my man-cave in the basement.”
Jake sipped his water bottle and observed, “At least we have a relationship with our kids.”
“That is good, agree.”
“You know my kids have abandoned the church. Don’t go to any church. Don’t pray before meals either.”
“Mine do pray before meals and Angie attends mass regularly.”
Jake struggled to put the cap back on the water bottle. “Drives me crazy.” Left Wing stopped the cart as they approached Jake’s ball. Adjusting his sunglasses, Jake added, “They’re good kids but have joined the growing group of Nones. No religious affiliation. Nothing, nada.”
“That’s the way America is going.”
Jake eyed his clubs, his frazzled mind unable to focus. Finally, he said, “I know. And it scares me.” He stepped out of the cart, glanced at the yardage displayed on the cart screen, and added, “Sex abuse scandal got them.” Grabbing a seven-iron, he tramped through the wet rough, splashed through some standing water, and reached his ball. His spirit sagged. He should put this one on the green, but he lacked confidence in his seven-iron. “Damned gay priests who preyed on adolescent boys.”
“But there were a few girls too. Some pretty young. Let’s acknowledge the heterosexual pedophiles.”
“Eighty percent of the cases were men on adolescent boys.” Jake sighed, adding, “The gay priests are gonna bring down the church.” Eyeing his shot, he gripped and re-gripped his club. “Let’s just drop it.” He swung, chunked it, and the ball landed short of the green. “So it goes.”
“So it goes. Vonnegut?”
“Yes, Vonnegut. Lot of good Indiana writers in the 20th century.” Jake grabbed his wedge and putter and headed to the green, Left Wing behind him. Jake let Left Wing catch-up and said, “Need to send those priests to the worst prison we can find. A deep dark place.”
“And the cover-up bishops.”
“Them too.” Jake tossed his wedge aside and decided to putt.
“Then they’ll all be sent off to the deepest, darkest part of hell,” Left Wing said.
“Right.” After a bogey Jake walked back to the cart. He was uncomfortable about sending people off to hell, even the sexually sinning priests. Wasn’t forgiveness possible for them too?
On the third hole, the Elder hit a great senior drive, straight down the fairway. In his 80s, the Elder had once been a single-digit handicapper. He had a few good shots left in the pool of his slowly draining athletic talent. His standard answer when asked about his longevity and energy was, “Live the faith, exercise a lot, serve the poor, and drink wine in moderation.” Pondering that advice, Jake thought he followed it well except for the “wine in moderation” part. A retired engineer, the Elder’s life revolved around golf, his grandkids, St. Lawrence, and his work at St. Vincent de Paul. His wife Rita chaired the local chapter.
SVDP teaches not to judge the poor, which can be difficult when working with them in person. The Elder talked about his home visits with Rita. “It’s the same story over and over again. Stupid decisions, irresponsibility, especially sexual irresponsibility. Sometimes I want to strangle the men who abandon their women, usually woman of color; they’re saddled with kids and crappy jobs – if any job at all. No man around. They turn to the government and organizations like SVDP for help. Grandmothers help, they help a lot. At SVDP we do what we can; the government has food stamps and welfare and section 8 housing but it’s so damn hard to fix a culture of irresponsibility.”
Left Wing jumped in, “That’s blaming the poor for being poor.”
DJ added his two cents, “That’s just the usual don’t blame the victim crap. If people aren’t responsible for their actions our whole damn society falls apart.”
Jake triple-bogeyed the third hole.The fourth hole was tough, the second hardest on the Ridge. They all hit good drives – a rarity. Jake and Left Wing felt good walking to the cart. “Let’s get something going,” Left Wing said.
“Turn this round around.” Jake had lived a classic American life with one woman, three children, and a steady, if somewhat dull, federal government job. With parachutes of pension and inheritance, he had safely landed in his Social Security years. He knew he was lucky, or, as his wife Jill would say, “blessed.” Today, driving the short distance from his Fishers home to Ironwood, Jake had been excited. He had ached for a round of golf. Sometimes he felt his ardor for golf exceeded that for the Lord. He was a committed Catholic; so was the Elder. Left Wing was a committed cafeteria Catholic; DJ wasn’t Catholic – not even Baptized.
Standing in the 4th fairway, six over par, Jake felt the round getting away from him. Five-hybrid in hand, he felt a surge of confidence. This baby was going on the green. His swing was good, his best of the day. But it was too much club, and his shot landed on the back of the green and bounced over a hill into the rough. He sank a six-footer for his double-bogey. Eight over par after four holes. Jake’s chances of breaking 50 were slipping away faster than the swollen waters of Mud Creek that wound around the course. Bogey golf seemed out of reach.
Left Wing stood on the fifth tee, feeling good after his first par of the year. Looking at the flag 132 yards away, he felt another par coming. Focused, his smooth swing produced a high-arching shot that landed softly on the green and rolled towards the hole. He clenched his fist, Tiger-like. “Way to go, partner,” Jake said. He hit next and his ball landed on the fringe. The Elder hit a low straight line-drive that rolled to a stop about 30 yards short of the green. Jake pulled his “A” wedge out of the bag and hit a beautiful chip, with the ball stopping a few feet short of the hole. He sunk the putt for his first par of the day. “Now, that’s more like it,” he exclaimed, walking confidently over the bridge to the carts. Left Wing also parred.
Jake’s spirit brightened. As they stood on the 6th tee, the wind picked up. Gripping his driver, DJ waited by his teed-up ball. He stepped several yards back and his hat blew off. He retrieved it and put it tightly back on his head. “Let it pass,” the Elder said.
“Yeah.” He smiled and said, “The financial markets have been pretty windy too and I’ve been pulling my clients out.” The Dow and S&P 500 had fallen five percent in the last several weeks, the NADSAQ more. All four men invested in the stock market. DJ was a stockbroker.
“I’ve been worried,” replied the Elder.
Left Wing observed, “Buy and hold. Buy and hold. Buy a couple of broad-based index funds – like SPY – and, if you like excitement, invest in a few small companies with great growth potential.” Left Wing was perfectly rational when discussing the markets. Left Wing was a man of property – he was passionate about his property. Unlike many Leftists, he believed in personal property, at least his own. And he enjoyed maintaining his property: his house, garden, yard, cars, and stock portfolio. Jake was also a man of property, but he paid others to maintain it, including his investment portfolio. Despite being a Capitalist in practice, Left Wing, under the spell of the Secular Left, had become enamored of Income Equality. Once, at beer time in the clubhouse, he had pontificated, quoting a study that said the bottom half of the U.S. population had zero net worth.
“So, if you could wave your magic wand what would you do?” Jake asked.
“Tax reform, income redistribution.”
DJ shot back, “We just had tax reform.”
“That so-called Tax Reform benefited the rich and large corporations. We need to tax them at higher rates.”
“The top 10 percent already pay 70 percent of federal income tax,” DJ said.
Jake added, “And the bottom 47 percent pay no federal income tax. So, you can’t cut their taxes.”
The Elder commented, “We need to provide free financial-management courses to the poor. Whenever they get a little bit of money, they blow it.”
“That’s crap,” Left Wing shot back, adding, “The wealthy need to do more, pay their fair share,
“Define ‘fair share,’” the Elder said.
DJ said, “We’ll find out if Left Wing’s buddies get elected.”
“We won’t think it’s fair.”
“No, we won’t.
The Elder looked intently at Left Wing and asked, “What have you personally done for the poor?”
“I give money to Democratic causes. A little to Catholic Charities. And to St. Lawrence, of course.”
“But what have you personally done?”
Left Wing sipped his beer and then responded. “Not much. Are you recruiting for St. Vincent de Paul?”
Jake had more than once pointed out to Left Wing the disparity between conservative and liberal donations to church and charity. Conservatives were more generous. And more religious.
Number seven was another par three; the white tees and forward tees stood on opposite corners of the pond. DJ dropped the Elder off at the forward tees and drove around the pond to the white tees. From the white tees, the shot over the pond to the narrow green intimidated high handicappers. From the forward tees, the green was only 111 yards away and the pond didn’t come into play unless you hooked it. Getting out of the cart, Left Wing grabbed his back. Sometimes it tightened up during a round. “Uh-oh, back problem again?” Jake asked.
“Yup. Damn it.”
“You took your Advil?”
“Oh yeah.” Left Wing glanced at his watch. “Too early for another one.”
“Can you finish?”
“Oh yeah, I’m gonna finish.” Left Wing walked slowly around the tee. The Elder teed up his ball. Left Wing began stretching. “It’s hell getting old.”
The Elder stepped back from his ball and said, “Tell us about it.”
“Don’t preach to us, George. You’re an exception.”
“I’ve had my problems. Don’t forget my heart surgery five years ago. Nearly killed me.”
“Give you that one.”
Left Wing continued. “My back bothers me all too often.”
“Don’t work in the garden,” the Elder replied.
“Or the yard,” Jake added.
“I take six medications, some expensive. Got to watch my diet,” Left Wing said
“All of us take medications and are supposed to watch our diet,” the Elder said.
“Guess I’m not getting any sympathy from you guys.”
“We’re old too,” the Elder said.
The Elder’s tee shot bounced onto the top of the hill behind the green. Jake hooked one into the pond. Left Wing’s dub ended up 15 yards short of the green. They couldn’t see DJ’s shot from the white tee. Jake’s double bogey discouraged. He walked off the green and across the bridge to the carts, wondering why he paid to play this game. The eighth hole was a wide-open makeable par five. It didn’t demand great shots, just decent ones. Avoid the sand traps on both sides of the fairway. For some reason, a sand-trap lay in the middle of the fairway; Jake wondered if it were an error of the course construction workers or some malevolence of the course architect. This trap positioning offended Jake’s sense of Divine Golf Justice.
DJ boomed another drive, this one down the middle, well over the sand trap. He picked up his tee, turned and said with a big smile, “That’s more like it.”
“You’ve got it going now,” the Elder said. DJ was smart – one of those rare men who could analyze a stock and fix a faucet. Despite his skills life had not blessed him financially. He had bounced from company to company, worked as a handyman, and in the last ten years had done taxes and run a financial management business. Sometimes he envied the financial security of his golf partners, especially Left Wing and Jake.
Standing in the fairway, three-wood in hand, DJ’s phone rang. A tax client was on the line, complaining about his reduced tax refund. DJ tried to explain – they couldn’t itemize because their deductions didn’t exceed the new standard marital deduction of twenty-four thousand. The client went on and on about medical expenses and charitable deductions and mortgage interest and DJ finally said he had another appointment and would call back this evening after carefully studying his account. “Sorry guys.”
“No problem,” Jake said. They were used to these telephonic interruptions. After all, DJ was the only one still working so exceptions had to be made to the no-phone-call rule on the golf course. DJ’s wife Mary once told Jake after mass that DJ’s becoming Catholic now seemed an impossible dream. Her years of prayer had not yielded fruit. DJ’s heart was set against the “Christian rigmarole and crazy sexual rules.”
DJ and Left Wing parred the hole. Jake and the Elder were satisfied with their bogeys. Though short, the par 4 ninth was the toughest hole. The woods crowded both sides of the fairway, the long arms of the trees reaching out to grab any ball slightly off course. Your tee shot determined your fate. Left Wing smacked his tee shot into the dense woods on the left. The Elder said, “Eddie, you lined up pointing left.”
DJ added, “He’s always lined up left.”
“His game mirrors his beliefs,” Jake said.
“I am a well-integrated person, consistent in thought and action,” Left Wing joked.
DJ said, “Now you’re getting philosophical.”
Jake was pleased with his drive. He hit his usual 3-hybrid and it didn’t fail him, right down the middle of the fairway, eighty yards from the green. Par was possible. Getting into their cart, Jake pondered Left Wing’s comment about consistency. Jake did not agree that Left Wing was integrated in belief and action. Like many other “liberal” Catholics, his faith and politics did not line up, particularly in sexual morality. More than once over the past few years, Jake had commented that everyone has the right to their own opinions and views, but he wondered why Left Wing remained Catholic when he disagreed with fundamental Church teachings. “You’re treading on dangerous ground,” Left Wing replied tersely. Jack dropped the subject but often pondered why Left Wing did not value intellectual consistency.
Jake parred the last hole and walked to the cart feeling better. Good way to end a disappointing round – disappointing but not surprising, given it was the first of the year.
The Elder turned in the scorecard to Jason, the golf pro who managed the Church League. Left Wing shot 47, Jake 48, the Elder 51 and DJ 54. Those scores, even adjusted for their high handicaps, wouldn’t win many points in the league. Jake bought the beer, two Buds and two Bud-Lights, and they gathered at a table in the small bar area. The 30-something blonde tending bar served them. They all liked her. “Cute girl,” Left Wing said, grabbing his Bug Light and taking a long sip.
“Glad she’s back,” Jake said. Bar girls came and went. They were usually attractive; management wasn’t stupid – attractive women juiced the sales of beer and food. Jake asked, “So DJ, how was the bladder cancer treatment last week?”
“Not bad. My fourth one, hopefully the last. Once a week for four weeks. Never get used to these women sticking a catheter up my wiener. They stick the catheter in and then pour in their nasty chemicals. Getting some bruises down there.”
“Ouch,” Left Wing muttered. “Brings back bad memories.”
“For me too,” Jake added.
“Even if I’m dying, I will not go to the Urology Center of Indiana again,” Left Wing said seriously.
“Me either,” Jaked agreed.
“Just give me some drugs and cart me off to hospice. No more catheters.”
Both Left Wing and Jake had undergone prostate surgery. “I hope to live the rest of my life catheter free,” Jake said.
“Me too. Let’s take the pledge,” Left Wing raised his right hand.
“And you’re not feeling any ill-effects from the cancer treatments, DJ?” the Elder asked.
“I’m ok. Won’t let it keep me away from the golf course.” DJ was amazing, playing golf after bladder cancer treatments. His constitution was as strong as the American constitution used to be.
“Hey guys, enough about cancer and catheters,” Left Wing said, adding, “About the President.”
“Oh no Left Wing,” said DJ.
“He’s a fascist, a racist, and a Russian agent. Should be impeached, jailed-.”
“Stop, stop,” said the Elder. “You know we don’t agree with your leftist ravings.”
“I’m speaking the truth,” Left Wing said seriously.
“The truth my ass,” DJ said. “You have zero facts. Impeached for what?”
The bar girl came by and asked if they wanted another around. “No thanks,” D J said. “We’ve gotta go.”
“We’re one and done,” Jake said.
“I know your type,” she said smiling. They all laughed.
Jake drove home. It had been a good day, slightly blemished by heated discussions. He wondered if their foursome of many years would survive. He prayed it would. As his circle of friends and activities grew smaller, he needed these men, especially Left Wing.