Father Mac
The sky was a soft powder blue. White powder puff clouds bounded lazily
overhead. I had just stuck my tee into the peat-laden turf, made dry by a light breeze and the mid-morning sun, when I heard over the loud speaker, “Mr. O’Shaughnessy to the clubhouse, please. Mr. O’Shaughnessy to the clubhouse.”
Damn it, I thought. I had almost made my getaway. There wasn’t another golfer for at least five holes, and I figured I could make it around in record time this morning. What’s the delay? I hope they’re not going to pair me up with someone--always think they’re doing you a favor.
I got back into my golf cart and motored back to the clubhouse.
“Mr. O’Shaughnessy, this is Father MacIntyre. He missed his regular group this morning and wants to know if he can play with you.”
Damn it; I knew it. I knew it was too good to be true. Now they want me to play with a priest of all things.
The man had the frame of a teddy bear--large, roly-poly arms, fat layered down his ruddy colored cheeks, and a tamo’shanter coked to one side on top of his silver gray hair. He held out his pudgy hand, “Yes, laddie, my name is Father MacIntyre. You see I had a house to bless this morning and I missed my regular group. You don’t mind if I play along do you? I can only play nine holes.”
I remembered my Catholic upbringing--a flock I hadn’t grazed with for many orbits of the sun. “Yes, Father, I heard myself saying. Of course, not. Certainly, you can play along?”
What have I done? No way do I want to play with this old fart. Begrudgingly, I drove back to the tee, while Father Mac, as he promptly told me to call him, or Bill, it was my choice, walked.
“Fine morning,” said the priest, as he caught up with me. “Do you play here often?”
“As often as I can,” I said, thinking about how twice a week really wasn’t enough and I wished I had the time to play more like three or four times.
“Well, it’s been way too long for me, laddie. I used to play a lot, but it must have been thirty years, since my last round.”
On the tip of my tongue was, “Funny, that’s just about how long it’s been since my last confession,” but at the last instant I caught myself. “Fun--, the game is really fun,” I said. “I guess none of us gets to play as much as we want.”
“If you want to be happy for a day,” he said. “Play golf. Blues or whites?” He pulled his club out of his old heavy leather bag.
“Your choice. I’m happy to play either,” I lied. I really preferred the blue tees, because it gave me an advantage over most players, since I really paste the ball, but I acted like it didn’t make any difference.
“Let’s do the whites, then, laddie. It’s been so long since I’ve played, I’m sure I’ll need the extra distance,” he said.
I said, “Whatever you say, Bill.” It was sort of fun to call the priest “Bill.” I imagined what it would have been like in the schoolyard if I ever called a priest Bill. The nuns would have rapped my knuckles good for that one. In my minds eye I hissed at the old penguins.
About that time I noticed his clubs were hickory shafted. I sat on the cart, while he laced up his shoes and limbered up, and looked at him carefully through the birds of paradise that were between him and me, but, sure enough, they were hick’ry all right. This guy really is a relic.
Then he surprised me. “Care to place a little wager, laddie?” he said in a deep Scottish drawl.
“Um, oom, well, sure, . . . I guess so,” I said. “What would you like to play for?”
He came over to the cart, pulled a flask out of his bag, slugged down a little nip, shirked and then rebounded. “How about a dollar hole with an automatic press for whoever is behind; no carryovers?”
“Buck a hole,” I said. I can use the extra nine dollars. “Sure, nine bucks,” I said.
He leaned on his driver. It bowed at least three inches. “A dollar a hole,” he repeated. “That’s the easy part, but you know what a press is, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. That’s where the bet doubles. And since it’s automatic, it automatically doubles every time a hole is won or lost.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Except on the last hole. Either of us can press on that hole anytime before the other fellow’s drive hits the ground.”
“Got it,” I said and flipped a tee in the air to see who went first. It pointed to the priest. “You’re up, Father.” I hope you’ve got the nine bucks on you. He never asked about my handicap, so I didn’t feel obliged to tell him that I often broke eighty on the Makai Courses at Princeville. This morning we were about to play the Ocean Course, which is my favorite--the most scenic--and yet forgiving of an errant shot.
He ripped one about 185 yards down the middle. The ball must have had a lot of topspin on it, because I thought it was only going to go about 125 yards, but it just kept rolling and rolling, coming to rest just to the left of the fairway bunker.
My ball was still sitting on the right hand side of the tee and at long last I smacked it down the left hand side of the fairway with a gentle fade that used his ball as a landmark on its way down the middle and came to rest 50-75 yards past his ball. “Guess I got all of that one,” I said.
“Nice drive, laddie.”
“Aren’t you going to ride in the cart?” I asked.
“No, like I say, I don’t get out very often and I like to walk.”
“Whatever you say,” I said and sped off towards my ball.
I watched him wiggle and waggle a long iron, put it back into his bag and pull out a wood. Upon closer inspection I later discovered it had the word “spoon” engraved in the sole plate in place of a number. This ought to be good, I told myself. Actually, he didn’t hit a bad shot, put it in the bunker in front of the green.
I nailed my ball, but, like the sucker I always am on this hole, I misjudged the yardage and airmailed the green, winding up about forty feet past the green in some heavy grass. Gotcha now, though, I thought, as my wedge shot skidded about fifteen feet past the hole in the other direction. He’ll never be able to get it close out of there.
But he did. I watched in amazement as his panda like arms traced a perfect arc back and forth with the grace and fluidity of a soaring bird and launched the powdery sand into a majestic flight that ended by depositing the ball about three feet from the cup. Mine lipped out and he easily made his for a par. One down.
I was so upset that I snap-hooked my next shot off the tee on number two and put it in the pink and red hibiscus bushes near someone’s house to the left of the fairway--two stroke penalty. The father didn’t do anything spectacular, just plodded down the fairway.
“You realize this is for two dollars,” he said as he dribbled his fifth shot near the hole from the fringe and easily sank the next putt for a bogie six.
“Yep, I guess I’m out three bucks, father.” I had in mind to call him Bill, or Padre, but subconsciously, I guess I was gaining respect for him--as a golfer anyway. “And the next hole is for four dollars.”
“That’s right, laddie.”
Number three on the ocean course is straight downhill, overlooking
He hit a high lofted shot that looked like it was never going to reach the ground. It fell and fell and fell and then hit near the back of the green. It kept on rolling after that for a foot or so and then caught its own backspin and tracked its way all the way back to the hole. It nearly dropped and stopped not more than six inches from the hole. This was the first time in the match that I began to suspect that I might have bitten off more than I could chew.
I put my ball in the center of the green, but it didn’t do any good. I was now down three holes, or seven dollars ($1 + $2 + $4) and the next hole was to be played for eight dollars.
“Ever bless any of these houses, Father?” I said as he teed up his ball.
“Yes, years ago,” he said.
“What happened to them in the hurricane?” I said, hoping to embarrass him and take his mind off the game. I had seen the washers and driers and refrigerators out on the golf course after Iniki and had heard that the wind propelled the shattered glass so hard it was found afterwards stuck in the sheet rock.
“They took it pretty bad, laddie,” he said, as he knocked his ball about 185 yards straight down the middle.
“Then what about the blessing?” I asked, as I hit a 4 iron into the teeth of the oncoming trades.
“Well it could have been worse,” he said, as we both looked at the condominiums standing on stilts on the side of the hill like flamingoes [change name] gathered beside a lake. “At least no one was killed.”
I guess you could look at it that way.
This time it was my turn to hit first and see my seven wood get caught up wind, barely miss the front of the green and roll all the way back down the hill. His ball did just the opposite. It was a low screamer--a line drive. It hit near the top of the hill, rolled on and he got a par, while I struggled for a bogie. Four down after four--fifteen dollars and the next hole would be for sixteen dollars. I consoled myself with the fact that once I won my first hole, I would be up a dollar, instead of losing all my pocket change for the next week to the ambling padre.
He seemed to be losing his breath as he climbed to the green at number four. “Want to ride the next one, Father?” I said.
“No, laddie, I’m enjoying the walk.” He stopped and refreshed himself with another nip from the plaid flask he carried in his bag. His nose seemed to light up when he huffed and puffed and then took a single snort, never two and put the flask back into his bag.
I was sure I had him on number five, when he snap hooked his drive into the trees to the left of the fairway--out of bounds! Hurray and hallelujah.
I played it safe, off to the right, way away from the trouble. The only problem is that the hole is a dogleg to the left and the wind took my ball further and further to the right of the fairway. A little slice into the heart of a wind and I don’t have to tell a golfer what happens next.
“The saints be praised,” he said about twenty yards before he got to his provisional. “Me first one is in by about a foot. Must’ve hit a tree.”
The saints me ass, I thought. A little foot mashie is more like it.
I struggled to get back on course from behind a tree in the rough between two and five fairways. I hit a seven wood over the tree and a long iron into the green, but I came up just short of this par five green in regulation. He got an easy par and took my conservative bogie to the bank. Five holes and thirty-one dollars down. I was beginning to get a little nervous. I consoled myself with the fact that I only had to win a single hole and I would be up a dollar.
On number six my length paid off. I was on the green in two and the padre had no chance. He barely got there in three. Then he did the unthinkable. He made the sign of the cross and hit his putt way too hard. It bounced over the undulations in the green and it was coming so fast, I barely got the pin out in time. When his ball hit the back of the cup it bounced about a half a foot into the air and then plopped back into the hole for a par. I was so shaken I ended up three putting.
“Does that sign of the cross help you, Padre?” I said, my anger eradicating any signs of respect.
“Only if ye can putt, laddie. Only if ye can putt.”
On the next tee, he pointed out the spouts of the humpbacks in the distance and the
“Wonderful creatures, aren’t they, laddie--the whales?”
“I guess so,” I said. I had my mind on hitting the perfect shot over the little inlet of ocean that comes in between the tee and the green on number seven--a little par three. There is dense vegetation on the cliffs and I tried not to think about what would happen if I miss hit my shot.
The padre had another little nip and I noticed now that he had been taking one on every hole.
I said, “Mind if I have a little nip of that, Father? You seem to be doing so well with it.”
“I’d be happy to share,” he said. “But I have it measured out to exactly eighteen tots. I had nine of ‘em the last time out and just enough left to finish the round.”
I took that for a “no” and chunked my tee shot into the ravine. I won’t bore you with what he did, but it added up to p-a-r.
On the next tee, he scrubbed his ball--about 185 yards right down the middle and I sliced mine out of bounds on the right.
He said, “Did you know that’s how they came up with eighteen holes, laddie? The monks, who invented this game, had just eighteen tots with them and when they ran out of whiskey that was the end of the match?”
“I wouldn’t want you to come up short,” I said with a degree of sarcasm.
Actually, I made a miraculous recovery of my own, drove my next tee shot practically on the green and flopped a little three-quarter wedge shot next to the cup. But it wasn’t good enough. Father MacIntyre yawned and got another par.
“You know, we can stop our bets right now,” he said. It was easy for him to say. He was up eight holes, an incredible ($1+$2+$4+$8+$16+$32+$64+128) two-hundred-fifty-five dollars and the last hole would be worth $256, if I pressed.
I didn’t have $256 with me. I had to play or face the embarrassment of not being able to pay off my debt. It’s a question of honor with me. I’m not like one of those professional athletes, who doesn’t pay his golfing debts and then changes sports for a year or so, hoping people will forget. Still, I knew I had my hands full and then I stood there dumfounded as to what to do. Then, I remembered what he had said at the beginning. I didn’t have to make up my mind until his ball hit the ground.
Yet, I spoke too soon. He hit his ball out over the driving range to the right and all I could think to do was start yelling, “Press. Press. Air-press.” I was so happy. And then, just like a boomerang, his ball came spinning back toward the rough. It’s first bounce was still out of bounds, but it rolled and rolled to the left, just barely inbounds again, and, this time, behind a tree.
Again, I played off to the left to be safe, but, this time, not too safe. I hit a six iron just short of the green--another of my standard shots--always long on number one, always short on number nine. It was like clockwork.
The padre actually whiffed one, trying to cut his ball around the tree, but I didn’t have the heart to call him on it. It didn’t matter though. He intentionally hit his next shot toward the driving range, hit another tree and bounded back up onto the green, right next to the hole--par four--game, set, match. For I pitched up okay, but my seven foot par putt lipped out and I found myself wondering which gas station would be the most lucrative to knock off on the way home to pay him his money.
By the time we got to the snack bar, I remembered I had brought a check. I could make it out for the $511 I owed him and then think of some way to cover it before the banks opened on Monday. “To whom should I make out the check, Father?”
I watched him pour two glasses of “sacramental wine,” as he called them to “chase down the tots,” into the clear plastic wineglasses we were handed by the snack bar lady, along with our tuna sandwiches and chips.
“You can pay for the wine,” he said. “Outside of that, I don’t want your money.”
“Oh, no you don’t, Father. I ain’t Jordan Michaels. I expect to pay you.”
“I expect to be paid,” he replied, as he tossed his tamo’shanter on the table and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Just not with money.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. If this means I have to go to church, he can forget it. I ain’t goin’ to no church.
“If you’ll report to work for a whole month at the Saint Raphael’s soup kitchen every Thursday evening in Koloa, you don’t owe me a dime. Except for this glass of wine, of course.” Then, he lifted his cup. “Cheers.”
As it turns out, I quickly came to the conclusion that I had little choice. I already owed Lenny and Ron about a hundred bucks apiece and needed some body work on my car. Reluctantly, I reported for the assigned task. At first I had little empathy for the patrons. A bunch of drug addicts and losers, I thought. But as I got to know them as people and not just statistics, my attitude gradually changed. Oh sure, some of them were on drugs and their condition was probably hopeless and others weren’t dealt a full deck by the Almighty in the first place. But there were others--a woman, recently divorced, in tattered rags with two small children, who was just trying to get back on her feet. Another man, who had been in trouble with the law, trying to turn his life around by finding a job. There were two young boys about to graduate from high school, whose father had beaten them and kicked them out. They were living in a loft above an abandoned garage. My attitude began to change.
Funniest thing, though. No one there had ever heard of Father Mac Intyre. I’ve tried to locate him many times, but the closest I ever came was with someone who told me, “They once had a Father Mac Intyre at
So, I’ve had to recount that last conversation with him in my mind many times--the one we had had over two chilled glasses of Chablis.
“If you want to be happy for an hour,” he said. “Take a nap.”
I whispered as if I were in the confessional, “What about getting laid, Father? If I only had an hour I wouldn’t want to take a nap. At least not alone . . .”
“I wouldn’t know about that, laddie. A good, quiet nap works well enough for me.”
Hmm.
He wiped the condensed water off his wineglass. “If you want to be happy for a day, play golf.”
“I know. You said that on number one.” I said. “No disagreement there.”
“I could tell that when you were so anxious to tee off without me,” he said. He nodded and winked at me. “But if you want to be happy for your whole life, help others.” He raised his glass again and took another sip. He swirled the wine around in his mouth and then swallowed. “If you want to be happy for the rest of your life--help others, laddie.”
That’s not what I wanted to hear--at the time anyway. “And what about your golf game, Father? How did you manage to thrash me like that? I’ve never lost nine-zip.”
“Maybe it was just luck, Danny, although I think I’ve said some things you needed to hear. Maybe the good Lord was trying to open up yer heart.”
“Or my wallet,” I said with a grin.
He laughed. “I really can’t say if my winning was luck or not. But I can say this: When you’re putting--keep steady over the ball. Try not to move your head and take a flat, fluid stroke through the ball. Don’t look up until you hear her drop, laddie.
“. . . And, never, never get into a skin game with a man, especially a Scotsman, until you know his handicap.”
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