Double Double

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Joe, there’ll be you and me and Ray and Chet Howell. We’ll figure on teeing off at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Now wait a minute. I know what you’ve said about never playing golf with Chet Howell again, but I tell you things are different. Certainly a guy can change. Even Chet.

So, you won’t take my word for it, Joe, I got to tell you just how it happened. It happened a couple weeks ago. We made up a foursome, Ray and me and Chet and Johnny Garsik. Well, Johnny didn’t show up and I can tell you I wasn’t too surprised, on account of the last time we’d played, Chet had got Johnny so mad he couldn’t hardly talk and he certainly couldn’t hit a golf ball.

We waited as long as we could and it was a busy day, and Charley wasn’t letting any threesomes off the first tee. But he said he had a single to fill us up, and when that guy showed up, we didn’t groan out loud but nobody looked very happy. It was a stringy old guy named Mr. Jonah Brewster, and he looked about a hundred and ten, and like the sun had dried him out to old leather. He had a ratty canvas bag, a red baseball hat, a couple of dingy golf balls, and honest to God, Joe, he only had four clubs, a putter, an eight-iron, a four-iron and a three-wood. They didn’t match and he could have sold them anyplace for two bits each. Ray took a caddie like he always does, and Chet and I used the pull carts, and old Mister Brewster, he carried that bag of his over his shoulder. We asked him what his handicap was so we could get some bets going, and he said he’d played a lot in the old days but now he just played for fun and he didn’t keep much track of the score or turn in any cards for handicap. So we decided it was him and Ray against Chet and me, and we’d adjust after nine.

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