Chapter 15

IN THE 1940S, the Army Corps of Engineers literally lifted Florida from the center of the Earth. Back then, the Corps took on huge projects. Their engineers carved the St. Lawrence Seaway, constructed mammoth dams along the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers, and even built an atomic bomb, but none of these projects were so ambitious as dredging the periphery of the Everglades with a series of drains and pipes. It was a mammoth undertaking that took thirty years from start to finish and cost more than one hundred lives.

David had often wondered how strange it would have struck the Corpsmen that the land they’d created would be filled with Waffle Houses and Wal-Marts and populated almost entirely by old people who could no longer tolerate the cold of Maine or New York or even Northern Florida, and so gathered in this haven to live out their remaining days under the sun, in air-conditioned clubhouses and diners. How stranger still that amidst the endless sea of condominiums and parking lots, there should be a fifteen-year-old boy living out his childhood.

The Conways lived in Plantation Estates Phase Two. One might imagine the various phases would be the same, but Phase Two had been built during 1970s stagflation. To keep costs down, compromises had been made in the selection of building materials. The walls were made

of thinner sheet rock and coated with cheaper paint. The roof shingles leaked during hurricane season. Even the lawn seed was an inferior type of crabgrass (a weed, really) that required less water and care.

Few people from the outside world would have noticed these defi ciencies, but in the halls of the elite—the clubhouses of Phases One, Three and Four—the residents obsessed about these matters. The privileged aristocracy turned their noses at the Phase Two proletariat. When traveling acting troupes visited on weekends, performing classics such as the Yiddish Mikado for the bargain price of $10 a head, they would skip Phase Two, which lacked a theatre. The other phases wouldn’t deign to invite the ugly ducklings to share in their good fortune of watching the Izzy Perlstein Players in action. They banned their fellow Floridians from canasta and mah-jongg games and turned them away at the tennis courts. They would’ve excluded them from golf too, if the Phase Two deeds hadn’t contained a covenant entitling the owners to course access in perpetuity. But for this, they’d have been playing at Chi Chi Rodriguez’s Pitch-and-Putt on Nob Hill Road.

David thought the snobbery nonsense, but as he walked through Building 133, he noticed the signs of disrepair—chipped paint, carpet along the walkway worn to the nub, a roof leak that had gone unrepaired for so long a canal had been carved into the concrete foundation where the water ran down. David noticed everything. He wished he didn’t.

He stopped in front of apartment 108, which was distinguishable from the dreary lot only by a plastic license plate that hung over the doorway, suspended my magnets. It said:

CONWAY

PAD 108

As David rang the bell, he looked at his quaking hands and hoped it was nerves, not Parkinson’s.

A woman answered the door in an apron and plain housedress. The lines around her face suggested she was quite old, perhaps even in her eighties, but she moved lightly on her feet and her eyes had life in them. She greeted David with a warm, wide smile. David thought he detected a hint of Irish in her eyes.

“Come in, come in,” she said, gesturing. “We’ve been expecting you.”

When David stepped in, the apartment’s smell immediately washed over him—tomato soup, ancient and cold, which had blended with carpet cleaner and Freon that must have been leaking from the air conditioner. The mélange had nuzzled its way into the paint and burrowed into the linoleum. David closed his eyes and breathed in, deeply. As the aroma filled his lungs, it sent his mind racing to his youth.

A man stepped forward and offered his hand. He was older than the woman and moved more gingerly, but he had warmth in his eyes too.

“Fran Conway,” he said. “This is my wife, Pauline.”

David took the hand.

“David Howard.”

“Billy has told us so much about you. We’re so pleased that you could visit.”

“I’m happy to be here.”

“So please sit down,” Pauline said. “I’ve made some ham sandwiches. Would you like an iced tea or some lemonade? I have fresh of both.”

“How about half and half of each?” Pauline smiled. “In these parts we call that an Arnold Palmer.”

“My parts, too.” “You’re smiling at that, Mr. Howard.”

“David, please.”

“You’re smiling at that, David.”

“It’s just that Mr. Palmer had claim to lots of things where I grew up.

Funny to me that he’s got his name on iced tea and lemonade, too.”

Fran Conway said, “Not a bad thing to have your name on.”

“No,” David said. “It can be very refreshing.”

“You’re from Pennsylvania, then?”

“Yes. Just west of Latrobe.”

“That’s the heart of Palmer country.”

“Sure is.”

“Get back often?”

“Not in many years.” Pauline returned with a tray of sandwiches and three tall Arnold Palmers with ice. David took a long drink.

Pauline smoothed her apron as she sat down. “Billy tells us you live in Phase Three. How long have you been there?”

“Just over ten years. It’s hard to believe.”

“We’re working on twenty-five years. We’ll be married sixty next June.”

“Talk about hard to believe,” Fran said, and squeezed Pauline’s hand. She squeezed back and gave him a warm, loving smile.

“That’s wonderful,” David said.

“So how do you like it down here in Plantation?”

“It’s all right, I guess. A bit slow.”

“I hear that,” Fran said. “My husband has just about had it with gin rummy and canasta,” Pauline said with a smile. “Of course, we’ve had Billy for the past several years, which keeps us on our toes.”

“He’s a fine boy,” David said.

“About all we can handle,” Fran responded.

“We love him to death,” Pauline explained. “But I’m seventy-nine and Francis is eighty-three. We’re not up to it physically and this isn’t the right environment for a boy. It’s certainly not what his parents had in

mind. We just do the best we can.”

“Well, from what I can see, you’ve done a wonderful job.”

“You’re kind to say,” said Pauline.

Fran extended the tray of sandwiches to David, who took a bite from one. It was an uncommonly good ham sandwich.

“Must say,” Fran said, as he set the tray back down, “the boy has taken quite a shine to you.”

“We’re very grateful for the time you’ve spent with him,” Pauline added. “There are no boys around here for Billy to play with. He hardly ever brings home friends from school. I think he’s embarrassed to be living with his grandparents. We try to do what we can, but neither of us is able to run around very much and we don’t know anything golf. He seems to have so much fun with it. He hasn’t stopped talking about you since the two of you met. He says you used to be a professional.”

“That’s a long time ago.”

“Well, he’s quite taken with you. Meeting you has made him the happiest he’s been in a very long time.”

David quivered at the notion of someone’s happiness depending on him.

“You flatter me,” he said, as he took another bite of the sandwich. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“You know he took the game up by himself,” Pauline said.

“You don’t say.”

“Sure did. We had a set of his dad’s clubs lying around and he got to swinging them one day and before you knew it, he was out on the course every evening whacking the ball around.”

“You never showed him anything, Fran? Like how to grip the club or how to stand?”

“No. I don’t know the first thing about the game.”

“What about his father? You said you had his dad’s clubs around.”

“He couldn’t have showed him much. Billy’s parents died when he was six.”

David had suspected this, but his heart sank anyway. In his own way, he understood the pain of losing a child. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Kind of you to say.”

If David closed his eyes, he couldn’t tell whether the voice belonged to the husband or the wife. They spoke for one another.

“Does Billy get upset about it?”

“Of course he gets sad when he thinks about it,” Fran said.

“Does he ever blame himself? I know kids do that sometime. They think that things are their fault even when they’re not.”

“I don’t think so. He’s a strong person. He really tries to find the good in things, and he forgives himself for his mistakes.”

“I’ve never been very good at that,” David said.

“I’ve learned a thing or two myself from the young man,” Fran agreed.

It was impossible not to like the Conways. It was equally impossible not to notice how much more their condo felt like a home than David’s. They even had artwork. In ten years, David hadn’t hung a single thing from his walls. “Say,” said Pauline. “Is he any good at the game? Fran and I wouldn’t have any way of knowing.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Billy said you had something you wanted to discuss with us.”

David nodded his head. He’d asked for this visit after his fifth session with Billy. The boy had made an impression in many ways. “Billy’s good,” David explained. “His swing’s a bit loose and his short game is unrefined, but that’s to be expected from a fifteen-year old. In any event, these things can be taught. The reason I wanted to speak with

you is that he has some talents that can’t be taught.”

David gestured and said, “Anybody can be a good player, you see. You don’t need any physical gifts to play scratch golf. It’s just a matter of practice. Being a great player is a different story. Not everyone can do that. This is more art than science, but we look for certain qualities. Good hand-eye coordination, supple wrists and certain types of double-jointedness are useful. Jack Nicklaus can bend his thumbs back almost ninety degrees. This extra flexibility gives a player an edge. Billy has speed, and lots of it.

The dedication has to be there, of course, and there’s a lot to learn to play elite golf. But Billy’s physical talents give him a chance to be more than good—just a chance, mind you, but it’s one that most people don’t have.”

The grandparents were beaming.

“That’s great,” Fran said. “That’s really great.”

“It’s so kind of you to come over here and share this with us,” Pauline said.

“I want to be clear. It’s too soon to say anything conclusively. I need to watch him play more. All I’m saying is that he has a lot of raw talent.”

“We understand there are no guarantees with something like this.”

“It’s wonderful news,” Fran said, “and very kind of you to share with us. We trust your judgment.”

David bristled at the notion of someone trusting his judgment. “There’s more to it,” David said. “If I’m right and he does have this kind of potential, some decisions need to be made. If Billy’s going to think about playing professionally, he needs to start training now. He has to tighten his swing so it will repeat under pressure. He needs to refine his short game. This can take years. And he needs to experience competitive pressure. Playing tournaments is an entirely different game than hitting

it around by yourself after school. There’s a junior circuit here in Florida. We’d start him slowly at first, but he needs to have this experience.”

“This all sounds fine,” Fran said.

“Is the concern money?” Pauline asked. “Fran and I don’t have a lot, but we have enough to pay for entry fees and to compensate you for your time.”

“No. I’m confident that I can teach him what he needs to know, and it’d be my pleasure to tutor him. I’m not looking to be paid.”

“So it’s settled then.”

“I just don’t think it’s that easy.”

Fran and Pauline seemed confused.

“What is it then?” she asked.

“Is Billy good in school?”

“Yes. He’s a serious student.”

“That makes this more difficult. These decisions will affect his entire childhood. If he’s going to be a professional, he needs to dedicate his life to the game. He’ll miss out on playing touch football and baseball with his friends. I’m not sure I’d want that for anyone, especially not an intelligent young man who has the prospect of doing something engaging and productive with his life.”

“Unfortunately, Billy doesn’t get to play much touch football living here.”

“I understand, but I want you both to understand the kind of commitment I’m talking about. When I say refining a short game will take a few years, I mean a few years practicing six hours a day, seven days a week. From the moment school ends until sunset, he’s got to be out there every day putting in the time. There’s no in-between with this. If he wants to succeed, he needs to dedicate his life to golf.”

Fran and Pauline listened carefully to every word he said, nodding

their heads from time to time. When he’d finished, they sat quietly for a moment, digesting.

Fran spoke next. “We appreciate your laying it out for us like this. It’s real obvious that you’ve been honest with us and that you’ve given this a great deal of thought.”

“We appreciate it very much,” echoed Pauline.

“Ultimately, the decision has to be Billy’s,” Fran said. “It’s his life. He has to decide what do with it.”

Pauline nodded her head in agreement. This seemed like a fine example of modern parenting, but it gave David pause all the same.

“Do you think Billy can make a meaningful choice?” David asked. “He’s only fifteen, after all. I’m not sure any fifteen-year old could understand the consequences of a decision like this.”

“That’s where you come in,” Fran said. “He won’t be making these decisions without guidance. You can tell him what it was like playing golf as a junior, making a living at the game, and being on the road. We know you’ll give him a balanced picture.”

David winced. “I’m not equipped to handle that responsibility, Fran. I’m an old man myself, and I don’t know the first thing about kids.”

“If you ask me, you know a great deal about kids,” Fran said with a smile. “And you’re not old by any stretch if you don’t mind my saying.”

“You must really like children,” Pauline added. “Not everybody would help a stranger in this way.”

David hardly recognized himself in the portrait that the Conways had pained of him.

“When I was young, I had a teacher who tried to make a difference in my life. I still remember him fondly.”

“Is it because of him that you became a golfer?”

“No. It’s because of him that I almost didn’t become a golfer.”

As Pauline collected David’s empty plate, she touched on the shoulder. It felt as if she understood. “We trust you completely,” she said. “And we thank you for your interest in our grandson.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all we could ever ask,” said Fran.

It felt like a weighty moment, but Pauline bounced from her chair. “Before you fret too much about how important golf should be in Billy’s life, I think you need to see something. I think it’ll help you understand Billy.”

She walked to the cabinet and opened a drawer filled with stacks of photographs and videotapes. Pauline selected one and inserted it in the VCR.

“This is a tape of Billy’s sixth birthday party,” she said as she pressed play.

It could have been any six-year-old’s party. There were Happy Meals from McDonald’s, streamers, hats, doting parents, a magician, apples, pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and a piñata. The birthday boy with the toothy grin and the three-sizes-too-big Atlanta Braves hat could’ve been anyone, but David recognized Billy immediately. His earnestness and warmth couldn’t be mistaken.

David smiled as he watched the young Billy tear open his presents—a car racing set, a video game, shoes (which no six-year old could want to matter how nice they might be, though Billy expressed thanks to an aunt), and finally the last and best present. The video camera panned to a man and a woman, Billy’s parents, dead now but alive then. They wore their own Cheshire cat grins and held a large, ungainly package wrapped untidily in strips of paper. Billy checked out the gift, then mischievously looked at his parents as if they were co-conspirators. They handed him the present and smiled as he tore into it. Just as Billy suspected, it was a set of clubs cut down to his size. Hugs and kisses and proclamations of love ensued.

At this point the tape cut off and resumed, apparently later the same day, in the family’s backyard, as Billy and his father put the new clubs to use. They did almost everything imaginable with the clubs. They played hockey. Billy hit slap shots with a seven-iron, which his dad fended off by using a driver as a goalie stick. They fenced with the clubs—maybe epee style, maybe foil. Billy even took a couple of swings at a golf wiffle ball, though this somehow led to a wrestling match. Father and son were soon rolling in the grass, spreading mud on one another’s faces and laughing in glee.

Here the tape ended and did not resume.

“That was our son,” Pauline said. “He and his wife—Billy’s mom— died in a car accident two days after Christmas that year. That was their last birthday together. You see how happy Billy was there.”

David saw it. Anyone could have recognized the joy in that scene. In fact, the joy in the video was so abundant that most people wouldn’t have noticed anything else. Though David wished that he could have focused exclusively on the love between father and son, one didn’t simply turn off instincts that had been honed over decades. What David fixated on, in spite of himself, was that six-year-old Billy, who clearly loved his father more than anything in the world, had a fundamentally solid golf swing.

“If golf can help make Billy happy in some way to help him get out of here, we’d be grateful to you,” Pauline concluded.

David stood up. “All right, I’ll talk to Billy. I’ll explain everything to him.”

Fran extended his hand. “Thank you for everything, David. My wife and I trust you completely.”

David again wondered to himself what he’d done in his life to merit that trust, but one couldn’t very well articulate such a thought at a moment when people were placing their faith in you. David shook Fran’s

hand and said simply, “I’ll do my best,” and hoped that his best would be better than it had ever been before.