I dragged my sorry butt over to the golf course after several calls from the caddymaster.  Underslept and over-served, I really needed a week to recover from my freshman year at college, but my mom made me call the club back. In the days before caller ID and things of that nature, you took every call as it came in.  I didn’t even want to come home from school, but the money had gotten pretty good, caddying was easy, and Williamsburg was miserable in the summer. 

“I got a bag for you. Kid’s really good. He’s probably going to win. His dad said to give him my best caddy, so I’ve been saving him for you.”  Mike the caddymaster was blowing smoke up my backside.  He always did this before he gave you a bad bag.  I didn’t love it, but actually, it was fine.  I’d missed the entire spring due to school, I was a week later than all the other college kids because of beach week, and I needed a favor in the bank.  I’d call this in later, when some random B-list celeb came to play the club mid-week. I don’t know why guys like Huey Lewis or Joe Pesci (who stiffed me when I set his group up on carts) came to play at our place, because the course was pretty boring.  If it wasn’t ten minutes from the beach and overrun by old money Wall Street stuffed shirts and their Jordan Belfort starter-kit sons, it wouldn’t need to exist. My orthodontist’s brother in law tried to kill Ivan Boesky. This is where I grew up. 

It was the MGA Boys Match Play championship.  A bunch of snot-nosed tweens who’d be trustafarians or run their dad’s hedge fund or die face down in a pile of cocaine with mid-level model next to them.  This would be my fate for the next few days.  There wouldn’t be any other loops, so I figured I’d make the best of it.  So I trudged out to the range to witness this second coming of Paul Azinger and figure out how i could mentally check out. But as I walked up the range, I heard something. 

His ball had that sound.  I didn’t get to hear it much since I aged out of junior golf.  Maybe two guys at the club could make that sound.  Gopher’s ball made that sound, but he dropped out of college in a semester after winning his team’s qualifying tournament.  I heard he was working in a pet store.  I’m off topic. 

Upon hearing that sound, I immediately sobered up and stood up straight.  The caddymaster came running out and got to the kid’s dad ahead of me.  I swear I thought he was going to stroke out.  “I saved my best guy for your boy,” he said.  I just shook my head and looked at the ground.  He finally, mercifully, left and left so I could look up again.  The kid’s dad stuck out a hand that looked like a catcher’s mitt, and it engulfed mine.  “Jimmy Romano,” he said, “and that’s my son Jamie.”  They were from North Jersey, and he came straight out of central casting for the Sopranos.  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Mike. Mike Eovino.” 

He smiled a familiar smile. I wasn’t part of the family, but I was probably a long lost cousin ten times removed.  Small talk continued for a bit, and then he asked me – “So do you think we have a chance?”  

“If he hits it where I tell him to, I like our chances.” 

Jamie finished the last of his range balls, and I walked up to his Ping bag.  I unzipped the side pocket, pulled out his sneakers, and handed them to his dad.  He gave me a look, and for a minute I thought I was:

1. Off the bag
2. Going to be dead
3. All of the above 

But he took them back to the shop as Jamie and I headed to the first tee for his practice round. 

After three easy pars, Jamie caught his tee shot on no 4 a little toe-side and didn’t get it past the “go” tree.  He asked for the yardage and pulled out his three wood.  “You should lay up,” I said. “You’re not past the go tree.  It’s too far.” 

“You think i can’t hit this 210?  Only 190 carry, you said.” 

“I know you can carry it far enough normally.  But you’re in a low spot here.  Blocked from the wind.  You can’t feel it, but it’s up at the green.  I can’t get there from here. You can’t get there from here.  No one goes for it if they’re not past the tree.” 

“I can do it.  Just you watch.”  His dad gave me a look that said don’t f— with my son. 

He ripped that three wood, and for a few seconds, I thought I was wrong.  But like so many ripped three woods from the wrong side of the tree, the ball hit a wall of wind right at the creek and dropped in helplessly.

Jaime turned bright red, and Big Jimmy said, “You listen to Mike from now on. He knows what he’s talking about.”  He looked sufficiently chastened, and I told him where to land his fourth for an easy par. 

“I had to learn the hard way too,” I told him.  “Better to find this out now.”

The rest of the practice round was uneventful.  But no one was going to beat this kid as long as he didn’t beat himself. 

On the third hole of his first match, he was between clubs on his approach shot.  “I know you want to go after this front pin, I told him, but the apron stays wet, and we’re playing it down. You’ll get a mud ball. Hit it past the flag, two putt and get out. You won’t lose this hole with a par.”  He did just as I said and left himself a 30 footer.  His opponent took on the flag, and came up a little short.  As expected, his ball was covered in mud. He could barely get it on the green, and we won with an easy par. 

Frankly, the rest of the tournament was pretty boring.  He hit the clubs I told him to, he hit them where I told him to, and none of his matches went past 16.  His dad put several hundreds in my hand as we walked off the last green.  Then he gave me his business card. Romano’s Carting and Hauling, it read.  “You call me if you ever need anything, he told me. Anything.” 

“Yes sir,” I told him.  “I will.” 

I still have that card. 

By Mike Eovino