The Tenth Hole Bridge
by Andy Wilkinson
Copyright 2011 by Andy Wilkinson
The Tenth Hole Bridge
“Psssst!”
Bobby Lambert froze at the top of his backswing. He dropped the club head to the ground, knocking his ball off the tee. He turned toward the old wooden bridge, leading from the ninth green to the tenth tee box. The “psssst” sound came from that direction, but there was nobody on the bridge. A human had to have made that sound but he was the only person left on the golf course. All other players had gone to the clubhouse.
“Must be hearing things,” he mumbled.
He looked at his watch: one hour until sundown . . . better get going. The front nine had sucked, and he would be lucky to break a hundred, so he might as well hurry up and end the torture. When the golfing gods were angry, nothing could appease them. Just take your lumps and try another day.
He returned his Titleist to the tee, addressed the ball, and prepared to swing. He started his backswing, nice and smooth, good form—
“PSSST!”
This time the club left his hands in mid-backswing, flew up into a tree, and stuck for a second before falling to the ground.
“Pssst, Bobby, over here.” The voice came from the direction of the old bridge.
He jerked his head around to see a man emerging from under the bridge, a tiny little man, maybe four feet tall. He was pale and gaunt, and had on a suit that looked like something from the eighteenth century.
“You look a bit peaked there, fella,” said the little man, as he began walking up the hill to the tee box. “I hope I didn't startle you.”
“Startle me . . . well, no . . . I mean yes, yes you startled me. Who are you and how do you know my name?”
“Tops is my name,” the little man said, extending his hand. Bobby shook it with a timid grip. “Everybody just calls me Tops. As for knowing your name . . . well, let's just say that when you've been around as long as me, you find ways of learnin' things, and I've been around a long time,” he said, and smiled at Bobby.
The golfer stared at him for a moment, waiting for his brain to catch up before opening his mouth again. The little man was charming, his smile broad and provocative, but insincere. It was the smile of a crafty salesman preparing to close a big deal.
“I'm seeing things,” Bobby said, turning away from the little man. “First I'm hearing things, and now I'm seeing a leprechaun dressed like Ben Franklin.”
“Oh, no, I'm quite real, young man, you're not just seein’ things. But you will see things, yes indeed. I'm goin' to show you some things you won't believe.”
Bobby rubbed his eyes and turned back toward the little man. He was still there.
Geez.
“Show me things I won't believe? Okay,” Bobby said. “I think I might be hallucinating, but I'll play along. What is this all about?”
“I'm here to offer you the deal of a lifetime.”
“The deal of a lifetime?” Bobby rubbed his right temple and tried to remember if he still had the bottle of Advil in his golf bag.
“Yessir, I am,” Tops said, waving an old putter he used for a cane. “It's goin' to be greater than your wildest dreams.”
“All right,” Bobby said, “I'm waiting.”
Tops pulled a golf ball from the oversized side pocket of his coat. The ball appeared to be made of gold and it sparkled, reflecting the late afternoon sun. He worked the ball around in his hand as he stood there looking at Bobby, regarding him with a sly predatory eye.
“Well, young fella, like I said, I've come to make a deal with you.” He watched Bobby, anticipating a reaction, gauging the possibility of a sale.
Bobby watched the ball rolling around in Tops’ hand. “A deal? What kind of a deal?” he asked, playing along.
“Plenty of time for that. First, let me ask you something.” The little man shifting gears, keeping Bobby off balance. “Do you think golf is a game that could be better played with a touch of magic?” He cocked his head and waited, watching out of the corner of his eye.
“Magic?” Bobby shifted his gaze to the little man's eyes, “Magic . . . what are you talking about? I don't believe in magic. Get to the point, Tops, or whoever you are. I'm running out of daylight.”
Tops bent down and gingerly placed the golden ball on the tee. “Where is the absolute perfect spot for a tee shot to come to rest in this fairway?” he asked, standing upright to his full four-foot height.
Bobby looked at the golden ball on the tee, then back at the little man. “So, you are going hit that ball three hundred yards down the middle with that funny looking old putter you're leaning on.”
Tops threw his head back and howled with laughter. “Oh no, young man, my golfing days are far behind me. I'm playin' a much different game these days. Now tell me, truly, where is the perfect spot in this fairway for you to hit the ball?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Okay, I said I would play along. What's it going to hurt? You see that tree?” He pointed to a large oak guarding the left side of the fairway. “Just about ten yards to the right of that tree is a perfect shot. That's two hundred and ninety yards with a slight draw on the ball. From there it's an easy eight iron to the green with no traps in the way. But for me . . . impossible.”
“Ah, but nothin's impossible. I've been watchin' you, and you're a pretty good—” “Watching! . . . Oh, never mind.”
“Now, step up to the golden ball and see what you can do.”
“I can't believe this,” Bobby said, “I'm hitting a weird looking golf ball that came from some kind of . . . leprechaun that lives under a bridge. Well, hell, after that front nine I'm willing to try anything.”
While preparing to strike the ball, Bobby felt a sudden change in the air, almost like a slight drop in temperature, or barometric pressure, a front coming through, maybe. But no . . . it wasn't the weather, it was different somehow, almost electrical, an energy field of some sort. Strange. He dismissed it and stepped up to the golden golf ball.
He took a slow steady backswing and came down in the slot, the club head followed through the ball in a textbook arc. The ball shot off the tee, the speed and trajectory sending it on the desired path. A tracer of golden dust hung on the air in the ball's wake, marking its flight, then floated delicately to the ground. The ball landed, rolled a few yards and stopped in perfect position.
“Geez!” Bobby stood there with his mouth open while the little man giggled with delight.
“You see, nothin's impossible.”
Silence.
“All right, who are you. Who the hell are you?” Bobby said, and lowered the club head to the ground. “That was a trick . . . some kind of a trick ball. What are you . . . from the circus? Is this a sideshow gimmick?” He stared down at the little man.
“Oh no, that ball was most certainly real.” Tops picked up the Titleist Bobby was preparing to hit earlier and placed it on the tee. “Here, give it another try.”
“Okay . . . okay . . . I get it. The guys are playing a little trick on ol' Bobby. You want me to believe that my ball is going to go as far as that trick ball, right? Who put you up to this? Was it Smith or Bloomfield?”
“Oh, it's not a trick, Bobby, but you'll never know 'til you try,” Tops said, a little grin bending the corners of his mouth.
Bobby stared at him for a moment and almost said no, nearly dismissed the whole thing as a terrible game his friends . . . or his mind, were playing on him. In that moment of hesitation, Bobby Lambert came close to dropping his driver back into the golf bag and walking away. But he waited a second too long.
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“Come on, you know you gotta try.”
“Oh, well . . . why not?”
Bobby addressed the ball, not taking as much time as before, and hit a shot that perfectly duplicated the previous one. Tops' ball exploded into a cloud of golden dust as Bobby's Titleist blasted through it and rolled another ten yards. “What was that you said about a deal?” he asked, frozen in perfect follow-through.
Those were the two best tee shots I’ve ever made, he thought. No, they were better than that, they were perfect.
“Perfect,” Tops said, as if reading Bobby's mind. “And you did it twice in a row.” His voice now carried a faint serpentine quality, soothing and reassuring.
. “The deal, Tops . . . tell me about the deal.”
“Okay, I'll tell you, but first you must know that many a golfer has passed by my bridge and accepted my deal. Famous men, men whose names you'd recognize, goin’ back as far as the nineteenth century. Oh, no, you aren't the first, and I dare say you won't be the last. But