Balls By: Buzz Tanner In July of 1971, an alligator got into the water hazard on the third hole of the country club of Mill City, Alabama. The alligator was not very big, only about three feet long, but it was not a young alligator. It was stunted. It had a normal sized head but a dwarfed body. It looked fearsome when it was in the water with only its head visible, but on the bank it was ludicrous. Still, the caddies were frightened of it, and that hurt Mr. Robert's pocketbook. Mr. Robert, a skinny man with slicked-back, World War II hair, was the superintendent at the Mill City Country Club. He ran a part-time golf shop out of one end of the caddy shack on Tuesday mornings, Thursday afternoons, and all day Saturday. He sold golf shirts, golf towels, tees, balls and clubs. One of his most popular items was used balls. He sold the used balls for 25 cents apiece from a bucket kept by the cash register. The used balls came from the water hazard. The club was open on Sunday, closed on Monday. It was tradition for the caddies to go swimming in the water hazard on Mondays and dive for the balls that had been hit into it during the week. Mr. Robert paid them a dime apiece for the ones that weren't cut up too badly to resell. There were six caddies that summer. A-Ray, Jello, Hollywood, Reb, Moose, and Mouse. They were white. There was also Willie. Willie was black. He was Mr. Robert's assistant and was the first black person ever hired to work outside at the Mill City Country Club, although the inside help, like Hygenia the cook and Ole Coon the bartender, had always been black. When Mr. Robert hired Willie, he had told him, "We usually give this job to a white boy, but they all getting so sorry they won't do no real work no more. All they want to do is play golf or at least caddy. No wonder we getting our butts kicked in Viet Nam." On the Tuesday that Mr. Robert ran out of balls, he confronted the caddies on the porch of the caddyshack, where four of them were playing cards and two were watching. Willie was nearby, scraping and painting the porch posts. "I can't believe you boys is so scared of that gator that you'll let good money slip through your fingers," he told them. "You pay us a dime, man," Jello said. Jello was blond and fat. He played tackle for the Saints, the football team of the Mill City High School. All the caddies played on the football team. Willie did not play on the football team. In fact, up until now, he had not gone to school with the caddies, although he would in the fall when, for the first time, the white students and the black students would attend the same school in Mill City. "Will you go get them balls if I give you the whole quarter?" Mr. Robert asked. "I ain't diving in no pond with no gator in it if you pay me a dollar a ball," Mouse said. Mouse and Moose were twins, but Mouse was a lot smaller than Moose. He talked more though. Mr. Robert turned to Reb, who was playing with a red, goofy-golf ball, throwing it up and catching it. "What about you, Reb?" Mr. Robert said. "You got gumption." Reb just shook his head. "You boys bout beat all I ever seen for sorry," Mr. Robert told them. "Nothing stopping you from diving for those balls yourself, man," A-Ray said. A-Ray was the quarterback of the football team. He was tall and wore his hair longer than the others. He sometimes came over to where Willie was working and talked to him. Mr. Robert stared at A-Ray for a moment before he spoke. "No, I won't dive for balls, but I tell you what I'll do. I'll get my rifle and shoot that little pissant gator, and then maybe you boys won't be so scared no more." "Don't kill the gator, Mr. Robert," Willie said. "I'll dive for your balls." "Like hell, you will," Reb said. "I don't care nothing about it," Willie said. "I just doing it so the gator don't get shot. If you want to get them balls, be my guest." A-Ray laughed. He punched Reb on the shoulder. "What about it, Reb? You goan get them balls?" Reb thought about it a minute. "Hell no," Reb decided. "Let tarbaby go if he got the guts. Which he don't." "Do you want me to get em today?" Willie asked Mr. Robert. "Well, that ain't the way it's usually done," Mr. Robert said. "But I need them balls. Why don't you wait around after quitting time until it gets too dark for any more golfers to tee off, and then we'll go down there and get a few. Just enough for me to have some to sell." "Yeah, in dark, you won't even see that gator coming," Reb said. "I figure it the other way round," Willie said. "Since I'm black, he won't be able to see me." "But he'll smell you, tarbaby. He'll smell the yellow in you." Willie waited at the golf shop until the last two-some, hoping to get in a fast nine with a cart, teed off at 6:00. They cleared Number Three about a quarter of seven, and Willie and Mr. Robert went down to the water hazard. The caddies were there, gathered around the bank. The alligator was in the middle of the pond, just its fierce head showing. Fear seized Willie then, like an ugly bird swooping down from an unexpected perch. It did not carry him off. It paralyzed him. He stood frozen on the bank of the pond, only a few feet from the water's edge but as far away as Africa from where he wanted to go. Then Reb yelled, "What's the matter, tarbaby? Yo yellow knees knocking?" And that freed Willie's head. He looked at Reb, then at the alligator, stepped forward, stripped down to his shorts, and waded into the pond. The water was warm, like urine; the bottom soil, oozy and disgusting. It mushed up unpleasantly between his toes with each step he took. But Willie marched steadily out into the pond until the water was above his waist. Then he crouched down and began to swim gently, holding his head above the surface but keeping his arms and legs moving frog-like beneath it so that he would not disturb the bottom soil and turn the water murky. He swam out toward the middle, toward the alligator. The cloth sack Mr. Robert had given him in which to collect the golf balls was slung across his chest like an ammunition pouch. "Looks like dark meat for gator supper," Reb shouted. "You be careful," Mr. Robert called, his voice higher than usual. "Gator bait. Gator bait. Gator bait," Reb began to chant. First Mouse, then Moose took it up. Then all the caddies except A-Ray joined in. "Gator bait. Gator bait." "Shut up you little chickenshits," Mr. Robert shouted. The caddies ignored him. "Knock it off guys," A-Ray told them, but they kept on chanting. "I said, 'Knock it off,'" he told them again, this time more like he was calling plays in a huddle. Everybody but Mouse and Reb stopped. "Knock it off, Reb," he said a third time. "Bite me," Reb said, but Mouse stopped. The gator's head did not move as Willie approached, but Willie knew that it was watching him with the one golf-ball size eye that Willie could see. About 20 yards from the alligator, Willie stopped his advance and began to tread water. He took a deep breath and dived to the bottom, which was about six feet under. The bottom was bestrewn with golf balls. Willie plucked some gently from where they lay and filled his sack quickly. When he came back up to the top, the gator was still there and Reb was still chanting. And then with Willie looking straight at it, the alligator dived. "Woo-ooo, gator bait," Reb shouted. "You're gator bait now, nigger." A-Ray walked briskly from where he stood at one end of the line of caddies to the other end where Reb stood. Eye to eye with Reb, A-Ray told him, "Shut up, Reb." "Kiss my ass," Reb said. A-Ray put a firm hand on Reb's chest and pushed him down. Reb sprung up and tackled A-Ray. They rolled on the ground, wrestling but not punching. "Goddamn you little sonofabitches," Mr. Robert cried out and ran to where the caddies were. Willie turned away from where the gator had disappeared and swam toward the shore, still swimming gently, still careful not to murk up the water. His mind imagined the alligator swimming right behind him, right behind his kicking feet, its jaws opened wide like tongs, like pliers, like a trap. His mind's eye vividly saw the alligator's fierce head, but then it also saw the gator's stunted, ridiculous body, and the fear that had been oozing up in Willie washed away like dirt. As Willie emerged from the pond, Mr. Robert was separating Reb and A-Ray. "Look," Jello said loudly. Everybody turned and looked to where he was pointing. The alligator was climbing out on the bank opposite the caddies. As they watched, it waddled off toward the woods. Reb cursed it. "You chickenshit sonofabitch," he shouted. He dug in his pocket, took out his red golf ball, and threw it at the gator. He missed, and the ball rolled into the woods. All the other caddies laughed. "Fuck all y'all," Reb said. He turned his back on them and stomped off. Willie emptied his sack into a tub that Mr. Robert had brought. Then he swam back out and made another haul. Long before it got too dark to see, he had filled up Mr. Robert's tub. Mr. Robert gave him $20 without even counting the balls and culling out the cut ones. Willie took the $20 home and came back to the work the next morning as usual. But Reb did not show up for work that day. Or the next. "Maybe the little shit's quit," Mr. Robert said hopefully. On Friday, A-Ray came and found Willie. "We got a problem," he said. "There's a bunch of blanket-factory bosses coming out to play 18 this afternoon, and we need six caddies, and we ain't got but five. Can you help us out?" It was about 10:00 o'clock. Willie was helping Mr. Robert store fertilizer in a shed. Actually, Willie was lifting the 50 lb. sacks from the flat-bed trailer hitched to the back of Mr. Robert's pick-up, toting them into the shed, and stacking them in neat columns and rows. Mr. Robert was sitting in the shade, showing Willie where the sacks went. Willie hoisted a sack onto his shoulder without grunting and asked A-Ray, "What you mean?" "I mean caddy. They want to play two foursomes. We can swing it with six caddies but we can't do it with five. You'd have to carry two bags." "I don't know nothing about caddying," Willie said. "Ain't nothing to it. Just tote the bags. They'll ask some dumb-ass questions. But I'll partner with you and answer em. They'll be drunk by the fifth hole, anyway." Willie didn't answer. He just looked at A-Ray silently, reminding him of the old truth. "Don't worry none about being colored," A-Ray said. "They all Yankees. From Delaware. They don't give a shit." "It's up to Mr. Robert," Willie said, looking at his boss. "I can't pay you out of the groundskeeping fund if you ain't doing goundskeeping work," Mr. Robert said. "Well, hell, pay him out of the caddy fund," A-Ray said. "He ain't on the caddy payroll," Mr. Robert objected. "These are goddamn blanket-factory corporate bosses. You know the Board'll be pissed if we don't make em happy. My daddy'll be raising hell." "Well, I guess I can put him on the caddy payroll," Mr. Robert said. "But just temporary." "The yankees supposed to be here at 1:00," A-Ray told Willie. "They'll probably be late, but come over to caddy-shack at 12:30 anyway." Willie nodded. A-Ray left. "I guess I'll have to drive the goddamn tractor this afternoon myself," Mr. Robert said. The blanket-factory yankees didn't get to the club until almost 2:00 and were not changed and ready to play until after 2:30. Until then, Willie sat on the porch of the caddy shack and watched the caddies play poker. There were eight yankees. Mouse, Moose and Hollywood took the first four. A-Ray, Jello and Willie got the second four. Willie's yankees told the caddies to call them by their first names: Bill, Henry, Chuck, and Lee. A-Ray explained about Willie before they teed off. "This is Willie," he said. "He ain't never caddied before. He's just filling in for one of the regulars that's out. So he don't know nothing about distance or the course. I've caddied longest, so if it's ok, I'll answer questions from anybody." "We're not likely to require much assistance," said Henry. "We have all seen a golf course before." Henry was short, but looked strong. He was dressed in checkered knickers, an orange shirt, and a tartan Carnoustie. "But you haven't seen this golf course, Henry," said Chuck, who seemed to be the head yankee. He was wearing a knit shirt and slacks. "This one may test you a tad, as they say around here." "What's a 'tad'?" "It's a little bit," Willie said, surprised at himself for speaking. "Well, it looks as if Willie can answer some questions," Chuck said. "Sorry," Willie said. "Didn't mean to talk out of turn." "Not at all. I think the rest of us, unlike Henry, will appreciate all the local enlightenment we can get. I know I will. I have seen your golf course. I left three balls in your water hazard the last time I was here." "We got an alligator in there now," A-Ray said. "Unless Willie run him off," Jello said. "Yeah," A-Ray said. "Willie went in the water with him the other day. Came out with a sack full of balls." "Is that right?" Chuck asked. He gave Willie a long look, like there was something about him that he might have missed the first time. "I'm not afraid of your water hazard," Henry said. "I've played Augusta's." "We fucking know that you have fucking played fucking Augusta," Lee said. "And fucking Pebble Beach. And that you won the fucking company tournament last year." "But it wasn't this company," Chuck said. "Do you want to make it $50 a hole?" Henry asked. "No, $20 is sufficiently steep for me. Let's keep it friendly." "Let's," Henry said. The Yankees called their game "best ball skins rollover." Henry and Bill made up one team. Chuck and Lee another. A-Ray took Chuck's bag. Jello caddie for Lee. Willie had to carry both Henry's and Bill's bags, but he did not figure that he had gotten the worst deal, because Jello had to carry the metal cooler, which full of beer and did not have a shoulder strap. On the first tee, Chuck and Lee won the coin flip, and Lee teed off. Willie thought his ball went pretty far. Bill hit next, and his ball did not go as far as Lee's, though it was nearer the center of the fairway. Then Chuck. His ball went high and landed right in the middle of the fairway and rolled 20 yards farther than Lee's shot. Jello whistled. But then Henry went. He waggled and wiggled with what appeared to Willie to be ridiculous exaggeration, like something to laugh at in an old Laurel and Hardy movie, but when he coiled and swung, Willie was astonished. There was a smooth precision in his swing that was missing from the swings of the others. The ball sprang from the clubhead, leapt into the air, and ran when it hit the ground so that it came to rest 30 yards beyond Chuck's ball and exactly in the center of the fairway. "Wow, that was a thing of beauty," Jello said, shouldering Lee's bag and picking up the beer cooler. Henry turned and smiled at Chuck. Willie thought it a mean smile that said, "Kiss my ass" or something worse. "You the man, Henry," Chuck said.

All the yankees hit the green with their seconds shots. It was a large green, but not as generous as it appeared. There was a second tier to it. Bill's and Lee's balls landed short and stayed on the first tier. Chuck's shot hit just beneath the rise and ran up it. Henry played to the rear of the green and backspun his ball deftly to within three feet of the hole. Bill and Lee bogeyed. Chuck pared. Henry birdied. Money exchanged hands. And that was the way the first eight holes of the afternoon went. Henry was usually one shot better than anyone else, with the "anyone else" being Chuck. On the water-hazard hole, Chuck and Henry both went for the green, while their partners laid up. They both took par. While they putted, Willie's eyes searched the water for signs of the gator, but he didn't see any. He did see one swirl, but he wasn't sure what it meant. Chuck tied Henry again on the short par-five eighth hole, this time with a birdie. But that was it. When a skin was won, it always fell to Henry. On the tee at nine, Henry prepared to address the ball first, but stopped and looked again at the green, which was visible from the tee. "Par four?" he asked. "Par four," A-Ray affirmed. "270?" "262." Henry smiled - wickedly, it seemed to Willie. He handed the club he had chosen back to Willie, and said, "Let me have the driver. That's the big one." Willie had learned by then which club was the driver, and did not need to be told again, but he handed the club to Henry without saying anything. "Them greenside bunkers are deep and steep," A-Ray warned, "and that gap between them ain't but four foot wide." Henry looked at each of his three golfing companions and then said, "Did I ever tell you guys that I've played in Scotland? At a little place called St. Andrews?" Henry addressed the ball, waggled and wiggled, and hit it hard. It was a powerful shot, but the line was not quite perfect. The ball strayed left and entered a trap. "Mother-fucker," Henry said and tossed the club to Willie, who caught it easily and replaced it in the bag. The other three yankees smiled. They chose irons and played short. The ninth green was elevated, small and simple. Bill, Lee and Chuck all hit shots that put their balls near the pin. Then they gathered behind the trap as Henry climbed down into it. The bunker was deep, the sand loose, and the bank before the green almost perpendicular to the floor of the trap. Henry's lie was as ugly as an alligator. In fact, his ball, burrowed down in the sand at the far end of the trap, looked to Willie sort of like a gator's eye, except that it was white instead of black. Henry cursed. Then he became quiet and stared, first at his ball, then at the bank, and then at the flagpole that marked the location of the hole. Finally, he waggled and wigged himself into position, cocked his club like a weapon, and took a mighty swing, exploding sand into a storm. But when it had fallen back to earth, his ball lay essentially where and as it had, though perhaps more buried. Henry swore viciously. Chuck snickered and Henry glared at him. Henry took a $50 bill from his crocodile-hide wallet and tossed it onto the floor of the sand trap. "Fucking Mulligan," he said. "You only get one," Chuck told him. "I'll only need one," Henry said. Again, he waggled and wiggled himself into the sand, took a mighty swing, and exploded another storm. The ball rose from the sand, but straight up in the air, like a popping cork, and fell back to where it had lain. Henry howled an exceptional curse. Chuck laughed. Henry turned on him. "And you can fucking do better?" "I can show Willie here how to hit a better sand shot than that," Chuck said. Henry peeled five $20's from his wallet, which was bloated with the skins he had won, and tossed them beside the Mulligan $50, which was now largely covered up with sand. "Put your fucking money where your fucking mouth is, motherfucker," Henry said to him. "Ok by me," Chuck said. "What about it, Willie?" Willie was standing apart from everyone else, the bags he had carried unshouldered and held at rest. "Nawsir," he answered, "I'd better not. I don't want to cause no trouble." "Get your ass down here in this trap, boy," Henry ordered. "Shut up, Henry," Chuck said, his tone military. He walked over to where A-Ray was standing. Willie thought he meant to get A-Ray to take the shot, but instead he selected a club from his own bag and brought it to Willie. When he spoke, his voice was friendly and confident, but he kept it low, so that only Willie would be able to hear. "This is a sand wedge, Willie," he said. "It's the best part of my game. I know I can show you how to hit this shot. We can do this, Willie. We can teach this asshole a lesson." Willie liked the sound of "we," but he was afraid. He knew that tomorrow the yankees would be gone and whatever trouble there was, he would have to face alone. Still, it was tempting - to hold a club and make a swing. But he knew how things were. "Nawsir, I ain't the one you need," he dissembled. "You best get you one of them white boys to do it." "If you are worried about your job," Chuck said, "don't be. The continuing prosperity of at least half of the members of the board of this club depends on my being happy. You can caddy here as long as you want to." "I ain't no caddy," Willie said. "I'm just the groundskeeper's help." Chuck smiled. He had a smile like a movie star's, bright and positive. "Well, I think it remains to be seen what you are, Willie. But what you do here is up to you. There won't be any repercussions whether you hit this shot or not. And that's a promise." "What you fairies doing up there?" Henry called. "Getting engaged?" "Patience, Henry," Chuck said. And then without knowing exactly why he made the choice he did, Willie decided. "I'll do it," he said. "Good man," Chuck said and slapped Willie on the shoulder. Willie laid the bags he had been carrying down gently on the ground, and he and Chuck walked together into the trap. They stopped at the back of the bunker, well away from the ball. "How about giving us some space?" Chuck said to Henry. Henry climbed out of the trap, grumbling. Chuck held his club out to Willie and said, "Show me your swing." Willie took the club and swung it like a baseball bat at the sand. "No," Chuck said. "That's not the way." Chuck fixed Willie's hands in an interlocking grip. He corrected the positioning of Willie's feet, made him bend his knees slightly, and straightened his left arm at the elbow. Then he led Willie through the takeback, the backswing, and the follow-through. "Try again," he said. Willie swung. "Better," Chuck judged. With his own foot, Chuck drew a line in the sand leading away from Willie's left foot. "Hit that line, Willie." Willie did. Chuck redrew the line. "Again." Willie hit the line again. "One more time." Willie hit the line a third time. "Come with me," he said and led Willie over to Henry's lie. The ball was still half-buried in sand, and it was right at the base of the bunker's face, its wall, which was about as high as Chuck's chin, and he was tall. Willie's heart sank. "I don't see how we can get that ball over that wall," Willie said. "Just trust me," Chuck said. "What I want you to do is step up to the ball so that your left foot is about even with it." Willie stepped up. " Now work your feet down into the sand as far as you can." Willie screwed his feet through the loose sand down to the firmer footing beneath. "Do you know how much two inches is Willie?" Willie took his right hand off the club and held up thumb and fingers spread two inches apart. "Good, Willie. Now remember that line we drew in sand. I want you to draw a line with your mind exactly two inches behind the ball. See it? See it in your mind?" Willie nodded. "Good. Now I want you to use that swing I showed you, and hit that line. I want you to hit hard. As hard as you can." "But I don't have enough room," Willie said. "I'm going to run into the bank." "That's right," Chuck said. "You're going to bury the club into the bank, but it won't break. And one more thing, Willie. Keep your head down. Keep it bowed like you were in church. Don't look up to see where the ball's going. Just make the best swing you can and let the result turn out as it will." "Yes sir," Willie said. "Ready?" Willie nodded. "Then take your shot." Willie took the club back and swung in his best imitation of what Chuck had shown him. He swung hard for the line he had drawn with his mind, and he thought he hit pretty close. His follow-through buried the club into the bank with an impact that sent a shock through his body. But he kept his head down, his eyes constantly fixed on his target; he did not look up to see what the ball did-- which was to rise into the air on a cloud of sand, not straight up and impotently as Henry's ball had done, but up and forward. The ball barely cleared the bunker's cliff, but it did. Just enough. It landed on the green just beyond the fringe and began to roll. It rolled a long way on a true line. It rolled all the way to the hole, where it bumped into the pin and fell into the cup. Willie still had his head bowed, his sight fixed on the point he believed he had to hit. The first he knew of his success was the shouts. He looked up, puzzled, then climbed out of the trap and walked onto the green. The caddies ran up and started slapping him on the back. Chuck strode up, put his arm around Willie's shoulder and hugged him. He turned toward Henry, who still stood off the green. " I believe that qualifies as a better shot. What do you think?" Henry did not answer. Chuck went to Lee, who had been holding the bet, and collected his winnings. Then he walked to the hole and extracted the ball. "Here," he said to Willie, handing him the ball, "put that in your pocket." He took the $200 that had been wagered and put it in his billfold, but he gave the $50 for the Mulligan to Willie. "Put that in your pocket, too," he said. The round was not the same after Willie's shot. Chuck took a risk on the par-five 10th and cut part of the dogleg off by going over the trees. He made birdie and won the hole. Henry found another bunker on 13. This time, he came out of the sand cleanly, but only made par. Chuck birdied again. On the 17th, which was a par three, Lee hit an ugly hook that struck an oak standing by itself in the left rough. His ball caromed onto the green and almost went into the cup. He tapped in for birdie. It was the only hole that Lee won outright in the match. But it was enough, because at the end of the day, back at the clubhouse, the skins were even. "It's a draw," Henry declared, and he seemed satisfied with that - which surprised Willie. "What about $50 in Willie's pocket?" Chuck asked. "Doesn't fucking count," Henry insisted. "It was a draw." "If you say so," Chuck said, but he was smiling. The yankees went to put their clubs in their car. Willie started to leave, but Chuck told him to wait. When Chuck came back, he had a club in his hand. "This is my old lucky seven-iron, Willie. I've had it a long time, but I don't even carry it in my bag any more. I want you to have it to go with your ball. I want you to practice that swing I showed you." "I can't take your club," Willie said. "Sure you can," Chuck said. "I'm giving it to you." He held the club out and Willie took it. He stepped back and swung. It felt good in his hands. "You were right," Chuck told him. "You're not a caddie, Willie. You're a golfer." "I don't think they make no colored golfers," Willie said. "Sure there are black golfers. There just aren't any around here. Yet." Chuck extended his hand. "Gotta go," he said. They shook and both walked away. On Tuesday morning Reb was back at work. Mr. Robert was in the pro shop, opening it up. Willie was there, too, sweeping. Reb had the dead body of the stunted alligator slung over one shoulder. Over the other, he had a bulging hunter's game bag. Reb dumped the gator onto the wooden floor of the pro shop. It made a loud thud, landing on its back. He flipped it over with his foot. The gator stunk. Its body was bloated. There was a single 30.06 bullet-hole between its eyes. "Reb, you sonofabitch," Mr. Robert yelled, "get that stinking shit out of my shop." Reb smiled. His teeth shone like bones in a desert. "I figure a gator that can't keep niggers out of a swimming hole ain't fit to live," he said. He crossed the floor and emptied the contents of his hunting sack into the bucket on Mr. Robert's counter. "Here's your balls back," he said. I ain't even charging you for em." "Good goddamn thing," Mr. Robert said, "cause I ain't paying you for em." Reb reached into his jeans pocket and brought out a red golf ball. He tossed it up and caught it. He turned to Willie and told him, "Take care of my gator for me, will ya boy." Then he walked out of the golf shop, through the door he had left open when he had come in. Willie and Mr. Robert stood in silence looking at the alligator's carcass on the floor, as embarrassing as an accident in somebody's pants. "You don't mind gettin that for me, do you?" Mr. Robert's asked in a subdued voice. "Nawsir," Willie lied. Mr. Robert turned his back on the body and began rearranging stock on the shelves. Willie went over, took the gator by the tail, and heaved it across his shoulder. Gas burped out through its locked jaws. Willie took it out and put it in one of the big metal garbage cans behind the clubhouse. He pushed the lid down tight so it wouldn't stink too bad, and then he knocked on the back door and told the cook what he had done, so that she would not open the can and have a heart attack. But finished with his chore, he did not go back immediately to the golf shop. Instead he walked out onto the men's tee of the 10th hole, the long dog-leg par five that started near the clubhouse. The tee to the 10th was Willie's favorite place on the golf course. It was where he always went when he got to work early and had to wait for Mr. Robert to arrive in his flatulent truck. In the cathedral quiet of the early mornings, with just birds singing and the light of newly risen sun filtering through the gaps in pines that lined the hole on the east, it was a serene spot. And it was nice now, the whole tee still in the shade of the big oak that stood behind it. There were no golfers on the hole yet, and not much noise coming from the clubhouse. Willie stood on the tee and tried to feel in his mind what it would be like to smack a ball so hard that it would roll 327 yards to the point where the fairway veered sharply to the right, leaving only a well-hit short iron to the pin. "Anybody who can hit it that far has got an eagle guaranteed," Mr. Robert had told him one day, when they had been working on the bunkers that guarded the green. "That is, provided he's got any kind of respectable short game at all." Willie had never seen an eagle, neither the flying kind nor the golfing kind, but he liked the sound of the word, which seemed colored with majesty and freedom. None of the members of the Mill City Country Club could drive a ball all the way from the men's tee to the dogleg turn, though there were legends of visiting golfers who had done so. But when he got to work early, Willie liked to stand in the quiet and struggle, without motion or sound, to understand what it would feel like to strike a blow that would result in the guarantee of an eagle. He had never been able to imagine it, not quite, and he couldn't now. But he wanted to. He put his hand in his pocket and closed it around the golf ball that he had been awarded. "Goan be a golfer some day," he said. He liked the way it sounded. So he said it again. "Goan be a golfer. Some day." Then he turned around and went back to work.

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