Miracle at St. Andrews Read online

  After we lay in the extra leaves and push it back together, we head to the kitchen and break out the good stuff—the heirloom silver with McK inscribed on the handles, the crystal glasses, and the fine china. We dig out the small green dishes with trompe l’oeil leaves for Sarah’s cucumber salad, the silver gravy boat and the various tureens and serving dishes for stuffing, Brussels sprouts, and the bird itself. Only when the last fork and knife are in their places do we step back and admire our handiwork.

  Thank God for Thanksgiving, the pilgrims, and the Indians. In anything but the best of times, the other holidays tend to make you feel like crap, but Thanksgiving actually makes you feel thankful, even a middle-aged ex-pro who just lost his card and is inclined to skew dark and see the crystal as half empty. The two weeks since that missed six-footer in Longboat Key have been pretty shaky. It’s great to be home with Sarah, Noah, and the pooch, but I’ve had my share of anxious moments, both about money—with Noah just halfway through grammar school, there are more than a decade of bills still to arrive—and the question of what, if anything, I am going to do next. If you’re one of those people who define themselves by what they do—and who doesn’t—the prospect of not doing much of anything is deeply unsettling. As you already know, I’m not much of a putter. Well I’m even less of a putterer, and left to my own devices, it could get ugly fast.

  Noah and I have laid out seven settings, and it’s going to be wonderful to have the entire two generations of McKinleys gathered around one table. In the last four years, I haven’t seen nearly enough of Simon. At the same time that he was going from a good high school soccer player to an elite national junior to the starting goalie at the University of Virginia, the number three ranked team in the country, I was experiencing my own less likely athletic renaissance (that’s if you’re feeling generous enough to call golf a sport), so the two of us have both spent a lot of time in stadiums and golf courses in different parts of the country. And two weeks ago, he dropped the news that he was bringing a girl, which sent a buzz of anticipation through the household, and when we hear a car in the driveway, Noah and Louie aren’t the only ones beside themselves.

  They must all have shared a cab from the airport, because when I open the front door our adult children and their girlfriends are standing in the slanting November sun. At least until we hustle them into the vestibule, where for the next few minutes it’s every man, woman, child, and dog for himself. At the center of the pawing, flailing, and cooing are Simon, a tall and strapping twenty-one-year-old with thick light brown hair and a lopsided grin, and Jane Anne Lorenzi, an elegant dark-haired woman with porcelain skin. Noah, who sees Simon as his own flesh-and-blood superhero, is clinging to one leg. Beside them in the mosh pit are Elizabeth and her longtime partner and fellow doctor, Sharoz Makarechi. Elizabeth and Sharoz have been an item since med school, and this is Sharoz’s fourth Thanksgiving. Sharoz is such an impressive person and lovely, easy company that she won over the remaining McKinleys as profoundly as she did Elizabeth, particularly Louie, who, truth be told, has a bias toward women that is borderline unseemly.

  6

  ONE OF THE MANY lovely aspects of Thanksgiving is that the feast is preceded by a cocktail party and the hors d’oeuvres are as beloved as the big bird. I pour champagne, Noah doles out shrimp cocktail and those little hot dogs in their baked crust, and we all get our first good look at Jane Anne. I learn in snippets that Jane Anne is not an undergraduate but a second-year grad student working toward a PhD in American studies, and the fact that Simon has brought home a beautiful doctoral candidate at least four years older than himself has the whole room agog, most of all Elizabeth, the family’s reigning intellectual. I’m just happy for him, and as I beam across the room at Sarah, I can’t help but take some small pride in the fact that Simon has upheld an important McKinley tradition, perhaps the most crucial to our long-term prospects, which is to fall for women smarter than we are.

  When we move to the dining room and my eyes can take everyone in at the same time, my pride in my brood only deepens. With the exception of myself, each and every McKinley is not only happy and thriving, they are coursing with youth and love and beauty, not to mention kicking ass and taking names. So much so, I feel compelled to do something I never do on these occasions—which is make a toast. Reminding myself not to mar the occasion with some off-tone flight of improvisation, I reach for my glass, but before I grab hold of it, Simon has beat me to it and is out of his chair, wineglass in hand.

  “I want to say how excited I am that Jane Anne is here and meeting our whole family, all of whom she will soon discover are quite amazing. I also want to let her and everyone else know how happy I am that we are together.”

  Sarah and I glance at each other in merry amazement. First he brings home this amazing young woman, and now he is delivering formal toasts. What’s next?

  These days, my thoughts wander backward at the drop of a hat, and as Simon stands over the table, nervous but not the least bit hesitant, it’s fifteen years ago and I’m on the sidelines of a scaled-down peewee field in Woodhaven Park for his first game in goal. Simon had already made an impression as a precocious athlete, but what amazed the handful of parents that crisp fall morning was that here was a sixty-pound kid who was prepared to dive at the shoe tops of an onrushing player. In almost every soccer game from peewee to the premiership, there is a gladiatorial moment where an opposing player is rushing in on goal and the goalie comes off his line to meet him. In that instant, the goalie has put everything at risk. Once he leaves the line, he has to get at a piece of the ball or more than likely it will end up in the back of his net. To do that, there can’t be an iota of hesitation. All the skill and quickness and speed won’t be enough if you’re not brave, and Simon has always been brave. I just hope his heart is in good hands.

  My mind is still somewhere between that cut-down field and this dining room when Elizabeth raises her glass and clears her throat. “I also want to make a toast,” she says, “and share some wonderful news. Sharoz and I…are pregnant, or, more specifically, Sharoz is. Five months and counting. We don’t know the sex yet and we don’t want to know, but we’ve gotten the results of the amnio and everything looks perfect, so we can’t keep it to ourselves any longer.”

  For what feels like the umpteenth time this afternoon, Sarah and I share a smile and haul aboard this latest development in a lifetime of fascinating twists. Now I have no choice. I don’t have the luxury of sitting on the sidelines any longer. If I don’t make a toast in the next ten seconds, I might as well move out, so before I know what I’m doing, I’m finally up and out of my chair.

  “First of all, I want to second what Simon said so well and welcome Jane Anne. Subjecting yourself to all this McKinley scrutiny is a courageous thing to do, even for such an accomplished young woman. And we’re so glad you did. So thanks again. And speaking of courage, I also of course want to salute Sharoz. This is a brave woman. You have been a part of the family for many years now, but now you have sealed the deal and become family forever. I hope you know just how much affection and admiration and love we all have for you, not just Louie. I also hope that if by chance, you ever decide to have a second child, no pressure, that Elizabeth will do her part as well.”

  I look across at Sarah again, and while her eyes are still merry, this last avoidable quip has evoked more of an eye roll than a smile. All in all, however, I’m about as happy as an unemployed fifty-four-year-old can be. If there is any shadow at all on the proceedings, it’s my regret that somehow Simon, the middle child, has been upstaged again.

  7

  THERE’S NOTHING LIKE DRIVING through the high gates of a snooty country club and seeing that all three cars in the parking lot belong to your closest friends. Now that’s an exclusive club. Parked side by side are an ’83 Volkswagen Passat, which at one point was silver, a ’77 Buick Riviera whose ambitious restoration stalled decades ago, and a Honda minivan so nondescript it would make an excellent getaway vehic
le. Normally I’m the first to arrive, but this morning they’ve all beaten me here, and behind each car, propped on its stand, is a light carry bag as readily recognizable as the cars and their owners. As I park, the side door of the van slides open and I hop into the back row behind Ron Claiborne (the Passat), Dave Flannery (the Buick), and Chuck Hall (the man with the van).

  Hall, an accountant who played center for Gonzaga, doesn’t have kids. He drives minivans because he likes them, and they’re comfortable and roomy even if you’re 6′9″. And unlike with SUVs, there’s no big-guy macho posturing. All three sip coffee from Styrofoam cups, and Hall fills another from his thermos and hands it back to Flannery, who passes it on to me, but not before Claiborne, the morning anchor for the ABC affiliate, tops it from his silver flask. As always, the flask is filled with Canadian Club whiskey and, according to one of the many traditions of our Friday-after-Thanksgiving round, is referred to as “the best club in Claiborne’s bag…by far.” Because it is. Then the four of us, who have been friends for thirty years, touch cups and take a hot, bracing gulp.

  “I ask you,” says Flannery, who has had a long career in marketing, most recently at Abercrombie, “is there a sweeter sound on a cold morning than the chafing of warm Styrofoam?”

  “Not in this car,” says Hall, timing his comment with a fart.

  Says Claiborne, “That’s just Chuck’s way of saying happy Thanksgiving, Travis. What’s new in McKinleyville?”

  “You got a couple minutes?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to jump in front of us,” he says, gesturing at the vacant lot and beyond it the leafless course. I should probably point out that the reason both are empty is because it’s twenty-seven degrees and hasn’t been above thirty-five in two weeks. Also, that Medinah Country Club—one of the best tracks in America and the site of a PGA Championship and a U.S. Open—is closed, which technically may not apply to us, because none of us are members. We’re not fretting the technicalities, because Flannery is related by blood or marriage to half the members of the Chicago Police Department and has a shiny gold shield prominently displayed in his windshield to prove it.

  Also, because we are four bad motherfuckers.

  “Let me start with the good news. Simon brought a girl to Thanksgiving.”

  “Wow. Thanksgiving. That’s serious.”

  “Also, Elizabeth and Sharoz are pregnant—five months—sex yet to be determined.” This produces a series of grunts and guffaws consistent with three male sapiens of a certain epoch. They sound like a herd of seals sunning themselves on the rocks.

  “Is it appropriate to ask who the father is?”

  “Probably not. I didn’t have the balls to do it.”

  “Big surprise there.” And more sound effects.

  “Travis. Please forgive our Neanderthal friends,” says Flannery, hoisting his cup again. “They’re old, malodorous, and out of touch. Mazel tov. So what’s the bad news?”

  “I lost my card—by one spot and one shot. Or, to be exact, one six-foot putt which I thought I hit dead center.”

  “Are we supposed to be surprised that you missed a six-footer?”

  “Travis,” says Hall from the front row. “We are all aware of the fact that you lost your card. In case you are not aware, we follow your career with some interest and pride via that new development called the Internet.”

  “I appreciate that. Really. Anyway, enough about me. How are you guys doing?”

  “We lost our cards too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We all got fired.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Downsized, aged out, and fucked over. All in the last three months. And we’re hardly an exception. While we were waiting, we could only come up with three people who don’t work for themselves or own their company or sit at the very top of the food chain who have managed to stay employed past fifty-five.”

  “That’s awful. So we’re all in the same boat.”

  “No,” says Hall, “and that’s the point we would like to impress upon you this morning. Unlike us, you can get your job back. And it doesn’t require a song and a dance for headhunters or Human Resources.”

  “If you could get through Q-School the first time,” says Claiborne, “you can do it again. You’re twice the player you were four years ago.”

  “So we are strongly urging, insisting even, that you suck it up, stop whining about six-footers, and get your ass back on tour where you belong.”

  It’s hard to face them. Not only because I know how good they were at what they did, but because I’m the only one who lost his job fair and square. “Thanks for being such good friends. And not just this morning.”

  “You’re welcome.…Now enough of this morbid crap. Let’s play golf. No gimmes. No mulligans. No bullshit.”

  At that, the doors of the van slide open, and four men of a certain age, fortified by affection for the game and each other, as well as by the best club in Claiborne’s bag by far, gingerly step into the cold and shoulder their clubs. As we make our way across the empty lot, we look like an older golfing version of the opening credits of Reservoir Dogs. Unlike in the movie, however, there’s no need to slow down the footage. These days, that’s the way we move.

  “Any good news?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Claiborne just got the results from his first colonoscopy. Clean as a whistle.…You know how to whistle, don’t you, Ron? You just put your lips together and blow.”

  8

  PEOPLE COMPETE FOR ALL kinds of reasons. Me, it’s about making a point and it’s always the same one: Don’t underestimate me. I may not look like much or have much of a pedigree but I might surprise you. Maybe even kick your ass. In my head, I’m also standing up for my friends and trying to make the same point for them, so that little intervention in the back of the minivan found the mark, and early the next morning, I’m back at Big Oaks driving range on Route 38, third stall from the left, bracing myself for a second trip to Q-School.

  For the second day in a row, I was reminded of my good fortune. Not just in what I have been able to do for four years, but how much crap I’ve been able to avoid. Yes, I’m out of a job at the moment, but unlike my pals and so many of our cohorts, I have a concrete job opportunity. Best of all, mine doesn’t require that I rewrite my resume, get a haircut, and invest in a new suit. I don’t have to get my teeth whitened and learn how to smile, improve my posture, act younger or more gung ho, or pretend to be anything other than my cranky aging self. I don’t have to send out 100 resumes in hope of one response or wade through eight miles of shit to interview for a job that doesn’t exist. All I have to do is fly out to Tucson and golf my ball well enough to finish in the top eight. The least I can do is work my ass off in the little time I have to prepare.

  At fifty-four, the spirit is willing but the infrastructure is creaky. Wrists, elbows, shoulders, and back require little provocation to balk and can only take so much pounding off these thin rubber mats. My daily quota is 100 balls, one for each of those resumes, and from alignment to setup to contact to follow-through, I bear down on each one. If I catch my attention drifting for even a second, I imagine what it might be like to spend the morning instead in reception in a Chicago skyscraper waiting, along with dozens of other squirming candidates, for a twenty-six-year-old from Human Resources to walk me back to his cubicle. Still, concentrating fully on 100 consecutive swings is harder than it seems, and when I’ve sent the last range rock out into the gloomy depths, I’m as tired as if I’d played a competitive round.

  I stash my clubs in the little closet they’ve allotted me by the front desk and repair to the vehicle, where I let the heated seat go to work on my lumbar. I know how lucky I was to get through Q-School the first time around and how difficult it will be to do it again. With 144 players competing for 8 cards, the odds are long, 1 in 18 to be exact. Nevertheless, I probably have a better statistical chance of getting my card back than Ron, Dave, and Chuck have of getting
rehired at anything like their old jobs and salaries.

  And that doesn’t seem right. At a certain point, the world expects you to walk away quietly like an old elephant with sore teeth and disappear. But I’m not feeling cooperative and I guess I never have. I may get locked out but I’m not going to just go away. Not yet.

  Fuck ’em.

  I think about Elizabeth and the new McKinley in progress in Sharoz’s womb and Simon and his new girl and catch myself smiling in the rearview.

  How I play out these next few years still matters to a lot of people, from my family to my oldest friends to someone, sex undetermined, who hasn’t been born yet. I’m almost doing fifty-five and feel it in every part of me that isn’t numb, but I’m persisting. I may be fucked in some ways, but I’m still doing what I like, still attempting something difficult, still focused (for the most part) on the future. If that isn’t lucky, what is?

  I was going to make the call at home, but I have more privacy in the car. And if I wait that long, I might lose my nerve and not do it at all. The dashboard clock reads 10:23. I set 10:30 as my deadline and the seven minutes fly by with excruciating speed. I might as well be back in ninth grade and staring at the rotary phone on which I will call a girl for the first time. The same feeling as I dial the number and hear the unanswered rings, the same jolt when the ringing stops and a voice cuts through.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”