Unplayable Lie

Nine was a slight dogleg to the left; deep grass beckoned the unwary hooker. Carina stepped up smartly, peered out as if inspecting the troops and then dropped down neatly into her stance. A clubhead measured, a bit of a wiggle, and WHAP!

Her partners were silent for a moment. Then, “Nice blow, girl,” one of them muttered, as the pellet sailed neatly toward and then away from the rough, plopped down in the midst of the fairway and merrily it rolled along, in full sight of the undefended green. Carina looked up through cool shades, smiled brightly beneath them. “Believe I've gauged that one accurately,” she declared.

Angela, Lynda and Tricia glumly assented. Carina had started off an amateur duffer like the rest of them, but between perseverance and an uncanny knack for the game was now beating the bejeebers out of them every Saturday morning. In between powerful drives, unerring pitches and chips, and seeing-eye guided putts, she was regaling them with tales of her third place finish in the Greater Town Open, or her match play triumph over a visiting pro from Ireland, or—the girls smiled from the eyes down, but their brows were taking on a sinister knit.

Around Twelve (230m, a steep descent from the tee, the brook off to the left, traps before the green), Lynda popped the flask and quaffed a slug. “Something for you, dear?” she smiled earnestly to Carina, who hesitated. Not during a round, usually; she knew Lynda would be half in her cups by the time they got to the Club. But the other girls chimed in, urging, “Just trying to even things up, hon.” Angela cackled. “You've got to give us a sporting chance, you know.” It was hot; Carina glanced at the card. Four, five, six strokes up—why not? The girls clapped and cheered as she took a sip.

By Fifteen, the flask was making the rounds at every tee. Carina scarcely noticed she was imbibing as much as the rest of the foursome combined. She steadied herself, dropped down and almost flopped on her new slacks; catching her balance, she peered ahead at what appeared to be not one, not two, but three flags partially hidden by the rise of a gentle fairway hill. Here goes nothin', she thought determinedly, and took a swipe…then watched dejectedly as the dimpled sphere betrayed her out of bounds to the right. She looked around, smiled sheepishly—Angela handed her the flask.

Eighteen, In neatly beyond a cluster of towering birch (Watch It; traps back of the green!); Carina had handed the wheel of the cart over to Angela. What was this stuff, Everclear? Lynda triumphantly toted up the score; looked up in mock astonishment. “Oh, dear, Carina—a snowman on Seventeen? What's gotten into you?”, which, of course, brought a raft of giggles. Carina shook her bleary head and smiled feebly. “I was due for a letdown,” she murmured. Yet another surprise was in store; Lynda's eyebrows arched as she declared, “Ladies...Carina is high for the day!” Tricia hadn't beaten Carina in a year; she gave herself a pitter-patter of applause.

“Does that mean Carina buys?” asked Angela.

“It means,” Lynda responded with a smirk, “that she pays.”

After a round of celebratory toddies—on her tab—Carina found herself meekly following the girls into the backroom at the Club; Moustache Phil, the attendant, grinned and winked over his huge walrus, as the ladies escorted their now-docile partner through the door and into the storeroom. They weaved—Carina more than the others—past cases of ale and wine coolers. There in the corner, flanked by a couple of cases of golf balls, sat a rather grim looking apparatus, shellacked and shiny, three holes in a folding board.

“Carina, dear,” Lynda cooed as the other two lifted the top frame, “put your head there—like so! And your hands, dear.” Carina noticed she was still wearing her £50 kid with the faux mink cuff; they wouldn't let her take it off. “It becomes you so much, dearie,” smiled Angela as she laid Carina's left wrist through the slot. She also still wore the visor she got for placing Second at the Challenge in June. Gold piping on ivory; made her feel like royalty. “Your Majesty,” Tricia had smiled, thinly, the first time she wore it on the Links. Whoever was behind her brushed her black hair aside; then the hood came down with a clunk. And she heard a “click”.

Angela stood before her, arms folded, looking cross. “Dear Carina,” she began, “we've had a very rough time on the course today, and we three decided, in the interest of camaraderie, to point out the flaws in your game.” Carina shifted her feet, the spikes scraping on the concrete floor; the Everclear, or whatever, was starting to wear off. She looked up in consternation, the fluorescence glinting off her specs, and swallowed, hard.

Tricia ambled up next to Angela, grinning ear to ear. Carina squinted; the little witch appeared to be holding a 3 Wood with a graphite shaft, but instead of a head, it was fitted with...a ping-pong paddle? Who could have…that bastard Phil! “To begin with,” Angela said, severely, “your stroke is far too short; you spent more time in the woods than the Merry Men.” Tricia gleefully circled behind Carina, who looked back dumbfounded at Angela, and then started to twist her wrists in the holes of the mini-stocks. “You need to let it all out,” Angela continued, “set your sights on the target, and—“

WHOOM! Carina let out a yelp. Lynda tittered as Angela nodded, approvingly. “Dead on, there, Tricia!” she called out. “That'un would have sailed 200, easy.” Carina's butt stang; her eyes were wet as her feet again shifted, and she tried in vain to curve her butt that way and this, somehow get it away from that obscene paddle.

“And another thing,” continued Angela, “is course etiquette. All that whooping and cheering whenever you skin the group of us...very unseemly.” Lynda promptly stepped up, stretched a strap past Carina's visor and around the back of her head, used a thumb to plump the ball attached to the strap firmly between Carina's lips and teeth. A golf ball? Very funny. “Nothing but the best, my dear,” said Angela, cocking a head and looking at her silenced partner. “Titlest Lady Distance, £13 the dozen. Guaranteed to find the hole.” Carina glared, tensed her muscles and tried in vain to lift the bulky wooden device that encumbered her, only to take another WHOOM! to the bottom. Her feet briefly left the floor; an “Urppp!” emerged from around the “ball” gag

“Now,” Angela was saying, “about your approach. Club selection is vital. On Sixteen, you simply underestimated your own strength.” She bent at the waist, her blue eyes locked right up against Carina's glasses; Angela reached around the wooden bar, squeezed Carina's bicep. “There. See? A Seven-iron would have done nicely. Instead—” Angela hurriedly backed away; Carina knew what was coming, and closed her eyes and ducked just as the bucket of water drenched her—“you found yourself in the drink!”

Carina made a disgusting noise through the golf ball, and violently shook her head; her locks were a soggy mess. She lifted one foot, then the other, repeatedly, a tantrum in the stocks. “I hope you've enjoyed our little lesson, dear,” smiled Angela. "No charge. But I hope you don't mind; I felt others could also benefit from the knowledge." And with that, Lynda drew the curtain blocking the west window of the storeroom; Carina glanced right and saw them—every regular in the place, guys she'd hoisted a pint with, played with in mixed pairs—all standing at the window, hooting and laughing and giving her a big hand. A flush crept across her pale features, her eyes moist again. “Phil made sure everybody could attend. Fancy, you've your very own gallery!”

Hunched and humiliated, Carina absorbed the expressions of glee from the walkway outside the storeroom. No longer struggling against the stocks, she wanted to crawl away, and waited and hoped for release. The water from her dunking was trickling down her blouse into her brassiere, making her itch; her rear still stung. And she helplessly thought about next week. And maybe chatting with Phil herself. Next week, she thought, grimacing as the driver with the paddle again found its mark and the boys whooped it up—next week, it would be Tricia's turn.