The Sand Trap (42 page)

“Nope, just swing it and try to sweep the
tee off the tee box. Have fun. I’ll be back in 15 minutes to see
how you are doing.” And he left a very astonished and amused Joanna
and returned to an equally amused John.

He could immediately see that John was now
swinging the hockey club with every muscle in his body, trying to
get the ball to go the required one hundred yards. He was getting
close, maybe seventy to eighty yards now, and was so focused upon
the effort that he didn’t even see Burt come up behind the tee
box.

“Not bad,” Burt offered. “I just got a call
from the Oilers. They have picked you up on waivers.”

John took a towel and wiped some sweat from
his forehead. “It’s too hot down here for hockey! And no one, not
even Happy Gilmore, could hit a golf ball a hundred yards with a
hockey stick! You show me,” John challenged and gave the stick to
Burt.

Burt took the stick, put a ball on the tee
and hit a slapshot that soared directly over the 100-yard marker
and landed at the 120-yard mark.

“I guess you have to be Canadian to do that
right?’ a surprised John laughed.

“No, you just have to be able to get all
parts of your body working together at the moment you hit the ball
that’s all. You were only using your arms and not the strongest
part of your body and you saw what happens when you only used your
arms for a slapshot. So let’s try a slapshot with a golf club
now.”

Burt pulled the bigheaded driver from John’s
bag.

“Nice club. Where did you get this one? Toys
R’Us?” Burt had always been amused at the efforts of club makers to
make driver heads bigger and bigger.

“Hey,” John laughed. “That just cost me $600
at the pro shop back home. It has the latest and thinnest titanium
face, the lightest shaft on the market and the MOI adjusted to
compensate for off centre hits.”

“Wow… maybe we should just let it hit
itself. Let’s see what it can do. Remember – just a slapshot, not a
swing like you have been taught all your life.”

John stood up to the ball, stuck his ass and
chin out, examined his grip, and gave his ass a waggle.

“Stop, John. I didn’t say take a golf swing.
I said take a slapshot. Hit this driver just the way you were
hitting the hockey stick.”

“But my hands were not together and I did
not take a full back swing?” John whined.

“Now you got it. Put your hands wherever you
want and swing however you need to do to put that ‘puck’ through
the back of the net.

This time John grabbed the club like a
hockey stick and took a slapshot at the ball. He hit the ball
cleanly and the ball rifled two hundred yards straight down the
fairway.

“Holy shit! “John exclaimed. “How did I do
that?”

“Magic. Hit two hundred more like that and
I’ll be back for the next step in your metamorphosis to a golf
Houdini.”

“Thanks. Didn’t you guys in Canada kill
him?”

“Nah, it was your U.S. healthcare that
toasted him,” Burt retorted as he left John to his slapshots and
walked back to Joanna.

He could hardly keep from laughing at the
sight of a perfectly dressed and coiffured dignified senior woman
swinging a wet mop at a golf tee. He noticed a group of gardeners
was watching as well, including the woman who dropped her coffee
cup this morning at the staff meeting. He caught her eye as he
walked by the group and he wasn’t sure whether it was look of
confusion or anger; but there was something he didn’t like.

Joanna noticed none of this, not the
gardeners or Burt approaching. She was swinging with great fury and
a strand of blond hair was hanging over her eyes.

“Someone you are angry at?” Burt interrupted
her in mid-swing.

“Yeah. I haven’t touched a mop in thirty
years and now I’m paying you $50 an hour for the privilege.”

“Hasn’t anyone told you yet that golf is a
humbling game?”

“I’ve heard that but I’m not sure this is
what they meant,” Joanna offered, giving him back his mop.

“Tell me Joanna. What is the hardest thing
to teach a beginning skier?

“How to fall without killing yourself.”

“Ok, that one does not apply to the golf
course unless there are free drinks from the drink cart. What’s
next?”

She thought for a moment. “Well I would
guess the up and down rhythm that allows you to carve a turn?”

“Right. It is the same in golf. Once you
have the rhythm the rest is simple. Let’s try the mop again.”

He stuck the head in the bucket to get it
wet and handed it back to her and she reluctantly grabbed it.

“You like Freddy Couples?”

“Yeah, a sexy guy!”

“Ok, now swing the mop and say ‘Freeeddy’ as
you take the mop back so the cotton rope on the head slings behind
you, and ‘Coouuples’ as you swing down and the momentum of cotton
rope changes direction and ends up pointing in front of you. Try
it.”

It took her a few tries, but soon she was
swinging the mop freely back and forth as the momentum of the
cotton rope on the head of the mop changed the direction of the
rope from pointing behind her to pointing in front of her.

“Good job. You have now mastered the
fundamentals golf. That’s all for today. See you tomorrow? Ten AM
OK?"

“Sure. Do I need to bring my vacuum cleaner?
Or maybe my dusting swifter?”

“No, just your sense of humour. See you
tomorrow Joanna.” And he went back to John.

By now John was having some fun slashing
away at the ball with his driver with no thought to the appropriate
golfing form he had been taught through endless lessons.

“How’s it going John?” Burt asked as he
approached the tee box. He noticed that John’s hands had crept up
closer together than a hockey stick slapshot would be, finding the
natural balance point of the long driver.

“Well it is strange, but I am hitting this
driver pretty good. As far as I ever have, and sometimes farther.
Once I found the rhythm of it I’m pretty consistent.”

“So why don’t you hit it like this all the
time when you play?”

“Are you kidding? I’d be laughed off the
course! My grip is wrong. My stance is not right. I look like a
dork!”

Burt handed John a DVD in a plastic case.
“We’re done today John, but I want you to watch these videos
tonight. We can talk tomorrow. Can you come at 10 am? We’ll work on
the tee box some more and you and I and the other student I am
teaching will go out and try what you have learned on the course.
You OK with that?”

John nodded and took the video. “See you
tomorrow.” He picked up his clubs and walked towards the
clubhouse.

Doug met Burt as he walked into the
clubhouse to get a bite to eat. The deal was that he only had to
teach half a day, so the afternoon was all his own and he thought
he might try swinging a bit himself. That slapshot he did with John
told him is knee was not yet recovered from the surgery, but he
thought a few gentle shots wouldn’t hurt the healing.

“Hockey sticks? Mops?” Doug cornered him as
he walked in the door. “Where the fuck did you learn to teach golf?
Walmart?”

“Did they complain?”

“No, but John is in the dining room telling
all is buddies that you are nuts – crazy Canuck he is calling
you.”

“And the woman, Joanna?”

“She just got in her car and left. She was
shaking her head and but had big grin on her face so it can’t be
too bad. But Burt, these are the people we need to take care of.
They own all these houses around the golf course and if they don’t
visit here and spend their money we are all fucked. You don’t see a
lot of Mexican schoolteachers eating or golfing here.”

They walked into the dining room together
and Burt waived at John as he said something to his friends and
pointed at Burt.

“Look. I know this appears a little
unorthodox but wait until they have had a few lessons before you
write me off eh?”

Doug looked dubious.

“I’ll make you a deal. If John and Joanna
are not satisfied, more than satisfied, I’ll teach any way you want
me to. Let me try my way first. At the very least John and Joanna
will have some entertaining stories to tell over their
margaritas.”

“No kidding. OK, go for it. If you can do
something with those two I might even take lessons from you
myself.”

They sat down at a table in the clubhouse
dining room overlooking the first hole. They both ordered coffee,
Doug a clubhouse sandwich and Burt an enchilada. Doug started the
conversation while they waited for their food.

“Tell me more about this senior tour thing?
Do you really think you can get through the qualifiers? For that
matter how are you going to get into a qualifier? Have you ever won
anything?”

“Those are a lot of questions. On the
getting in part, that’s easy. They have a clause in the qualifying
requirements that lets any state champion have one try at
qualifying. I won the California junior championship when I was
sixteen so that makes me automatically eligible to enter the
qualifying tournament in California. Making the tour is another
matter all together. To answer that question, I don’t know if I am
good enough. That’s one reason I’m here – to find out.”

“So that’s why the deal is you only teach in
the mornings right?”

“Right. Half the day is helping others be
better and half the day is getting better myself.”

Their food came and the conversation turned
to Mexico.

Burt started. “I read in the paper there was
another mass murder down in Nuevo Laredo. Any chance that stuff
would reach here?”

“Not really,” Doug replied. “Most of the
places where there is trouble are either the home areas of one of
the cartels, or a border town where the cartels fight over pipeline
control. And most of the killings are between gangs. That school
kids’ thing last year was unusual. Ordinary folks are occasional
collateral damage, but the violence is not aimed at them. We get
the odd robbery around here, but nothing violent that I recall.
Anything like that is usually between the tourists themselves down
in Cabo.”

“So no effect of the forty thousand plus
killings here?”

“Oh lots of effect! For every killing
reported in some border town, ten North American tourists decide
not to come to Mexico to buy or a take a holiday. Look around this
place. Less than half the golf course lots are developed and the
second eighteen of the golf course is on hold. The financial world
meltdown hasn’t helped; although most of the buyers down here
aren’t worried they might lose their jobs. Besides, most Mexicans
know someone who has been affected by the drug trade, through
either the violence or his or her livelihood. I’ve lost a couple of
cousins and some good friends from my old neighbourhood.”

Their food came and Burt started into his
enchilada. “What neighbourhood is that?”

“I was raised in a Puebla slum, we call it a
barrio here, and many of my friends from those days were sucked
into some aspect of the drug trade. It was the way to make more
money in a month than an ordinary job could give you in a lifetime.
That’s the Mexico problem right now. The trade is so lucrative it
ensnares politicians, police, military and everyone else who tries
to live on a Mexican public sector wage. Even good honest people
turn their backs to the trade when some of the money gets to their
own communities. There are cartel families who sponsor schools,
hospitals, and sports facilities in their province, things the
government never did. Even here in San Jose I would suspect that
drug money in some shape or another has built most of the private
tourist infrastructure. It's rumoured that an international arms
dealer and a couple of cartel leaders have palaces in the hills
above San Jose. I don’t know for sure but the guy who built this,”
Doug waved his hand over the course and buildings “probably used
drug money of some sort.”

“That makes sense,” Gord offered between
bites of his food. “The facilities go way beyond what any normal
bottom line independent developers would fund. That teaching
practice facility is way over the top.”

“Don’t complain or it might go poof and
disappear!”

“So who is the owner anyhow? Does he ever
come here?”

“His name is Jose Gorges and he is a
manufacturing kingpin based in Puebla.”

“Is he into the cartels?”

“There are only rumours that he has
something to do with some of the cartels. Since the two years I
have been here he has hosted at least four meetings of individuals
that are known to be cartel leaders, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t
involved in any drug running or anything like that. But there is
something there for sure. Maybe he is just a peacemaker?”

“Does he play golf?”

“No, he built a golf course because he hates
the game!” Doug answered sarcastically. “He’s as addicted as anyone
else to the game. When he comes we close the complete facility so
that he and his entourage, mostly bodyguards, can have the place
and the course securely to themselves.”

“Maybe he’d like a lesson? I have a spare
mop he can use!”

They both laughed and quietly finished their
lunches while enjoying the view over the golf course and the
grounds from the dining room window. Burt noticed the group of
gardeners working on the cactus garden below their window. “Who is
the tall woman with the black hair?” he asked Doug.

Doug craned his neck to look down into the
garden. “Oh, that’s Maria Jimenez, the head gardener. Great
gardener, but a little strange.”

“What do you mean? Is she not local?”

“No, that’s part of the strange thing. She
came here a couple of years ago from a job managing the gardens for
a big estate near Mexico City. She has a university degree in
business and literature and a Masters in Horticulture so what she
is doing here in San Jose del Cabo is beyond me.”