GRAND CANYON: THE HEARTLAND

In the middle of Missouri, equidistant between Kansas City and St. Louis lies the heartland city of Columbia. From the interstate it draws us in for a magical round of golf. For me it is a chance at redemption, not to avenge my loss but to make amends for my transgressions. For us, it is a landmark round, a line in the sand we have chosen to honor: By our calculations, the sixth hole will be the 200th of our journey.

Wiz made it a goal soon after our visit to Grand Canyon, the same day we played three rounds on the road and drew the laughter of Don Juan. Incredibly, we have averaged nine holes a day. We are not aware that it will be the last round of the journey but it is gratifying to have reached this marker. It would have mattered little had we not but as it is it is a cause for celebration.

It is a weekday and the course is far enough from the center of town that we are virtually alone on the course. There is no one but us and a few devoted locals on the putting green. I take care of the green fees while Wiz scopes a row of clubs against the clubhouse wall. He lays his hands on a Ping two-iron on sale for fifteen dollars. He asks my advice and I say: Buy it. I believe it is worth far more. It’s in perfect condition and matches the five-iron Wiz found on a driving range. It is as if it was left there, like the jazz shoes on the streets of Boulder, for the Wiz to find. Some folks choose a club; Wiz allows a club to choose him.

We later learn from a local that the club was brand new. It’s former owner put it up for sale after one round. He will someday learn: It is not the club but the hand that grips it.

The acting club pro takes us out to the first tee to give us a rundown on the course. He is as friendly and easy going as an Autumnal breeze. In all my days of golf I cannot remember such personal and friendly treatment at any course at any price. It is a breath of fresh Missouri air and the course itself is a gem. It is an imaginative nine-hole layout surrounded by deep forest, with running water, gullies, hills and dales, and tall trees of hickory and oak with sprawling branches that jut out into the fairway.

We tee off and I am immediately gratified. My game has returned to me. The gods of golf forgive the repentant when the repentance is sincere. I par the first hole and hit a beautiful draw down the middle of the dogleg left second. Wiz bogies the first and fades a well-struck tee shot off the second, his ball bounding down a twenty-foot embankment. I give his lie a look and offer: Looks like a two-iron to me. It is a steep uphill shot that will have to carry a creek and a grandfather tree some thirty feet high and thirty feet wide. Wiz whips out his new two-iron and rips a masterpiece. It sails overhead, clears the creek and the grandfather tree to settle just short of an elevated green. By my reckoning it has covered a solid two hundred and twenty yards of earth. It is his best shot in one hundred and ninety six holes. At an average of six shots a hole that comes out to around 1,200 shots. Inspired by his majesty, I spike my wedge to the stick and drill it home for birdie while the Wiz saves par.

At this point a high school kid, stocky in build and quiet in demeanor, approaches us with an air of intensity. We offer him a choice: Play through or join us. Somewhat to my surprise, he opts to join us. We play on, matching shot for shot, stroke for stroke, Wiz and I on a Zen golf high, the kid on a ride of quiet desperation. We try in our separate ways to loosen the kid up and lead him to the other side of golf. He has too much tension and is far too worried about technique but he has a feel for the game and a strong desire to master it. He has yet to learn to let the game master him. The game is the real teacher and it yields its secrets only to those who give themselves to the game.

We finally reach the sixth tee, our landmark hole, and the kid has the honor. It is a long par four with the forest to the right. He pulls out his high-tech driver with the oversized metal head and the super-graphite shaft and nails one long and lean to the left side of the fairway. Nice shot. He smiles. It is as much expression of emotion as his temperament will allow. I pull out the old reliable Big Mama, my faithful persimmons driver, give it a waggle and summon the gods for a blessing on the journey. I give myself to the game, call on my inner strength, the heightened awareness of the fourth and sixth chakras, and let it go.

She sails like a shooting star into the distant horizon. Like an eagle catching an updraft, she finds a second wind, rises and sails again. I tell myself: Savor the moment. Wiz lets one loose that fades into the woods. So be it. The moment is beautiful. We finish the round walking on thin air and good vibes, breathing in the smell of green, enjoying the hillside surroundings, the plush rich vegetation and the blessings of the round.

On the ninth tee, the kid finally opens up. Through the first eight holes he has said no more than a dozen words. I tell him I hope to see him on the tour someday. He cracks another smile. It seems I’ve tapped his dream. He replies: I hope so. Having broken the ice, I ask him if he’s a baseball fan. Sure he is. I get the feeling he’s never met anyone who wasn’t. I ask: St. Louis or Kansas City? His brow furrows. It’s seems to be a serious matter. He explains: Well, I’ve always liked George Brett. He’s a KC man. I reply: Sure hall of famer, five years after he retires.

By god, I think I’ve made the kid’s day. He struggles a bit on the ninth. He’s not used to all this talk during a round of golf. But he keeps his cool, that Kansas-Missouri temperament. Maybe he will make it to the tour one day. I hope so.

We finish up and the kid waits to replace the pin.

“Good luck,” say I.

“Happy golfing,” says Wiz.

“Same to you,” he replies as he heads off to the putting green. His day is not finished without a little more practice and maybe another round.

They grow them strong here in the heartland, sturdy and constant as the sun in July, quiet and solid souls. We hang out a while, basking in the glory. We drink a beer and watch the locals move slowly through the day. The lady at the desk is watching the president on TV. We ask about the flood. She shrugs: It’s still there. So it is.

Onward to St. Louie and the Great Flood of 1993.