Jack Duff Junior

Asshole or not, I guess Adam was a friend. But a best friend? Would a best friend betray you?

Well, actually…who else would betray you? I was betrayed by a complete and utter stranger! Doesn’t have the same ring of truth to it.

So then, perhaps Adam 'Thee' King was a best friend. I was a best friend of his. One of thousands. Was he my best friend? Did he in fact betray me? Is it a betrayal to withold from a friend the truth?

These questions may all sound rather vague and juvenile. But let’s face it. I'm a golf professional. And an American male. I am entitled to be forever young and fuzzyheaded.

Still, for the past ten years I have held firm in my head the notion that Adam 'Thee' King betrayed me. And now I'm wondering…if as I have claimed earlier - that he was not my best friend - then he could hardly betray me, could he? And the impetus for writing this memoir would suddenly dissolve. I would have no purpose. But as you can see by the book you are holding, I have in fact continued, and so it's safe to assume that Adam 'Thee' King will be seen over the next few pages to turn out, indeed, to be NOT my best friend.

I'm sorry to confuse you on this point. I'm confused myself. But as I say life is a mess.

And there's was no point messier in my whole existence than the hours and days following my collapse in the Galapagos.

After leaving Gaston on the tarmac I headed into the house for a good long soak in the Jacuzzi. For some reason unknown to me to this day, I decided to flip on the television hanging from the ceiling in our ensuite. There was a tape delay version of The OilCo on TAFT2. For some reason I decided to watch it.

I never watch golf. I never watch myself playing golf. Golf is my profession. It's my job. And though I've always taken it - the game, the job - seriously I have never been much of a student of the game. Or, rather, I've never been much of a mechanist, never one to spend hours on the practise range pounding balls, and certianly never one to sit down with video equipment and analyze my swing.

My swing is completely natural.

It seems I was given three gifts in life one of which is a perfectly balanced, fluid, athletic Natural Golf Swing. (The other two gifts being my ExtraMental Powers which I have already alluded to, and the third, my World Historical Penis. More on that later.) And so when one of either of the two nearly indistinguishable TAFT TV golf announcers - Guy Stump and/or Guy Twaddle - began enumerating the fine aspects of my ideal swing - "any kids watching should really try to copy this swing" - I sank below the surface of the water. In avoidance. Not only was I slightly superstitious about listening to Stump and or Twaddle going on about my swing, avoiding them, I was avoiding the sounds my wife Babs was making, just having arrived home herself from yet another unsuccessful week on the Lesbian Tour.

It's funny, the routine in a house occupied by two professional golfers. Tuesday and Wednesdays can be hectic and exciting if a little nerve-racking- the anticipation and nervousness, the hope, the laundry, the packing and repacking of the luggage and the golf bag, the start of another week. Sunday nights are more often than not deeply, deeply depressing. Wins on any golf Tour are few and far between. In some ways it's often better to miss the cut and make it home on a Friday night, at least you can make some plans for the weekend, knowing that you were completely off your game, that you were so awful that there's nothing to do but shrug and laugh at yourself, have a few beers, catch up with some friends or family, see a movie - whatever. But arriving home on a Sunday means yet another loss. No matter how far back you were beginning Saturday morning's third round, there was still a glimmer of hope. A pair of 64s just might see you in the clubhouse early Sunday afternoon, with the lead, and some ominous clouds on the horizon, omens for the late starters atop the leaderboard. And that for the past three or four years had been Babs' fate. Week after week, month after month, there she was, her short fat stupid self plodding along, up and down the fairways in those dopey culottes, struggling gracelessly, in and out of bunkers like a toddler climbing around on the rec room furniture, playing just well enough to make the cut, and then disappointing herself and her fans - both of them - with a pair of abysmal rounds, totals in the 160 range on average.

And so I sunk my head under the water of the hot tub. I really didn’t want to hear her banging around, banging her keys down on the dining room table, dropping her luggage on the tiles of the front hallway, sighing, slamming doors - generally making a fuss.

Can you tell I didn’t like her? Does it show?

Like is not a word one associates with Babs-Dawn Huff-Duff. She is not a likeable person. I know, I tried. Even her parents would tell you that. I married her not out of love, but…well…for convenience. Her parents were loaded. They liked me. I needed a stake. They wanted her and her temper out of the house, out of the way, away from the good china. Ours was for all intents and purposes a decent business proposition, an arranged marriage. We were the typical American couple.

On the up side, Babs filled a void in my life. Quite adequately. As the years past, she grew in that role. The void was more than full. The sides were overflowing. And there came a point. Some men want their space. I wanted my void.

The two principal emotions I felt for her then, safe to say, were hate and fear. And so I sank myself under the turbulent waters.

Not only was I avoiding her I was avoiding the voice of objective praise booming from the speakers of TV. I was avoiding the voice of Guy Stump or Guy Twaddle.

"…everything is nice and square. Like a good meal. His weight distributed equally between both of his feet. The ball is just inside of his left heel, and the left foot is just slightly open to the target. His grip’s neutral. That allows his hands to remain passive, quiet, throughout the entire swing. Now, he takes the club back low and in one piece, with a nice shoulder turn, Now look at this - hold it there - at the top of the backswing his wrists cock naturally, the shaft is pointing directly down the target line, just a touch short of parallel, his left shoulder tucked in nicely below his chin, ninety degrees to the target. At this point his weight is about seventy five per cent on his right foot, and there’s good tension created here, loaded into his knee and thigh area, that’s where he gets all that power with such an easy swing, Now he starts the downswing, drops the club into the slot, comes into the hitting area and bam, releases the right side, clears the hips, and chases the ball toward the target with the club head, and that is the key to his accuracy, chases the ball to the target, with a nice high follow through, facing the target, in balance. Simple."

I emerged with an ear toward the house. There was a final thump. Her bedroom door. Boom. Followed by some muffled wailing as she threw her plump freckled face into her pillow no doubt. I know. That's her routine.

"Now here’s Jack Duff live with his three foot birdie attempt on fifteen" said Guy Stump.

My attention was drawn to the screen above. There I was. Standing over a putt. I didn't recognize myself. Yes, it was me. Shorn headed and dressed in my Sunday black.

I missed the putt. A three foot putt. I couldn’t believe it. And I had been there. When I was there, hours before, I thought that putt was more like ten, twelve feet. But the camera doesn't lie. I was shocked by my own inelegance.


"I’ll tell you, Guy. Everything in this putting stroke is the mirror opposite of his full swing. Watch. Now, he should take the putter back low along the putting surface, but instead he kind of lifts it straight up in the air, and then makes an awkward ...stab at the ball, cutting across the line of the putt. He sort of begins to push the putt, and his mind is saying ‘you’re pushing it, Jack’ and then he closes the putter face, over-compensating and yanks it left. A jerky, hurried, brutal stroke. There’s about ten different things wrong with that stroke, Guy, and if the ball was going in the hole it wouldn’t matter, but as anyone can see there, the ball doesn’t even get a sniff. I mean that’s just downright painful to watch."

Guy was right.

Despite the pain I continued to watch the telecast. I was now tied with Adam for the lead. He had just finished up his round, playing a few holes ahead of me. And he had done so in style apparently and was now in the booth on eighteen basking in the glory of a course record fifty-nine. A 59!

No wonder he was so ebullient on the flight home. I hadn’t realized he'd played that well. For a moment I felt slightly less horrible about myself and my play. For a moment.

But only a moment. Like that moment in a game of chess when you capture your opponent's queen with your rook, a moment of quiet consolation, the brief pause before your opponent then slides his bishop along the newly free corridor and utters the words checkmate.

"Tell us about that amazing approach shot on eighteen, Your Highness"

"Well Guys, apart from my own physical capabilities in pulling off a shot like that, I’d like to think that the technology played a role."

"The two and a half wood?"

"Yeah, it’s the first time I’ve used it in sanctioned tournament play. There’s a special titanium insert in the face of the club, with dove-tailed grooves."

"Dove tailed grooves as opposed to the square grooves?"

"That's right. I won’t go into the details here and now, but I will be explaining it all in my next televised info-special."

"And, just a reminder to our viewers, that info-special will be seen on TAFT TV."

"That’s right, Guy. It's scheduled to run on TAFT two weeks from now, the day of the final round of the Bingham Meats Machu Pichu Classic, in the hour preceding the golf telecast for those east of the meridian to the international date line, and following the telecast for those west of the meridian. It should be a lot of fun. We’ll explain the thinking behind the dove-tailed grooves and have a few song and dance numbers as well."

Adam was yakking away as I stood, on screen, over another three foot par putt, this time on seventeen. Stump and Twaddle were oblivious to the fact that I was still on the course, never mind on the television screens of millions worldwide, still tied for the lead. They were fucking well, in spirit, conceding the tournament to Adam. The voice of his self promotion was running over my fucking agony.

If I was paranoid I would have thought it was a conspiracy.

There I was bent over my golf ball like a spastic mental case up from the wheel chair for the first time in fifty years, all bent out of shape, pigeon toed and shaking. A close up revealed that my hands were shaking! On top of that I was muttering to myself and twitching.

Muttering. Who knew? Not me.

Of course the putt stopped a half roll short and to the right of the cup. I walked up to the ball and knocked it in nonchalantly with one hand. I picked the ball out of the hole and walked off the green waving to the gallery like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As if I had saved par. As if I was walking to the next tee with a chance to stroll up eighteen with the winner's cheque already in my back pocket.

"Here it is again, Guy. At regular speed. Jack stands over the ball for at least fifteen or twenty seconds, I mean this is a straight forward putt, straight in, nothing complicated, don’t give the hole away, hit it firm...but it’s like Jack’s frozen. And then. And then this...oh dear me."

Then came the coup de grace. I think that's the term. Off with your head, Duff, my friend. The coup de grace a la King.

"Adam, what’s up with that?"

"Jack's putting? Well Guys, let me just say Jack is one of my best friends, and I love him dearly, and I would never tell him this, but I think he's got the yips."

I would never tell him this, but I think he's got the yips.

I was once playing touch football with my father. He pushed me to the ground with a little too much force and I landed on the ball. The wind was knocked out of me. I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die. I thought I would never breathe again.

That's how I felt when I heard Adam utter those words.

The yips.

Hey Casanova, you've got AIDS.

Suck it up son, you’re just winded.

"Well, thanks for coming along today Thee and congratulations again on Thy fifty nine,"

"Well, with any luck out there I could have been a fifty-six. I lipped out a seventy-five foot putt on three; my approach on six - a 210 lob wedge hit the stick but it just didn’t drop; and my fairway sand shot from 333 on nine, just stopped short of the hole, maybe a half roll or quarter roll from going in. Really I should have been a 28 on the front. With the 28 on the back, there would have been a certain symmetry in that I suppose, but hey, that’s golf for you."