Fiction: Turning Points #6

SIX 

The wind howled its way through the trees in front of them. Sticks, strips of bark and leaves skittered across the almost flat expanse of grass that lay at the bottom of the gully. Rainfall runoff was directed across the natural shape of the land by a narrow, rock-strewn rivulet; it curved in an arc at the front of the grass, seeming to hold it in its embrace. At this moment, it was seething with water making its way to the lake that lay dark and still beside a huddle of corrugated sheds.

The four of them glanced uneasily at each other. They had all felt the tell-tale droplets that annonced the possibility of a rain squall. They didn't need to scan the sky. The leaden clouds hung omminously over the hills that were always pushing at their peripheral vision.

'No point waiting any longer, boys.' With a swagger that the others rarely saw, a tall stick of a man stepped up to the tee he'd already slid into the turf and placed his TalorMade 2 gingerly on top. 'Watch and learn!

 The ball toppled off the tee. 

'Must be the wind,' chuckled another of the friends. 
Tim replaced his ball. Stoic, he waited. Then, feet spread, he addressed his ball. The others remained silent, watching. Perhaps hoping ...
Thwack!
The white dot arced gracefully towards the green like a flare gun projectile. They all watched, enthralled.
'Might be a bit short.'
'Nah. Looks good from here.'
'Shit. You missed the water. Great shot.'

The ball came to a gentle, rolling stop half-way up the green to the flag. Each of the three friends variously glared, nodded, shook a head incredulously and slow clapped. 
'Shot!'
'Next up,' said Tim as he bent his frame to pull out the small tee from where it had been buried in the turf. 'Anyone like to Trump that?'

One after the other, the remaining three played their tee shots. None of them made the green, though all were in chipping distance. Two landed short in front of the water while the third had struck a tree after a heavy slice sent it into the swaying foliage to the right. The ball had come to rest on the fringe of the green.
'Must've been the wind,' muttered Willi. 
'We'll take your word for it, buddy.' Mikko's accent wasn't exactly identifiable - perhaps a touch of Italian. 'Wish I had your luck.'

Tim had already marked his ball and was tending the flag, an indecipherable look plastered across his face.
Mikko and Vinny both slapped nervously at their balls and managed to squeak both over the water. Vinny, a diminutive, always moving Energiser of a man, had clipped his chip beautifully, only to see it shoot across the green without spin and roll unceremoniously into the bunker on the other side of the green.
'Bloody hell,' he complained, his voice invaded by a boyish squeak. 'Another good shot with no reward.'
Mikko muttered hoarsely in frustration as he saw his own ball strike a rock at the edge of the boiling stream, lift in a graceful arc towards the hole, only to clatter into the pin full on. It ricocheted at right angles into the long rough above the green. His reaction was all but lost on the wind.

A flurry of rain slapped into their faces, but it only lasted a minute. The tempestuous wind, however, showed no sign of abating. In fact, it seemed to be messing with their game even more insistently. Leaves and twigs jumped and scattered across the green, mixing with the duck shit that seemed to be ubiquitous on this course. From the west, the clouds crept ever closer. Some force seemed to be giving them a cosmic "hurry-up". Other players had already retreated to the clubhouse, their games over. The friends had only one hole left to left play.

'All good,' said Tim. 'Let's get this done and on to the eighteenth.'
Suffice it to say, Tim managed to par the hole with a two-putt, while the others ploughed their way to double bogeys.

Buggies now covered with wet-weather "hoodies", the quartet of friends made their way along the cart path to the eighteenth, which took them past the sixteenth green. 

It wasn't empty. It should have been. Weren't they the last group?

'Fuck! They're fighting,' barked Mikko. 'Come on.' He already had his driver out in preparation for the last. The others followed instinctively, Willi with his putter still in his hand. Tim simply loped, his giant strides bringing him to the altercation before the rest. 

Two men stood in the bunker, definitely not playing golf. They seemed determined to beat a younger, skinny bloke. The other two friends arrived and without hesitation, put an end to the attack with their "weapons". No cleaner or more well-directed golf shots would ever be witnessed. One ripping drive and one crunching wedge which collected at least one of the balls for which it was aimed.
'Call triple-zero.' That was Mikko.
'Done.' That was Vinny. He'd been on his phone entering the scores thirty seconds earlier.

The young man, who was clearly in a lot of pain, was slowly groaning to his feet. One attacker lay prone in the sand, the other, a dark-skinned man, began writhing, trying to crawl out of the bunker, clutching something between his legs.
Willi gave him a thudding kick in the ribs. 'Stay down, ya black prick.' The man grunted and lay still. 'Apologies. Can't say that, I know, but there you are.'

Turned out, the two men were known to Police. Also turned out that the young man and his friends were caught up on the sidelines in some sort of criminal gang activity involving illegal cigarettes and car theft. 

Golf can be many things. A game. An inner battle. A reality check. An afternoon stroll.
Sometimes it only takes a moment and the meaning of that game changes course.
Without return. Without reward.

Or so it may seem to some.