by Katy Duffield

“Hey, Christian!” my best friend, Travis, hollered from across the fairway. “Are you playing in the tournament this Saturday?”

I wiped the dew-covered blades of grass from my 5- iron and slid it back into my golf bag.

“You know I want to!” I yelled back.

Being a golf maniac, entering the junior golf tournament had been all I could think about. The only problem was the $40 for the entry fee. I’d been asked to caddie a round for one of the club’s top players after lunch, which usually brought me $20. But I was still a little short.

Par for the Course

“Hey, Kid,” Mr. Wellington called as I strolled into the clubhouse. “Hot enough for you?”

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and nodded. Funny thing about Mr. Wellington, he never called me by my real name, Christian. He always called me “Kid.”

“Well, grab some water and cool off while I warm up on the driving range,” he continued. “I need to make a few practice swings. I’m playing Donaldson today, and I don’t plan on losing.”

I plopped down in one of the chairs next to the snack bar and slurped down a big drink. Everyone knew about the rivalry between Mr. Wellington and Mr. Donaldson. They were the two best players at the club and had alternated years as club champion until last year when Mr. Donaldson made it two in a row.

I had barely cooled to a simmer when Mr. Wellington motioned to me through the window that overlooked the driving range. I hurried out the door, down the steps and over to the driving range.

“All set, Kid?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

He held out his driver. I wiped it with a towel and pulled on the head cover before placing it back in his bag.

“Hello, Christian,” Mr. Donaldson said as he walked up.

I smiled and shook Mr. Donaldson’s hand.

I looked around to see who was caddying for Mr. Donaldson, but there was no one in sight. When Mr. Wellington looked my way, I loaded his bag onto my shoulders and started toward the first tee.

“Where’s your caddy, Jack?” Mr. Wellington asked when he noticed Mr. Donaldson carrying his own bag.

Mr. Donaldson shrugged and patted his stomach. “Thought I’d carry it myself today. I need the exercise.”

Mr. Wellington snorted. “I just don’t want you to have any excuses when I beat you.”

Out of Bounds

Both men hit awesome drives from the first tee. Their balls landed within a few yards of each other. Watching them play was so cool. I learned something almost every time I saw one of them hit.

Through 12 holes the score remained tied. On 13, Mr. Wellington pulled his drive off the fairway into a small group of trees.

“Did you see where it ended up, Kid?” he groaned.

“I think you’re OK, Sir,” I told him. My eyes scanned the area for the ball. I hoped it was playable.

Mr. Donaldson’s ball landed on the other side of the fairway, so only Mr. Wellington and I trudged through the rough in search of the ball.

After looking for a few minutes, I found the ball nestled close to a tree trunk.

“Here it is,” I called.

When Mr. Wellington saw the position of his ball, he scowled. The tree blocked his path to the green.

“Six,” he grumbled.

I handed him his 6-iron and picked up his bag to make sure he had enough room to hit. When I glanced back over my shoulder, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

After looking across the fairway to see where Mr. Donaldson was, Mr. Wellington kicked the ball a few feet to his left, giving him a clear shot around the tree — a major violation of the rules.

Our eyes met and, for a minute, I thought Mr. Wellington would say something about his cheating. But he didn’t. He just addressed the ball as if nothing had happened and took his swing. The ball landed just inches from the flag.

“Great shot!” Mr. Donaldson called from the other side of the fairway. “You made that look easy.”

A huge grin spread across Mr. Wellington’s face. “What’d you think of that shot, Kid?”

Actually, I didn’t think much of it at all, but I didn’t say a word.

The rest of the round passed in a blur. I couldn’t believe Mr. Wellington would cheat. I even wondered if I’d made a mistake. Maybe he didn’t move the ball, I told myself. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. But in my heart, I knew what happened. Mr. Wellington cheated.

Large Green

At the end of 18 holes, the score was no longer tied. Mr. Wellington won the match — by one stroke. My stomach flip-flopped like it did after I rode the Screaming Tornado at the state fair. What was I going to do? Should I tell Mr. Donaldson what I’d seen? Should I confront Mr. Wellington? Should I just forget it ever happened?

I leaned against the soft drink machine and tried to straighten out my swirling brain.

I watched as Mr. Wellington slapped Mr. Donaldson’s back. “Better luck next time, Old Man.”

I couldn’t watch any more. I had to get away. I shuffled up the stairs and walked into the clubhouse.

“Hey, Kid!” Mr. Wellington yelled.

I heard him calling me, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to look into his eyes. I didn’t want to hear him call me “Kid” again. I ducked into the men’s room and stayed hidden until I thought enough time had gone by for Mr. Wellington to gather his things and go.

After what seemed like hours, I tugged open the men’s room door and headed for the back entrance of the clubhouse. As my eyes adjusted to the sunlight, I was relieved to see that Mr. Wellington’s SUV wasn’t in the parking lot.

“Hey, Christian, wait up,” a voice called. It was Travis. “Want to play a few more holes?”

“Nah,” I told him. “I’m heading home for the day.”

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “Here’s your money.”

He pulled some cash from his pocket.

“What?” I asked.

“Your money from Mr. Wellington. He said he couldn’t find you.” Travis held out two $20 bills. “You must have done a really good job today. He usually only pays 20 bucks for 18 holes.”

Now I felt like I’d ridden the Screaming Tornado right after eating three supreme burritos. I stared at the money in Travis’ hand. Forty dollars. I had honestly earned $20, and I knew what the other $20 was for: keeping my mouth shut about the cheating.

“Sweet. Now you have enough to enter the tournament,” Travis said.

I hadn’t thought about that. Forty bucks. That would get me in to the tournament. I wrestled with my thoughts. Should I take it? Most guys would. Should I just forget what I’d seen? Maybe it wasn’t that big a deal. I took a deep breath and held out my hand.

The Right Call

The next three days were a major pain. I couldn’t figure out what to do. I wanted to play in the tournament more than anything, but I knew the only way I could enter was with the “cheating” money. Each night before I went to bed, I prayed, hoping God would lead me in the right direction.

On the day of the tournament, I arrived early at the clubhouse. The two $20 bills in my front pocket felt like they weighed 20 pounds each.

“Yes!” Travis yelled when I walked in. “You’re playing!”

I gulped when I noticed Mr. Wellington standing next to the check-in desk. That roller-coaster/burrito feeling kicked in again.

“Travis gave you the money, didn’t he, Kid?”

Without looking up, I nodded slowly and pulled the money from my pocket.

“Ready to sign up, Christian?” the club pro asked.

The pro’s words echoed in my head. Something about the way he’d said my name made me know exactly what I needed to do.

“Mr. Wellington,” I said, handing him one of the $20s, “you tipped me too much for caddying for you the other day.”

I turned back to the tournament check-in desk. A metal canister sat in front of me to collect money for a First Tee program that helped underprivileged kids learn golf. I slipped my other $20 into the canister.

“Some things are more important than winning a tournament,” I said.

I slowly raised my eyes to meet Mr. Wellington’s but didn’t say a word.

Travis’ mouth fell open as he watched. “What are you doing?”

I smiled for the first time in days, “Just living up to my name.”

	Q: How do bees telephone one another? A: They just give each other a buzz. Zephan S., 9, Kentucky Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe