Prologue: Bertie, the Kid
Mr. Cassidy underestimated
the sheer power of the Back Nine Rush’s draw. In spite of the driving rain and
the knowledge that Carson Wheelright, dubbed “Kid Carson” by his peers, would
almost certainly be the champion of the competition, the field before him sat
as stacked with participants as at any other time.
Peering past the water
dripping off his visor, Mr. Cassidy’s glinted eyes took in the vast array of
pre-adolescent boys on their bikes, all ready to plunge into the wild rough of
Hole 10. Years ago, he would have cringed at such an unruly gathering of boys
on the edge of the Burnt Creek Golf Course property. In fact, back then he
found himself using up most of his time, not managing the course like his job
demanded, but instead chasing trespassing kids off the property.
Knowing that most juvenile
trespassers hoped to gather up stray golf balls for reselling to golfers, an
exasperated Mr. Cassidy struck a deal with the neighboring kids. He told them
he would offer two positions on the golf course as official golf ball
gatherers, or creekboys, as they would informally come to be known. Only
creekboys would be allowed on the course, and all others would stay off the
premises of Burnt Creek Golf Course unless as paying customers or until an
opening came for another creekboy position. The creekboy positions, he
determined, would be decided by the Back Nine Rush, a competition in which any
aspiring creekboy would have one hour at Hole 10 to gather as many stray golf
balls as possible. The competitor with the greatest amount won the position.
Mr. Cassidy hoped this might
at least slow down the property infringement problems and give him some more
time to perform his regular duties, but he never imagined that it would go far
beyond that. In spite of low expectations, he found that his trespassing
problems--with the very rare exception--disappeared. More than that, however,
he witnessed, amazed, as an entire kid culture formed. The creekboy position
became a marker of respect among local kids, and the surrounding neighborhoods
boasted young boys that grew up hoping to become one of the elite to hold the
coveted position.
Though he felt a detached
fondness for this world that came about due to his desperate choice years ago,
Mr. Cassidy knew better than to take credit for it. In reality, he recognized
his place as an informed observer to what evolved since then. That was how he
felt as he supervised the soaked crowd before him, noting the excitement,
anxiety, and anticipation in the boys’ faces. He nearly smiled. Mr. Cassidy
recognized that, while he was no longer the younger golf course manager that he
used to be, these boys managed to make him at least feel young.
A couple youth shifted
eagerly, and Mr. Cassidy saw no one else guiding their bike through the empty,
sage-brush covered prairie leading up to the Burnt Creek course. Time to begin.
Mr. Cassidy opened by
explaining to the group before him that with the leaving of one of the course’s
creekboys, an opening had been made for another, which is why they were having
a competition on this day. Mechanically, Mr. Cassidy spoke out the rules of the
Rush, which each boy knew by heart, but which he felt obligated to share
anyway. Somehow he knew that skipping it would rob the boys of their
ceremony--and ceremony was about all they would get this year.
Among the front ranks of
bicycles and baseball caps sat Kid Carson, the 13-year-old creekboy prodigy.
Eight months before, the slick golf ball gatherer handedly won the competition
at the unprecedented age of twelve--thus earning his “Kid Carson” nickname--but
the weekend preceeding taking up his creekboy duties, he broke his leg. Unable
to perform his duties for that fall, he had to forfeit to the competition’s
second place winner, Adam Grizzwald.
The fact that Kid Carson was
back again, with a leg that had all winter to heal and strengthen, not to
mention turning one year older, placed him as the clear champion in everyone’s
minds. Mr. Cassidy sensed that the general participant attitude this time
around was one of simply being a part of the ceremony while Kid Carson secured
his inevitable title.
Reaching the end of the short
list of rules, Mr. Cassidy was about to pull out his watch and officially begin
the Back Nine Rush, but he found himself interrupted.
“Hey, Mr. Cassidy! Ain’t
there an age limit?” The voice lifted out of a dark corner of the group, and
Mr. Cassidy noticed with annoyance one of the Woodson brothers. Jesse? No,
maybe it was James. “Doncha hafta at least be in the double digits to compete?”
Mr. Cassidy saw the bulky
13-year-old James Woodson glancing over his shoulder, his hand on the back of
his bike seat. Following the look, Mr. Cassidy noticed a small boy on an older,
grey bike that seemed a bit too big for him. The boy looked uncomfortable under
James Woodson’s glare, but he said nothing.
“What’s your name, young
man?” Mr. Cassidy spoke loudly to get his voice past the pattering of rain on
the green grass around him.
The boy raised his head until
his eyes met Mr. Cassidy’s. Mr. Cassidy saw a quiet resolve there, though his
voice barely emanated past the drizzle. “Bert Gardner, Sir.”
Mr. Cassidy recognized the
last name. It belonged to a quiet, working family living in a modest
neighborhood below the golf course. “How old are you, Bert?”
“I’ll be ten at the end of
the summer,” Bert said. Though his tone sounded respectful, Mr. Cassidy sensed
something near defiance in it as well.
While Mr. Cassidy noted that
Bert’s physical size did not belong among this group of boys, ranging from as
low as twelve to as high as fifteen-years-old, the fire in Bert’s eyes proved
he belonged there perhaps more than any of them. Something in Mr. Cassidy held
him back, however. Seeing the clump of boys gathered around James Woodson made
him nervous. Mr. Cassidy did not want to haphazardly throw out new regulations
and rules, as that seemed to mar the simple purity of the competition, but the
last thing he wanted was for harm to come to a little nine-year-old. Next thing
he knew someone would investigate this whole, inconspicuous program of his.
Maybe an age limit would be appropriate.
Yet Mr. Cassidy felt strange
tampering with the kid culture without first consulting with a kid--he felt
there might be repercussions beyond what he could predict. He glanced towards
Adam Grizzwald, the 15-year-old creekboy who, with Teddy Romney’s exit, had
just been promoted to creekboy of Burnt Creek’s Front Nine. Adam seemed aloof
to the situation, however, gazing up towards his territory, as if eager for the
competition to be over so he could explore his new jurisdiction.
Mr. Cassidy took a breath,
about to delve out his judgment, but he stopped as he noticed Kid Carson angle
his head. There was something about Kid Carson that carried special weight,
even for Mr. Cassidy, who generally tried not to get caught up in the hype of
his own program. Kid Carson did not express anything verbally, but he made sure
Mr. Cassidy was watching, then he glibly shrugged his shoulders, as if to say,
why not?
If anyone could prove that
age did not need to be a factor, it was Kid Carson. Mr. Cassidy suppressed
another smile, giving the anticipated champion a gentle nod, and then voiced,
“The Back Nine Rush has no age limit.” He eyed a sulky James Woodson and then
added, “Now, let’s get started.” Raising his hand in the air, Mr. Cassidy
shouted the go ahead while checking his watch so he could determine when an
hour’s time passed.
Water sprayed everywhere as
bikes pedaled off to the thick, brush-filled portion of Hole 10, each eager to
get a jump start on the others. Bert Gardner, however, held back. The wiry
nine-year-old waited until Mr. Cassidy noticed him, then nodded gratefully
before hefting awkwardly onto his bike’s large frame and zooming down into the
rough wilderness of Burnt Creek’s Back Nine.
***
With just a few minutes
before the hour ran out, Mr. Cassidy waited patiently. While many boys had
returned with their haul, most preferred to eek out every last second possible.
In fact, he watched as James Woodson and some boys congregated at the edge of a
grove of trees about fifty yards away. Squinting in the rainfall, which had now
lessened, Mr. Cassidy thought he recognized James’s older brother Jesse in the
group. They huddled in deep discussion about something, then Jesse hopped off
his bike, foraged around, and returned to the group, dragging something with
him. Mr. Cassidy could not see exactly what occurred, but then he witnessed the
group of boys peel off one at a time, returning to where Mr. Cassidy stood on
the shiny wet, back patio of the Burnt Creek Café.
One boy remained. Mr. Cassidy
recognized the hunched form of Jesse Woodson waiting next to a screen of
cottonwood saplings. But waiting for what? Within a few seconds, it became
clear. Jesse positioned himself next to the trail leading back to the clubhouse
out of the rough. Only seconds later the streaking form of Bert Gardner burst
out of the main grove of trees in his attempt to make it to the finishing point
before hour’s end.
As Bert’s skinny legs reached
downward to pump the bike forward, Mr. Cassidy could not help but wonder at his
ability to manage a machine clearly meant for someone a couple years older. The
boy was nimble. Nimble as he was, however, he could not have expected the
ambush. Just as Bert Gardner sped past an unassuming Jesse Woodson behind the
screen of small trees, the ill-intentioned kid edged his bike forward. This
movement caused something on the ground to suddenly pop up--a carefully
positioned tree branch. The timing perfectly coincided with Bert Gardner’s
passing and--with a gasp--Mr. Cassidy watched as the branch entangled itself in
a shower of splinters with the spokes of Bert’s bike.
The results were immediate.
The bike instantly stopped, with the back end coming crashing forward, launching
the little body of Bert forward. The panic on the boy’s face came to a halt
only when he smashed into a mound of stones near the bank of the Burnt Creek.
Through the trickling rain, Mr. Cassidy heard the sickening crash of body and
bike travel across the open space between them while his stomach plummeted. His
worst fears had been realized.
Jesse Woodson put on his best
show of surprise at the occurrence before biking over to the fallen Bert. He
then offered his hand to the injured rider. Mr. Cassidy watched, relieved to
notice the boy at least move, even if it was to face the Woodson boy. There was
a pause as Jesse’s hand remained in mid-air, his sneer impossible to miss.
Mr. Cassidy, by this time,
determined that enough was enough. As the only adult in the vicinity, he knew
he needed to intervene, get the boy some medical attention, and discipline the
snaky Jesse Woodson--probably even press charges. Before taking a single step
towards the incident, a bike worked its way in front of him. Mr. Cassidy looked
down and saw Kid Carson. Though the 13-year-old did not say a word, his face
told all: let it be.
Mr. Cassidy verged on
objecting, but then Kid Carson’s gaze trained his down to the area of the
incident. The sneer in Jesse’s face disappeared as his hand remained untouched
by the downed Bert Gardner. He scowled, then leaned down and whispered what Mr.
Cassidy could only imagine were despicable threats. Then he took to his bike
and began working his way towards the patio. Seeing the grim faces of the on-looking
Mr. Cassidy and Kid Carson, however, made him realize that they had witnessed
the whole thing. Trapped, he faltered in his pedaling before deciding to vacate
the premises. Jesse Woodson exiled himself towards the badlands between the
golf course and the closest residential neighborhoods.
Then Mr. Cassidy watched as
Bert Gardner slowly picked himself up off the ground. It was clear by his
movements that he had been banged up pretty good by the accident. The boy
limped over to his bicycle, whose front wheel rim and spokes snarled in a
disfigured, pokey mess. Bert tried to look it over, but some blood trickling
from his forehead kept him from getting a clear view. He used his shirt sleeve
to streak the blood away from his eyes. The moment he registered the damage to
the tire, he seemed to want to drop both bike and himself to the ground again.
Mr. Cassidy paused, expecting
the kid to cry and give up. The beleaguered golf course manager began to plan
what he would say when he went to comfort the boy and help him with his bike.
Before he could work around Kid Carson in front of him, however, the same
resolve he had seen in the 9-year-old’s eyes before the competition seemed to
light up within him again. Hefting the mangled bike upwards, Bert Gardner
brought the whole frame of the oversized machine onto his back so the front
wheel stuck out before him with the back wheel resting on the ground.
Then, in a painstaking limp,
Bert struggled along the trail, his face grimacing and his legs trembling. A
couple of times, he slipped on the wet trail, but with lengthening pauses he
still managed to push himself back to his feet again. Soon he reached the
final, daunting incline to the clubhouse. By this time, Bert Gardner was beyond
despair. He stared at the intimidating steepness before him, gathered all the
remaining force his wiry frame could manage, and worked his way to the top.
Once there, kind participants
approached to help with his bike, but Kid Carson deftly fended them off.
9-year-old Bert Gardner made it there on his own and would take care of his
bike on his own, not out of pride but out of principle.
Mr. Cassidy hesitated once
more, still feeling as if he should do something, but finally he sighed and
shrugged his shoulders. He recognized, as much as ever, that this whole
creekboy culture went beyond his understanding.
For the next quarter of an
hour each participant turned in their stash of golf balls, and Mr. Cassidy
ceremoniously counted them in front of the group. Next to last, and
unsurprising, was Kid Carson, who brought in an impressive twenty-seven--more
than ten better than the nearest competitor.
Lastly, Bert Gardner brought
his bag to Mr. Cassidy.
Mr. Cassidy’s eyebrows raised
as soon as he felt the weight of the bag. As he worked through the pile,
transferring one ball after another into a bucket next to one of the tables on
the patio, he could not help but wonder if the inevitability of Kid Carson as
the next creekboy was realistic after all. By the time his hand found the last
ball tucked into the corner of the bag, he pronounced in a loud voice,
“Twenty-six.”
The gasps accompanying the
whole counting process now joined into a single exhale and some unprecedented
smattering of claps amongst the group. Mr. Cassidy looked down kindly at the
bruised boy in front of him, noting the boy’s satisfaction with the amount--if
only slightly disappointed at coming up short. “Well done, Bert Gardner. Or,
since you were one below Kid Carson, I suppose I should call you ‘Bertie the
Kid,’” he pronounced--a play off of the word “birdie,” the golf term for
hitting one shot below par.
Mr. Cassidy’s impromptu title
would stick until Bertie the Kid’s next opportunity for a Back Nine Rush. That
chance came almost exactly one year later.
©2013 Marty Reeder
This is the first part in a proposed fall novel. If you know of any business that would be interested in sponsoring a chapter (sole or shared sponsorship available), please have them contact writingreeder@gmail.com.
This is the first part in a proposed fall novel. If you know of any business that would be interested in sponsoring a chapter (sole or shared sponsorship available), please have them contact writingreeder@gmail.com.