"For those who love the game."

MENTAL GAME  (THE GOLF STORY OF RED MAN) by  Mark R. Grim Click here for better viewing as Microsoft Word file CHAPTER 1 A player and his caddie are warming up on the driving  range before a tournament round. The player, a  touring professional, hits alternating shots with different  clubs. The two talk to each other between shots. The caddie is holding a driver made out of real wood.  It is 1979, after all. The player goes back and forth in his mind, struggling  over his decision. Which driver is he going to play with  today?  "Still not sure," the player says. "Gimmie the  MacGregor." The caddie hands him the club, and receives the other  club back from the player. A loud wood whack echoes on the  driving range. "This one. Put the Powerbilt in my trunk. Meet me on  the putting green." The caddie nods and picks up the golf bag, and begins  to walk off the driving range, carrying the Powerbilt  driver in his hands.  He starts walking to the clubhouse. As he approaches  the door with "Men's Locker Room" on it, a newspaper  reporter calls out to him."Hey. I'm doin' a story on  caddies. Got a sec?" The writer, wearing a short sleeved button white  shirt, a brown tie and a gray round rimmed hat, already has  his pen ready and his pad in the palm of his hand. "Not really," the caddie says, almost crossing his  legs as he walks.  "Just a few questions." The reporter insists, standing in front of the caddie,  forcing him to stop and answer.  "What's Redmond been working on lately?" he asks. "You know I can't say anything about that," the caddie  replies, then glances at this watch.  "OK, tell me about what you do to prepare for a  round." More time passes. The reporter has asked more than a  few questions. "Man, I gotta go. We're on the tee in a few minutes. I  was supposed to take this driver to the car." He still has it in his hands. "I gotta piss so bad," the caddie says, as he bounces  up and down like a little boy would do in the same  circumstance. "Tell you what. I'll check it in the pro shop. I'll  put your name on it," the reporter says. "Pick it up when  you're done. Go ahead." The reporter nods. "Thanks, man. Thanks very much." The caddie hands the club to the reporter, then sets  the golf bag out of the way, semi hidden so no one will  steal it, then jogs into the clubhouse. After the caddie is gone, the reporter looks both  ways, sees no one is watching, then slips the Powerbilt  driver back into the golf bag the caddie had set down. He  straightens his hat, then quickly walks away. ????? Two hours later, the player and caddie are on the 9th  tee of their round that day.  The player gets ready to hit his shot. He focuses.  Looking at the target one last time, he stares intently at  his stationary ball. Pressing his hands about a half an  inch toward the target, he takes the club back. The club  head compresses the ball flatly on the clubface. The equal  and opposite reaction sends the ball slightly fading, just  to the right of the flagstick. It was a safe shot, landing  on the right side of the pin about 22 feet from the hole.  The player walks back to where his caddie is standing  to give him the club back, then suddenly freezes. He can't  believe it. There are one too many wood head covers in the  bag. Instead of the familiar three covers, there are four.  Bending over, he appears to be sick.  The caddie knew this discovery was inevitable. He  could have told the player earlier about having 15 clubs,  but our of fear didn't.  The player counts the clubs. He discovers that, yes  it's true. There are two drivers, the MacGregor and the  Powerbuilt, and a total of 15 clubs.  His eyes grow wide in anger. The veins on the temple  area of his red forehead bulge. Resembling a hammer thrower from track and field, the  player hurls the driver end-over-end through the air like a  horizontal majorette's baton toss. It crashes into a public  resting bench about 30 feet away. The shaft hits the wood  bench squarely on the club's fulcrum point, snapping it  cleanly in two.  The player goes into a tirade, spiking his hat to the  ground, then pushing the bag over, sending balls, old  gloves and white tees all over the place. Although  unintelligible to the small gallery following this group  (four people including wives and family members), he  screams at the caddie. CHAPTER 2 25 YEARS LATER The 16th green at the 2004 Atlantica Invitational A golf ball rests on a well-manicured putting green  about 10 feet from the hole. It is the final day of the Atlantica Invitational in  Sarasota, Florida. The weather is perfect. There is a  slight breeze blowing, gently rustling the palm leaves. Donnie Redmond, a well-tanned but also naturally dark  skinned Tour veteran, takes two slow, deliberate practice  putting strokes with his belly putter. (Yes, Redmond is  another pro who gave in to the common misconception among  aging professional golfers that they can no longer putt  because their left wrist is breaking down on their forward  stroke).  Redmond was hoping that the belly putter would be the  missing ingredient that could put him back into the  winner's circle. His left wrist could no longer possibly  break down with this putter, he told himself. So far, Redmond has felt very comfortable playing a  tournament in what has become his home town.  He sets the putter behind the ball. His clothing isn't  as well-pressed as you might expect for a professional  golfer. His shirt is slightly un-tucked. A Tour volunteer on the edge of the green holds up a  "QUIET PLEASE" sign (about and 3 feet high 4 inches wide). After a pause, Redmond lightly taps his putter up and  down nervously behind the ball several times, then freezes  the putter head on the ground. Although a fairly large  crowd surrounds the green, the silence is deafening. Sweat  is dripping down Redmond's face. He is feeling more than  just normal competitive golf butterflies. He takes his last look. Everything stops. The putter  goes back and through smoothly. The well-stroked putt  breaks slightly left and finds the center of the cup. The  crowd erupts. TELEVISION ANNOUNCER CHARLIE ROTTMAYER: Yes—a birdie  three. Redmond now has a one stroke lead over Wolf Powell  with just two holes left in the tournament. Rottmayer's TV voice is quieter than normal volume but  louder than a whisper.  Redmond hands his belly putter to his caddie, Scott  Peterson, and forces a fake smile as they walk to the 17th  tee. Peterson is fairly young, with thick, black rimmed  Coke bottle glasses. Although he probably wouldn't admit  it, Redmond's smile was more for the gallery and TV  audience than for his caddie. COLOR ANNOUNCER Walter Brown: Sooooo. Redmond is in a  familiar situation. The question once again is, can he hold  on this time? ANNOUNCER: As has been well documented, after winning  six tournaments in his rookie season—it's been a long dry  spell—25 years since Redmond last won on the Tour. Let's go  back to 18. Redmond and his caddie, look at each other. They've  been through this before. Nothing needs to be said. No  advice needs to be communicated. The caddie briefly looks down to Redmond's groin then  looks away. Redmond doesn't get the hint. The caddie looks  down again, and again. Finally, Redmond gets the message. Redmond quickly tries to hide behind his large tour  golf bag. First looking both directions, he zips up his  zipper as discretely as possible in a setting surrounded by  thousands of golf fans and a national TV audience. Redmond regains his composure and faces his caddie. Peterson lifts a club partially out of the bag by the  shaft to reveal the number 4 on the bottom of the club. His  body language says, what do you think? Redmond glares at  Peterson while in deep concentration about the strategy of  the shot. Redmond is a Florida native. "Sure? I feel some adrenaline." Peterson bites his lip. "The wind is up there. Choke down?" Redmond pauses, reflects, and grabs the head of the 4- iron and pulls it out of the bag. ANNOUNCER: What's he hitting, Ricky? As you might expect, roaming announcer Ricky Steele  speaks in a British accent. ROAMING ANNOUNCER: He's got a 4-iron. Redmond wants to  hit his low fade into the wind. A 3 would be a good score  today on this 206-yard hole. The pin is just off the front  of the green, and there is a breeze blowing toward the  players. Redmond goes through his pre-shot routine. He stands  behind the ball and eases into his stance. He looks down the target line a few times, then  performs his trademark (he points his club directly at the  target to check his alignment). He pauses, then pulls the  trigger. The ball starts obviously left of the target, but is  still on line enough to bounce on the green. The crowd  moans a little, then there is a smattering of polite golf  applause.  ANNOUNCER: The ball is just off the back of the green  on the fringe about 45 feet from the cup. He needs to get  down in two for his par. COLOR: It's easy to second guess, but he should have  hit the 5. Redmond slams the 4-iron back into his Tour golf bag  (with his full name in bold letters on the side), and  glares at Peterson without saying anything. Redmond's playing partner is Fred "Wolf" Powell, a  thin player in his early 30's with the athletic build of a  modern golfer. Powell's tour bag and golf shirt have the  face of a vicious gray wolf with yellow eyes emblazoned on  them. He launches a towering 6-iron right at the flagstick.  Those who stand within 20 feet of Powell can literally feel  the earth shake when his iron head thuds into the ground. The ball lands ten feet past the hole, spins back and  stops at about five feet. Loud golf applause ensues. "How did he get that name?" a fan asks. "Look at him," another answers. "He has that beard.  He looks like a werewolf." Redmond quickly walks to the green, leaving his caddie  in tow. COLOR: The Wolf is on the prowl.  ANNOUNCER: He is once again showing why he is the #1  ranked player in the world. He is just one shot out of the  lead, while Redmond struggles. A group of fans holds a sign that says, "Wolf Den."  Some of the people have plastic werewolf fangs and fake  wolf hair on the sides of their cheeks. ANNOUNCER: Although it may not look like it to the  casual observer, there's a monkey on Redmond's back. COLOR: More like a Werewolf. You have to feel for  Redmond. Like the Minnesota Vikings and the Buffalo Bills,  he has been close so many times. ANNOUNCER: Redmond has struggled playing on and off  the big Tour for several years. He has been trying to  survive by playing mini tours and giving lessons. He  finally got his card back last year, and has played well in  several tournaments, but has played poorly on Sundays.  Redmond has had to handle criticism from some corners—some  cruel criticism. The announcers don't mention Redmond's unflattering  nickname and what some are saying about him. Redmond gets to his ball on the 17th green and begins  to survey his options. He notices a sign being held up by a  fan directly on the opposite side of the green. The sign, in Times New Roman font, all caps, reads:  ANOTHER CHOKE BY "THE YIPPER?" This fan obviously owned a  computer and a decent laser printer. Redmond makes another pained fake smile to his caddie.  He has to summon all the inner-strength he has to ignore  the sign. Tour officials also notice the sign at about the same  time Redmond does. They quickly confiscate the sign, and  whisk the perpetrator away. The crowd quietly boos the fan. Redmond again tries to force himself to focus on the  task at hand. He continues to line up his putt. He whispers to his caddie. "I'm thinking about five feet to the left." It's not really a question, and not really a  statement, but somewhere between.  Redmond points. Although he hasn't caddied for Redmond that long,  Peterson already knows him well enough to know that he  shouldn't strongly disagree with him when he uses that  tone, especially with the decent sized gallery following  today. "See that little brown spot? About there?" Peterson  quietly replies and points to an old ball mark. Redmond nods. "What about after the hole?" he asks. "It's pretty flat." Redmond nods. He strokes what looks to be a pretty good lag putt.  It almost goes in, causing a loud "ohhhhhhhhh" from the  crowd, but misses the hole. However, the ball doesn't stop like they expect.  Instead, it trickles slowly past the hole—about 5-1/2 feet  by-down an almost imperceptible slope below the hole. It  was not flat. "Flat?"  Redmond says quietly, but deep from his gut. He glares at his caddie. His next putt is the length  of the putts in his nightmares. He fixes a spike mark in  the line of his missed putt with the bottom of his putter,  like an alpine skier testing the snow with his ski pole.  Peterson perceives that Redmond doesn't want his  advice on the next putt, and stays off the green with the  clubs. COLOR: I think the Wolf smells blood, Charlie. Powell is away. He lines it up, doesn't hesitate, and  raps it into the hole. Powell shows his teeth and growls like a wolf to  please his following, then laughs and grabs the tip of his  cap. The Wolf Den loves it, as several members bear plastic  werewolf teeth. After it quiets down, Redmond gets ready to putt. He talks to himself. I'm not gonna choke. I'm confident… a great putter.  Nine in a row this morning. Then, only Redmond can hear a small group of male and  female voices chanting in his head, almost a satanic sound: Yip-per, yip-per, yip-per, yip-per, yip-per… The voices grow both in tempo and volume as he surveys  his putt both from behind the hole and behind the ball. His nightmare is taking place again down the stretch,  at the worst time imaginable. He takes his putting stance. ANNOUNCER: Redmond went to the long putter about 5  years ago because of putts like this. Redmond's hands are shaking pretty violently as golf  goes as he gets ready to putt. ROAM: He says it has helped his stroke—but it still  hasn't gotten him into the winner's circle. COLOR: There was a time when he almost never missed  putts of this length. He just rammed them into the back of  the cup. Redmond steps away to try to stop the shaking. He sets  up again. ANNOUNCER: Now Redmond, with this left for his par and  to keep a one shot lead with one to play...  Keep your head still, don't look at the ball until you  hear it go in the hole. Take it back slow...  Then the chanters continue louder and faster. yip-per, yip-per… Redmond finally makes a slightly jerky stroke. The  poorly stroked ball misses the hole by three inches to the  right and rolls 4 feet by the hole. He doesn't take his  time on the comeback putt to get it over with, and misses  again. ANNOUNCER: It's not even close. Powell now has the  lead, while Redmond may have played himself out of a big  paycheck. Redmond taps it in. He hands the long putter back to  Peterson without looking at him. On the walk to the 18th tee, Peterson tries to stay  positive. "One hole left. One shot at a time. Stay in the  present. Focus on the task at hand." "I don't need your regurgitation of Norman Vincent  Peale."  "Peale?" the caddie echoes. ANNOUNCER: Redmond's chances are crumbling. Redmond prepares to hit his approach shot from the 18th  fairway. ROAM: Redmond has 192 to the hole. He needs to finish  with a birdie to stop the bleeding. Redmond avoids eye contact with caddie. "What are you thinking?" "I don't want to… " Peterson says. "Say it," he orders. "It's a solid 4. The wind is against you again and  it's uphill. Remember, I make more money if you win too." The flagstick on the 18th green is waving in the  breeze that is blowing into the players. He takes his last look at the target. Unbeknownst to  Redmond, the flagstick now drapes limply. The wind has  suddenly stopped, and it has become dead still.  He takes a smooth swing and hits the ball solidly. He  reacts like he has hit the shot exactly like he wanted. However, his ball sails over the green on the fly and  lands in a sand trap, half-buried under the back lip. He  stares in disbelief. ROAM: You're not going to believe this, Charlie. The  wind just flat stopped blowing as he was getting ready to  hit. It was a perfect shot had the wind not been blowing. ANNOUNCER: Another bad break for Redmond. The table is  set for the ravenous Wolf. Powell hits a 7-iron from 168. The ball fades around a  tree and ends up about 12 feet from the cup. After the players get to the green, Powell is  repairing his ball mark with a tee. He pokes the soft turf  around the circumference of the ball mark, then taps it  lightly with the bottom of his putter. He looks in  Redmond's direction.  ROAM: An impossible lie. His ball is buried and he  doesn't have much green to work with. Redmond's ball comes out of the trap with a downward  spray of sand, then bounces a few feet short of the hole.  At first it looks good, but since it was a buried downhill  lie, it keeps going, well over the green. The crowd moans. ROAM: That was an expensive shot for Redmond. Minutes later, Redmond taps the ball in the hole. ANNOUNCER: That's a 6 for Redmond, and he falters down  the stretch again. Powell lines up his putt.  ANNOUNCER: This putt is really academic. Powell strokes it. The ball looks like it will be  short by one rotation, but drops in after a moment of  suspense. Roaring applause. ANNOUNCER: Wolf birdies the last two holes to win  again. Powell's caddie opens his arms, but Powell extends his  hand instead. He shakes hands with Redmond, then pats him  on the back as the two walk off the green. "Tough luck. Too bad about the putts," Powell says. "It was club selection," Redmond mutters, not wanting  to admit the truth about the yipped putts. In his mind, he  didn't yip those putts because it is impossible to do with  a belly putter. Roaming announcer Steele, a former tour player  himself, approaches Redmond off the green. The camera  moves into place. "Donnie, your collar is turned…" He quickly straightens it for Redmond. ROAM: We're here with Donnie Redmond. Donnie, another  tough one? Redmond nods. ROAM: Tell us about club selection on 17 and 18? REDMOND: On 17 I had the adrenaline going—I just air- mailed it. ROAM: The wind just stopped right before you hit it on  18, Donnie. Tough luck. Back to you, Charlie. After the round, Redmond and his Caddie are in the  locker room. Redmond has just put on his street shoes, and  begins to put on a cardigan sweater. Unbeknownst to the two, newspaper sports reporter Ken  Browning hides in the locker room. Both believe they are  alone in the locker room while Browning eavesdrops. "It don't bother me. Heck, I made $96,000 for 8th  place." Peterson wipes the iron club heads with a wet towel.  Redmond begins button up his sweater from the bottom  button. "Not many people make the money I do. I get to play a  game while I'm doing it." Peterson stops for a moment, looks at Redmond, then  continues wiping. He is trembling a little. "I played well enough to win today. If it wasn't for  those two over-clubs down the stretch, I would've won." Peterson totally stops wiping and looks directly at  Redmond with his head slightly tilted. "I think it was the wind… it just stopped before you  hit," the caddie says, nervously. "It wouldn't have mattered if you would have factored  in the adrenaline. We were coming down the stretch… I'm  always pumped up." Peterson looks at his feet. Redmond realizes he has not lined up his buttons  properly with the button holes. He pulls the sweater open  and begins to button it up again. "I was afraid you might er—choke… and wouldn't make  solid contact. I knew how much you wanted to win." "Choke? Choke?" Redmond says, with emphasis on the  second one.  "I didn't mean… " "You said I should 'choke' down on that 4-iron, too." "I meant… " "You give me the wrong club down the stretch—twice,  because you thought I might choke?" "I didn't want it to be true… you were sweating.  Redmond is enraged. How could a caddie say I thought  you might choke to his player? How do I always find this kind of caddie?  That was the final straw to Redmond. "Send me your mailing address. I'll get the clubs, you  can take off." Peterson drops his head, and starts walking out of the  locker room. He whispers so Redmond can't hear. "A**hole." Peterson is approaching his rental car. Browning calls  out to him. "Peterson! Remember me? Ken Browning?" "From the Times?" "That's the one. Your boss's buddy." "He ain't my boss… I just got canned because of his  adrenaline." "I see. Interesting. I'd like to talk—get your side of  the story. I'll meet you over at Ralph's on 27th Street?"

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