Barry Rotter and The Golf Lesson
by
R.E.D. McNabb
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
R.E.D. McNabb on Smashwords
Barry Rotter and The Golf Lesson
Copyright © 2011 by Ruth Eileen Day McNabb
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BARRY ROTTER AND THE GOLF LESSON
Rescued from a needlessly dangerous magical world, I was brought to the normal human world where I have had many amazing adventures. My name is Barry Rotter, and I am not a wizard.
My favorite thing about this new world is my wonderfully sensible school. The stairs there don't move like in my old school, Hogslop, which saves a lot of time in getting from place to place. I'm learning many useful things such as mathematics, physics, computers, and writing, instead of spending hour after hour trying to make a feather float. I don't live at school, so I can be with my new family and play video games. (Video games are brilliant and something my old schoolmates will never have. Suckers!) My school has lots of sports--not just the one--and they have the very best golf team in England.
I remember first learning about golf. My schoolmates and I were out in the field with Coach Andrews. He’s a balding man, rather short, with a potbelly and a tendency to get angry very quickly—at least with me.
"The rest of you lot, just hang tight, while I explain to Rotter here what golf is," he told the others, who moved off to the side. The coach picked up a small, white, dimpled ball and held it out to me. "This is a golf ball. Each player gets one." I reached out to touch it, not sure what to expect, but it simply sat there in his hand.
"Are they all as small as that one?" I asked, seeing the bucket of balls he had with him.
"Yes.”
"And they fly, do they?" I asked, for it was about the size of the flying ball I was familiar with.
He smiled slightly, but gave me an odd look. "Not exactly. You have to hit them."
"Doesn't it get upset when you hit it?" I was disturbed by the notion of striking the poor, little, defenseless non-flying ball. Some of my classmates snickered a little, and the coach continued to look at me strangely.
"Upset? No, it's just a ball. It's not alive."
“Oh!” I was relieved and added, "That's very practical."
"Each player has to hit their ball into 18 different holes on what we call the 'course.'” He drew a long stick topped with a bulbous head from a tall bag and handed it to me. I had never flown before, but I was willing to try. I straddled the stick and attempted to kick off. To my surprise, the other boys chuckled and snorted, which I took to mean that I wasn't doing it correctly.
“What the blazes are you doing, Rotter?” he asked, snatching the stick away from me.
"Am I doing it wrong? Maybe if I tried one of the other ones--" I began and turned to look at my schoolmates for clues, but they only stifled giggles and started whispering behind their hands.
“I don’t know what you think you’re up to. These are clubs--"
“Ohh!” I said in sudden comprehension and took the stick back. I swung it above my head bringing it down within an inch of the coach’s ear. “These are what you use to beat the other players to keep them from getting their balls in the holes!”
The rest of the class burst out laughing, some nearly doubled over, but I was completely bewildered by their response.
The coach yanked the club out of my hand, horrified. "Give me that, you lunatic! Where did you say you were from? Oh never mind! The clubs are used to hit the balls--and ONLY to hit the balls." He looked me in the eye to be sure I understood.
"Why are there so many different types?"
"Well, each club is designed to hit the ball a different distance.”
“I see. And what do you fly on while you are hitting the ball?" This earned me an impatient look from the coach, and more giggles from the class.
In very precise, even tones with gritted teeth he replied, "You don't fly. You stand."
"You mean, on solid ground?"
“Yes, of course!" he nearly shouted, and his face was becoming red.
I was amazed by this. It had never occurred to me that a sport could be played without being hundreds of feet in the air flying on measly and uncomfortable broomsticks-- the fall from which would result in your grisly death, traumatizing your schoolmates for life. It almost seemed too good to be true. I smiled.
“You should understand, though, that there are traps—“
“Traps?” I gulped. Suddenly the game of golf appeared to be a lot less harmless.
“Yes, there’s the sand trap—“
“Oh no! “ I wailed. “What’s in there? A giant worm? An undead monster?”
“No!” This time he did shout, the better to be heard above my guffawing schoolmates. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating brow and groaned. “It’s just sand, Rotter. That’s all. Plain old sand.”
I nodded. I thought it best not to ask if the sand sucked you in and buried you alive. “What other traps are there, Coach?”
He winced as he replied. “There are water hazards—“
There was a silence from the class. I knew they were listening eagerly for my response, but I could handle water.
“No problem!” I said confidently, “I can swim. You don’t need magic to swim.”
“You don’t swim in them!”
“But how do you get away from the ugly mermaids who will pull you down to live with them forever?”
The coach’s eyes boggled. He opened his mouth, shut it, then raising an arm he pointed to the track. I knew this meant he wanted me to run laps. As I started for the track, I looked behind me at the other boys who were in convulsions of laughter, barely able to breathe and wiping tears from their eyes.
Because I end up running laps every time I talk to Coach Andrews, I've become the fastest runner my school has ever seen. And I did learn to play golf eventually. It always brings a smile to my face when I plant my feet firmly in the turf before taking a swing at the inanimate ball. In fact, I'm very good at it. I’ve found if you are not worried about dying while you are playing, it’s easy to concentrate on perfecting your game.
I love not being a wizard.
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