His name was Bert and he was a good friend for almost a year.聽
Bert lived in Port of Spain, as did I. I don鈥檛 know where he is now 鈥� probably still there. I chalk it up to found and lost friendships we all have.
Bert was an engineer without a degree. He designed and built buildings and was allowed to because he was good, and real engineers聽 were always willing to sign off on Bert鈥檚 work because he was good at what he did.
鈥淚 crapped out of university,鈥� he admitted to me. It just couldn鈥檛 hold his attention.
He represented Trinidad and Tobago in the Olympics one year in the very exciting smallbore rifle competition. I often teased him about his Olympic experience. He got bored with smallbores, just like he got bored with engineering school, so he took up golf.聽
Bert developed the sweetest looking golf swing this side of Jordan Spieth, but that鈥檚 where the comparison ended. Swing was great 鈥� results no. His handicap fluctuated between 14 and 20 on any given hole. Together we made a run at the St. Andrews Club聽 B-side championship that was a handicap event, since my handicap at the time was north of 10 too, so we cashed in on our gimmie strokes.聽
We won three matches, quite handily, taking advantage of our handicaps and our uncanny streak of taking turns making fantastic shots well above our paygrade, when the other guy was heading for an eight on a par-4 hole.聽
Our accidental friendship developed because we kept running into one another, either at a party or at the golf course. I went to his home a couple of times to feast on his wife鈥檚 excellent West Indian dishes.聽
We drank rum on decks and patios and one day ended up golfing with a visiting Anglican Archbishop, but we didn鈥檛 know that because he simply introduced himself as Chuck and told us he was in the fire insurance business when we asked him what had brought him to the island. He was solo and we invited him to join our threesome.聽
So Bert, Edgar and Parksie played a round with Chuck. The trio flogged and cursed our way around the course like any self-respecting high-handicap golfer should do, while Chuck just smiled, chatted and slogged his way around with us. We shared some bad and good jokes, rum and beer in the clubhouse after, and watched the sun sink into the watery horizon, and then sent Chuck on his way back to the hotel once he was finished buying the final round.聽
You can only imagine our shock when we picked up a copy of the Guardian newspaper on Monday to see Chuckie鈥檚 picture on front page, handing out communion in full English bishopy regalia.聽
鈥淪on of a biscuit-eating-basketball player, he told us he was an insurance salesman,鈥� said Bert as he grimaced over the photo and the headline, recalling our poor manners, foul mouths and club throwing tantrums while in Chuck鈥檚 presence.聽
鈥淔ire insurance,鈥� I said. 鈥淕et it?鈥�
鈥淥h Christ,鈥� said Bert.聽
鈥淥h right,鈥� Ed countered.聽
鈥淐rap, I wonder what he thought about us?鈥� I asked.聽
鈥淒oesn鈥檛 matter, he bought the last round,鈥� said Bert.聽
鈥淚 dunno, I had fun,鈥� said Ed.聽
鈥淣ot on the 14th hole you didn鈥檛,鈥� said Bert.聽
鈥淕lad he didn鈥檛 ask for a mulligan,鈥� I said. 鈥淚 would now have felt bad not giving him one.鈥澛�
鈥淓very bishop should get at least one mulligan,鈥� said Bert.聽
We agreed, assuring ourselves that Chuck would give us a mulligan on decorum in return. After all, his business was all about forgiveness.
This is a true story. The names (other than mine, Bert鈥檚 and Edgar鈥檚) have been changed to protect the guilty.
