Faux pas
As in:
In time Stuart would benefit, immensely, from the seemingly competing advice of Tommy Divits and Father Lynch. But for the first two months, especially, there was a weirdness about the competition between the two men that made Stuart feel as though he was doing something illicit. Even though he wasn’t. He was just trying to learn to play golf.
The faux pas, such as it was, was Tommy’s ill-timed decision to take one more pass at showing Stuart how to weaken his grip. He administered the lesson while Stuart was waiting in the parking lot between the range and clubhouse for Father Lynch to finish showering after his customary Monday round. Stuart sensed the tension as soon as he noticed Father approaching and Father, who had just shot 78, and was feeling very good about himself and the possibilities of the Holy Spirit, stopped whistling.
That was a tick. Father Lynch was not a man who easily betrayed ill-feelings or bitterness, but he would stop whistling when he felt the need to arrest such human constrictions and adjust his heart and spirit to them. And this was a bad feeling coming over him, a flush of protectiveness and custody. By now it was clear that Stuart was possibly going to be a scratch golfer (a player who can reliably shoot par, or better for 18 holes) and such talent is rare. And he wanted to be the one to nurture it.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want Tommy Divits messing with Stuart and getting him all mechanical, all Hoganed up, as it were. That was the purpose for trying to hide him down at the far end of the practice range, so Tommy wouldn’t notice him and leave him alone. Also, the notion of weakening Stuart’s grip surprised him. But his prejudice against Tommy’s method was consuming, and he was less curious than just upset at the idea that Tommy would be messing with the first lesson that he’d given Stuart. That was something of a shame, because Tommy’s lesson would prove to be helpful in getting Stuart to control distances better with iron shots.
“Padre,” Tommy said, as a salutation, as he saw Father Lynch approaching with his bag and pull cart in tow. “Heard you chipped in on 14.”
“Eight too,” the priest replied. “But what’s with the work around the bunkers on 12? Shouldn’t that be ground under repair?”
“I’ll look into it,” Tommy said.
“Come on Stuart, let’s go feed the ducks.”
Stuart had no idea what Father Lynch was talking about. The stiff encounter left him feeling felt like he’d been caught with lipstick on his collar, which was not a feeling he thought he would experience as a priest.
Very little else was said. And it was only when the bell tower at St. Patrick’s was in sight on the ride back in the Studebaker that Father Lynch started whistling again.
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