As in:
Well, yes, Stuart needed patience. But he also needed a little more help with the eviction of the shanks.
For the uninitiated, there’s nothing quite as acrid as burning peat and while the stench had no effect, whatsoever, on Father Lynch, he figured it might be the sacrament of last resort to hit Stuart’s re-set button. As he prepared to douse the embers at the end of the ceremony at the turn, he had wrapped one of the coals in a damp cloth he’d collected from near the restaurant’s grill. Now Father Lynch produced the rag and, moments after Stuart pocketed his ball on number 10, he instructed the younger priest to take a whiff.
The smell literally knocked him to one knee. As he regained his wits and began to rise he was confused to hear Father Lynch reciting the Saint Blaise blessing: “Per intercessionem Sancti Blasii liberet te Deus a malo gutteris et a quovis alio malo.”
“You’re also going to need this,” Father Lynch added in English, slipping a vanilla bean power bar into Stuart’s pocket.
The house wisdom, from Tommy Divits, on number 11 was to lay up with a long iron. But when it came time for Stuart to play, Father Lynch reached into Stuart’s bag and pulled his driver.
“No fear son,” he said, “just take it right over the trap.”
And he did. Two hundred ninety five yards. Just far enough to land on the downslope beyond the trap that fronted the green. The ball shot forward and, by a mere matter of an inch or two, caught the focusing mound in the center of the green on the proper side, causing the ball to curve past the hole and roll up against the fringe, leaving him an 18 foot putt for eagle.
“Hmmph,” Bert Maalox reported. “Never seen anyone pull that one off before.”
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