Dzhon Makdonald - Cloob from Glasgow - - Fifteen Sports Stories (1951-10)

The matter of receiving a trans-Atlantic phone call created such furor in the MacLendon household in Harts Point, Connecticut, that after it was over and Duncan MacLendon hung up the phone, it seemed a pity that he was unable to tell May and the kids what it was all about.

Thought the old boy had died a long time ago, he said, replacing the phone.

What old boy? Where? May and the kids demanded.

My great uncle in Glasgow, Angus Campbell. Good Lord, he must be well over ninety. Poor old boy sounded pretty thin over the phone.

But what did he want? May demanded, with an air of struggling to achieve calm.

Darned if I know. Something about a cloob. Couldnt make it out.

A cloob? the kids asked in unison. The word fascinated them. They marched around the house chanting Cloob, cloob, cloob, until forcibly restrained.

It seems to me, May said later, that when somebody goes to the expense of a trans-Atlantic phone call, the least you could do is understand what

But honey, I talked to Uncle Angus back in 34, face to face for two hours. And when it was all over, I didnt have the faintest idea what he had been saying.

Then you must write him a letter and ask him why he called you.

Duncan MacLendon made three drafts of the letter, and still he was not satisfied. The trick was to word it in such a way that it would sound as though he had understood, and wanted further details. By the time he was satisfied with the letter, he found that Uncle Angus address had been mislaid. In fact, he could not remember where he had last seen it.

And then the cable arrived, stating that Uncle Angus had died. Duncan figured back and found that Uncle Angus had died the day after making the call. The members of the MacLendon family went around muttering to themselves, convinced that the mystery of the cloob would never be solved

And then the cloob arrived. It was in a long narrow box. The eldest kid glommed onto the stamps. With the family gathered around, Duncan tenderly opened the box. The object inside was wrapped in tissue paper. He unwrapped that.

In unison they all shouted, Oh, a club! A golf club!

Duncan remembered someone telling him stories of Uncle Angus giving pointers to Harry Vardon when Harry had been a small boy, and something else about Uncle Angus being almost responsible for inventing the game. Looking at the club he could believe it. Compared with modern day weapons, the wooden head was grotesquely tiny, the impact surface no bigger than a quarter. It had no bottom plate. The shaft was of wood, heavy greasy wood which curved this way and that from grip to head. The grip was of leather with the patina of age.

With what May described later as a faintly stupid look. Duncan swung the old club. It had no more balance or feel than half a crutch. It swung up, contacted the ceiling light fixture smartly and rained shattered glass onto Duncans head and shoulders.

During the next week Duncan took it to a few antique dealers. Two of them laughed outright. The third one made a tentative offer of fifty cents. Duncan took the club home and put it in the store room off the garage. There was no more talk of the cloob in the MacLendon household.

In early May, as on every other year, Duncan MacLendon and Stu Finch and Ed DeRider and Mike Folsun began their annual attack on par at the Onondaka Country Club. Par won. Finch and DeRider were senior partners in the law firm for which both Duncan and Mike Folsun worked. Both Duncan and Mike were hoping for a partnership offer and their rivalry, though good-natured and casual on the surface, was intensely serious underneath. Duncan and Mike were both in their mid-thirties. Finch and DeRider were in their early fifties.

The set-up was Duncan and lean, nervous Stu Finch against muscular Mike and chubby Ed DeRider. Both senior partners were incurable dubs. A hundred and ten was a respectable round for either. Both Mike Folsun and Duncan operated on the theory of slamming hell out of the ball at every opportunity. As a consequence they were both in the middle nineties at all times.

Of the foursome, Duncan was the only one who hated golf. He detested trudging around eighteen holes and banging a silly little ball toward a sillier little cup. Yet he knew that, ridiculous as it seemed, the filling of the partnership vacancy would undoubtedly be based on the game. It wasnt who won. It was based on who was the most pleasant partner. The result was a weekend match which seemed to be a contest between Stu Finch and Dale Carnegie, against Ed DeRider and Dale Carnegie. Duncan would come home wearied not so much by the golf game as by the effort of maintaining a pleasant smile, even when a drive went merrily into a water hole.

Tension ran high as the golf season neared Duncans secretary told him that Mr. DeRiders secretary had told her that a partnership was going to be offered to either Folsun or MacLendon. And soon.

Duncan firmly believed that the Onondaka course at Harts Point had been laid out by someone who had an unhappy childhood. The fairways were smug and narrow and curved. The roughs were a jungle sneer along the sides. And no one who ever played the eleventh, fourteenth and eighteenth holes wanted to drink water again.

On the first Saturday in May when golf seemed possible, if not feasible, the foursome trudged squishily from club house to first tee. Only one caddy was available. He was assigned to carry double for Finch and DeRider.

This year, Dunc, well make em wish they never learned the game, Stu Finch said with grim heartiness.

Dollar, dollar all the way? DeRider asked blandly.

Sure, Stu said quickly.

Dunc leaned his bag against the bench. Mike Folsun put his beside it, then stared at Duncs clubs. He reached out and pulled the cloob from Duncs bag.

Whats the rule on secret weapons? Mike asked. They all stared at Uncle Angus cloob.

Duncan laughed a bit thinly. Guess one of the kids or the wife stuck it in my bag. It was in the garage.

Whittle it yourself? Mike asked.

My Uncle Angus sent it to me from Glasgow this winter, Duncan explained carefully. It is the sort of club that was used when the game was first started.

That short-circuited Mikes attempt at humor changed it to interest. They all swung the cloob, commented on its unwieldiness, until Ed DeRider slapped his hands and said, Lets put the show on the road, gentlemen.

Duncan, with his pleasant smile firmly in place, tried not to think of the long weekends that stretched interminably out ahead of him, until the snow would fly again. Stu Finch teed up his ball, waggled, jerked back, lurched and chopped a drive down the middle of the fairway, half-topped, that went no more than seventy yards. Up to you, partner, he said with a nervous laugh. Ed DeRider hit the ball cleanly, but without much snap. Duncan banged one out two hundred yards, and it stopped just short of the rough. Mike whanged a screaming slice deep into the jungle.

The first hole was halved. Sixes for Mike and Duncan. Eights for Stu and Ed. Folsun and DeRider took the second hole by a stroke. The third was halved. Duncan and Stu Finch took the fourth hole by a stroke, halving the match to date.

On the fifth tee, Ed DeRider said, Stu, I think we better tell these boys.

Duncan almost lost his smile. Tell us what?

Finch turned spokesman. Like this, Dunc. Weve been talking it over. Theres a partnership opening. Both of you know that. And we know that you each want it. But, dammit, we havent been able to choose between you. We dont want to embitter the man we dont pick. So this isnt as childish as it might sound. We decided to leave it up to the game, today. If you and I win. Dunc, youre in. If we lose, Mike gets his chance to buy in.