Ted Teaches Andrew How to Manipulate

 1989

The birds were chirping particularly loudly as they nestled in the pine trees that lined the driving range at the Greenwich Country Club. The sound grabbed Andrew as he looked into the trees. They sounded free and happy. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the sounds.

A smile almost crossed his face until he heard the bark of the man staring down at him, hands on his hips.

“Andrew! Andrew! Get your head out of the clouds.”

The shout took ten-year-old Andrew out of his moment as he looked up at his father and Masters Champion, Ted Beck. Andrew looked around quickly at the other parents, their boys giving supporting messages, instructions, and some golf claps.

Ted lowered his tone. “All right, pal. This is your day. You ready?

Andrew shrugged, “I think so.”

Ted frowned and made the sound of a game show buzzer. “Wrong answer! Either you’re ready, or you’re not. Which one is it? Because I didn’t come all the way here if you’re not gonna to win. The U.S. Open is next week, and if you’re not ready, well….”

Andrew’s eyes got big, and he squeezed the grip on his driver as a flood of cortisol hit his stomach with a pang, making his voice crack as he exclaimed, “I’m ready, I’m ready. I’ll win, Dad, I’ll win!”

“You’re fucking A-right, you’ll win. How many balls you hit on the range?”

“Forty, just like you told me to do.”

“Good boy,” Ted said while thumbing at the boys on the practice range. “You’re better than any of these little sons-of-bitches out here.”

He glared at this son’s competition, then stared down at him and barked, “You practiced hard while I was gone, right?”

Andrew nodded his head fervently. “Yeah, every day. Chipping and putting in the morning, driving and irons into the net after school.”

Ted peered down at his son, arms crossed.

“Honest! You can ask mom. Even when she told me to come in, I hit more balls. I remembered! You said, ‘When mom calls, hit 100 more balls’, right?”

Ted cracked a half-smile. “Good boy. Now you’re ready for the real game of golf.”

Andrew scrunched his face in confusion. “What do you mean, Dad?

Ted put his hands on his hips and shook his head as he looked around. He crouched, supporting his body with his left hand on his knee, and tapped his boy’s temple with his right index finger. Ted’s crow’s feet around his eyes wrinkled as he said, “With golf, it’s all in your head.”

Andrew blinked and said, “In my head?”

            “Yeah,” Ted said.

Ted pulled his son in close with one arm around his shoulder and whispered as he pointed out to another boy. “See that kid with the matching yellow shirt and cap who looks like a god-damn canary?”

“Yeah, that’s Archie Donaldson. He won this tournament last year. He’s really good and….”

Ted gripped Andrew’s shoulders with both hands and squeezed. “He’s shit, Andrew. They’re all shit compared to you. You know why?”

As Ted squeezed, Andrew resisted his urge to shrug his locked-up shoulder. He whispered back, “Because I practice harder?”

“No,” Ted squeezed again and shook his head. “Because I’m going to teach you how to beat anyone.”

Andrew’s eyes widened, and he said, “How? Do you have a secret golf shot?”

Ted waved the comment away. “Are you friendly with canary-boy over there?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool. Before you got here, Archie let me use his new Ping driver at the range and….”

“No!” Ted said, mocking his son’s voice. He added, “He’s not ‘pretty cool!’ He’s the enemy.”

But then he stopped his rant, tilted his head, and pointed his finger in the air a few times. “Hey, you know what? Getting him to let you use his new driver, that was great instincts on your part.“

He paused and rubbed his chin as he mumbled, “We can use that.”

“How? I don’t get it, Dad.”

Again, Ted stooped over to get eye-to-eye with his son. “Look, boy, keep pretending to be his friend. Complement his shots. You complement everything except his drives. Be his fucking cheerleader about his iron shots or putts. But don’t say shit about his drives.”

“Why not?” Andrew asked.

“I’m just getting to that.” Ted threw his arms out. “Will you shut the fuck up and let me finish? Jeez, you’re just like your mother. Questioning everything I say before I can even finish a god-damn sentence.”

Andrew grimaced and looked down at his black and white kid-sized FootJoy golf shoes that Ted demanded they make several pairs for Andrew if they wanted Ted to sponsor their golf shoes and said, “Sorry, Dad.”

Ted continued, “So, let’s say you’re on the 14th, which is a par five, or you’re on the 16th, which is a long par 4. When the yellow-bellied sapsucker over there grabs that new Ping driver out of his bag, you know what you say to him?”

“Uh… good luck?”

Ted smacked his son on the back of the head, then looked around the range to ensure no one saw.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? No! You tell him there is something wrong with his new Ping driver. That it’s slicing right when you used it and that you usually hook, so when it went right, you thought there is something wrong with the club.”

“You want me to…to lie to him?”

Ted snapped, “It’s not lying, princess. It’s called fucking with his head.”

Still confused, Andrew reached into his golf bag, pulled out the Rule Book, and quickly skimmed the pages looking for the rules, hoping there was something in the book he could point to that said you weren’t allowed to lie to your opponents.

Ted ripped the rule book out of his hands and threw it at his golf bag. Startled, Andrew stepped back and watched the book tumble as the pages flapped in the wind. Ted grabbed Andrew by the face, squeezed his cheeks, and glared into his eyes with gritted teeth.

“Fuck the rules. Golf is all about confidence. No confidence and even a one-foot putt will seem like an impossible shot.”

He let go of his son’s face but continued in a low tone as if he was telling a secret no one should know. “But you have to time it right. Get him right as he is going up to the tee. Tell him there is something wrong with his driver. Get in his head. Make him lose his confidence. And I promise you, he will hit that ball into the fucking trees.”

Ted finished his lesson with a cackle that Andrew thought sounded like Cobra Commander going over his plans for world domination.

*****

After over two and a half hours of playing from the red tees, Andrew and Archie reached the 14th hole, a par 5. Andrew was four strokes behind. They had been very civil, and Andrew did what Ted said to do: compliment his play. The compliments came naturally to Andrew, and they were sincere. Andrew was playing well. His drives were long, as usual, and his mid-range irons worked for him. However, his putting was off. Ted scolded him several times when he missed six putts under six feet, which was why he was in second place.

As they approached the tee box, Archie had the honor to hit first by winning the 13th hole. Ted walked up to Andrew and put a gentle hand on his back. Andrew was stunned at the soft touch, and as Ted leaned down to talk, Andrew smiled at the thought that he would finally get some encouragement or fatherly wisdom.

“Okay, boy, now’s the time. Go to him and tell him you noticed his drives were slicing to the right. The same thing that happened when you used it.”

Andrew’s stomach sank. He pursed his formerly smiling lips. He closed his eyes and said nothing.

Ted sensed his 10-year-old’s resistance. “You want to win, or are you a loser?”

Andrew whispered, “I want to win, but I can beat him.”

Ted shook his head. “Not the way you’re playing, kid. Now get up there and get inside his head.”

The shove in Andrew’s back sent him forward, dragging his driver behind him. He walked up the small hill to the tee-box from the cart path. He felt like he was in a war movie and on a suicide mission to take a hill that wasn’t worth defending.

He had more butterflies in his stomach right now than the tricky putt he made on the 11th to save par. He pulled at his green baseball cap. The cap’s logo was a map of the lower-48 in yellow and a golf pin with a red flag. Above the map in yellow writing was “Masters.” It was the hat he and his brother Brandon each received when Ted won the Masters in 1988. The back of the cap had “A. Beck” embroidered on it.

Andrew wore the cap at every tournament, not by choice. It was Andrew’s least favorite hat. It wasn’t as if everyone didn’t know Andrew was the son of Master Champion Ted Beck. If it were up to him, he would have worn his baby blue New York Tides cap with the big navy cursive “T” on it.

The butterflies continued to jump as he approached Archie. He turned his head back to see if his dad was watching, and he saw Ted flick his hand forward, telling him to proceed.

“Hey, Archie.”

“Hey, Andrew.”

“You know,” Andrew said uncomfortably, fidgeting with three golf balls in his pocket, “Your drives have been slicing right.”

“What?” Archie looked confused. “I thought I’ve been going pretty straight. They don’t go as far as yours, but….”

“Yeah, but you know, when I took a couple of swings with it, I sliced them right, and I usually hook my drives.”

Archie looked down at his shiny new Ping driver. “Really?”

“Yeah, I just thought you should know. But, hey, it’s probably nothing. Go ahead and hit.”

Archie nodded as he flipped the club to inspect the head. He shrugged and set up his drive. Archie placed the ball and the tee on the ground and took several practice swings.

His parents yelled out some words of encouragement. “C’mon Archie! You can do it, nice and straight, right down the fairway!”

Archie nodded at his father and then set to focus on his swing. His bright yellow shirt was a little baggy, and the sleeves came down near his elbow. They thought he would grow into it.

Archie brought his club back; Andrew watched his backswing closely. Archie came down fast and hard. He connected, and the ball shot off the tee, but then it drifted right.

Archie’s father coaxed the ball. “No, no, no! Stay left, stay left!”

Archie’s ball did not stay left. It went into the trees past the cart path. Archie slammed his driver into the ground and let out a “shit” under his breath.

Andrew looked over his shoulder at his father. He saw Ted pump his fist and did not conceal his grin while Andrew’s face burned with embarrassment. He felt nauseous. He felt as if he had just hit the ball into the trees.

Archie’s parents clapped and tried to be supportive. “That’s okay, son! You’ll get out of that!” The golf claps and words of encouragement continued.

Andrew did the score tally in his head as he plunged a tee into the ground. The tee puncturing the grass had a ripping sound, like he plunged a knife into Archie’s back.

Andrew shook the image out of his head and thought to himself: Archie will have to lay up to get back onto the fairway, his irons have been reliable, but there is no way he is saving par on this hole. If he gets a six on this hole and if I get my drive up the fairway and get on the green in on my next shot, even if I two-putt, I could birdie this hole and pick up two strokes. And if he two putts the hole, I can close the distance.

Catching up to Archie released a flood of dopamine through his body. But he had to focus on his drive. Golf is played one shot at a time, so Andrew did what he always did when he had a critical shot. He shut off his ears. He no longer heard the birds, the June breeze rustling the trees, or the people encouraging their boys on the other holes. He couldn’t hear anything. His club was now a part of his body, and the “True Tempor” shaft, with a titanium head, was a part of his arm. And at the end of the club head sat a little white dimpled Titleist ball on a white tee just a few inches out of the freshly cut green grass. He looked down the fairway and picked his spot. He pulled the club back, corkscrewed his body, and smashed the ball. It hissed off the tee. He knew he hit it well because it just… felt… right. The rest of the world went away.

After a few seconds, as if he had unmuted the world, he heard the other parents commenting on how far and straight Andrew’s drive went.

Archie gave Andrew a nod. “Nice drive.”

“Thanks! You’ll get out of the trees; you’ll be good.”

The two boys exchanged polite glances as their respective parents walked with them to their next shots.

Ted could barely hide his glee but whispered to Andrew. “What I tell you. He hit that fucker in the woods. Did you say what I told you to say?”

Andrew, head down, joy from hitting a perfect drive dissipated, nodded.

“You’ll get two strokes back on this hole if you don’t fuck up the putt.”

Another nod.

Andrew’s and Ted’s prediction was correct. Archie took two more strokes to get on the green and two to get the ball in the hole. He took a 6, one over par, a bogie.

Andrew got on the green with a long iron and a perfect wedge shot, leaving him less than a foot away from the hole. He ended his streak of poor putts by draining the ball into the hole for a 4, one under par, a birdie. Andrew was behind only by two strokes.

Archie’s driving problems persisted on the 15th, 16th, and 17th holes, and by the time they went to the 18th hole, Archie was down by two strokes. On the 18th, Archie grabbed his two wood instead of his driver. Archie’s dad questioned him as Andrew winced.

“Why aren’t you using your driver, Arch?”

“Dad, there is something wrong with the driver. I want to use my two-wood.”

“Archie, that’s a brand-new Ping driver. It’s the best out there. Jeez, if your mother found out how much I paid for that thing, she’d have my head.”

Archie protested. “Dad, I’m telling you, it’s broken or something.”

His father bent over to look at his boy eye-to-eye. “Arch, part of golf is hitting bad shots. God knows I spend most of my time getting out of trouble. But listen, son, the driver is fine. You’re just getting nervous. C’mon, give it another shot. Concentrate, just like we practiced.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Archie’s dad gave him a reassuring pat as he replaced the two wood for the Ping driver. Andrew watched in awe at the exchange. A man-sized anger took over his boy-sized body.

Andrew had the honors for the hole and lined up his ball. Archie saw the anger on Andrew’s face and asked, “Hey, Andrew, you okay?”

Andrew ghosted him to the tee, planted his ball with a grunt, and, without taking a practice swing, wound up and yelled out a visceral growl. The parents could not believe the sound that came from a human that size. One mom covered her mouth. There was silence after the gasp until one of the other dads said, “Holy crap! He hit that ball almost 250 yards! I can’t hit it that far.”

The other parents clapped for Andrew as he resisted the urge to throw his driver into the trees and scream. As he turned to see the people clapping for him, he felt like crying as his anger turned to profound sadness. Then he went numb.

* * * *

Mr. Westbrook, the twenty-three-year-old new Head of Golf and Sport at the Greenwich Country Club, called up the award winners. “… And our second-place winner will receive a fifty-dollar gift certificate to our club store. His aggregate score of two over par beat last year’s low score by three strokes! Please show your support for this year’s runner-up, from White Plains, New York, Archie Donaldson!”

Andrew watched Archie graciously receive his second-place award and shake Mr. Westbrook’s hand as he posed for pictures. Andrew was standing behind Archie’s parents as he heard Mr. Donaldson whisper to his wife, “Fifty dollars might get us a single golf glove in this place.”

His wife hid her giggle behind her hand and whispered, “Yes, and somebody would have used it.”

Andrew stared at Mr. and Mrs. Donaldson as both parents looked down to hide their ear-to-ear grins, amazed at their playfulness. The only time he had ever seen his parents laugh together was watching the sitcom Cheers.  

As Archie descended the steps from the deck connected to the restaurant that was serving as a stage, his parents greeted him with hugs and pats. Andrew thought how lucky Archie was. If Andrew came in second place, or as Ted liked to call it, “first loser,” it would have been a long 5-mile ride to their home in Old Greenwich as Ted would point out every mistake, every errant shot, every poor swing, choice, hell, if his shoes came untied, Ted would have pointed it out. For someone who couldn’t remember birthdays, anniversaries, the times of Brandon’s recitals and art shows, he could remember every golf tournament date and every shot Andrew took.

Mr. Westbrook continued, “And the winner of the 1989 Greenwich Country Club Pee-Wee Open, and a gift certificate of one hundred dollars, and with the record-breaking score for ten-year-olds, of one under par, our very own, Andrew Beck!”

Andrew happily hopped up the steps to collect his trophy as Mr. Westbrook added, “And if that man with Andrew looked familiar to you, that’s because he is the pride of The Greenwich Country Club, the 1988 Master’s Champion, Ted Beck! Come on up here, Ted, and stand with your boy!”

The parents’ applause became louder as Ted waved to the crowd, and he stood in between Mr. Westbrook and Andrew. The parents clicked their cameras at Ted as he made his signature move of pointing to the masses, as they all roared and pointed back at him. Andrew wanted to get off the deck as soon as possible and go home.

Ted was talking to some fans as Andrew waited, leaning up against his dad’s new light green BMW 7 series, when he watched a dejected Archie and his parents walk by.

Archie was making one last protest. “Dad, I’m telling you, we need to take that driver back to the store. There’s something wrong with it.”

Mrs. Donaldson asked, “Isn’t that the same driver you used last season?”

Mr. Donaldson winced as Archie honestly said, “No, Dad bought me this new Ping driver, but I think it’s broken!”

“What?!” Mrs. Donaldson’s eyebrows almost leaped out of her head.

“Honey, it’s not broken. Archie had a little trouble swinging it today, but don’t worry; it’s not broken.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. It’s next week’s mortgage payment. How could you buy him something like that and not discuss it with me?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just….” Their voices faded off as they continued walking. Andrew slumped to the black asphalt. He looked at his trophy and the little gold metal golfer looking as if he had just hit a long drive. Andrew let out an enormous sigh and buried his head between his crossed arms supported by his bent knees. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to feel good about winning, but he couldn’t.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get up off the ground.” Ted barked.

Andrew looked up at his father. Ted furrowed his brow. “What the fuck’s your problem? You won, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I got Archie in trouble. He told his dad his driver was broken.”

Ted chuckled, “Really? He actually thought his driver was broke? Damn boy, you got him good. Real good! Dumbass. Serves him right.”

“Dad! It’s not right!”

Ted jerked his son up under the armpits and squeezed hard. “Well, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, boy! And this is the way it is. Someone wins, and someone loses, and it won’t be me, and it fucking better not be you! I don’t want to hear any of this pussy shit again. Get me!” He shook his son and then put him down. He then let out a deep breath and pulled Andrew in close for what could almost be called a hug.

“Look, you played well today. I mean, I had to bail you out, but that’s what fathers do for their boys. You kicked ass after I told you the secret to golf. I’m proud of you.”

Andrew’s body was a cocktail of emotions: he felt regret and sadness about Archie, but his father never said he was proud of him, and that made him feel so good he almost cried. But then he recalled Archie’s frustrated and reddened face on the last drive when he hit it in the rough. Andrew loved winning but felt he could have beaten him on his own without “cheating.”

Then, even at the award ceremony, Ted took all the attention. Andrew felt terrible that he caused a problem between Mr. and Mrs. Donaldson, but he got the $100 gift certificate. He was going to trade it with his friends at the North Street School for $50 cash and get a New York Tides baseball jersey.  

“Dad, where’s my gift certificate?”

“I gave it back to them.”

“What! That was mine!”

“Yours?! Yours?! I’ll tell you what’s yours! Nothing is yours boy! If I didn’t tell you how to beat the kid in the baggy yellow shirt, you would have had nothing but one hundred pushups and garage-clean-up duty for your monumental fuck up.”

“I could have beaten him on my own.”

“No, you couldn’t! You were putting like a four-year-old. You didn’t deserve the money, so I gave it back. And besides, it doesn’t look good. I’m a champion, so my son is going to be a champion too! You can keep the fucking trophy, but if you want money, you have to earn it, boy!”

Andrew wanted to snap every club he had in half, but at that moment, he became quiet in his sea of rage. A voice deep in his mind clearly and calmly said, Don’t ever let him see you want something again. He will only take it away. Don’t get mad, just get better, and someday you will never have to listen to him ever again.

Andrew sat in the car’s front seat, and as usual, his father critiqued every hole and stroke, even the good shots. He always found something wrong.

When they arrived home, Andrew’s older brother Brandon and his mother Helena were in their small backyard painting the purple and blue hydrangea flowers that lined the fence on the south side of the property.

Andrew ran to his mother at full speed. “Mom, mom, I won! I won!”

She hugged and tasseled her boy’s hat-head blonde wavy hair. Andrew felt the warmth of his mother’s embrace and her gentle touch. Her and green eyes sparkled as she said, “I’m so proud of you, Andrew. Well done!”

Brandon took his painting and ran to his father. “Dad, Dad! Look what I painted! What do you think?”

Ted tilted his head. “It’s flowers, right?”

Andrew looked at his brother’s face as he stood in his mother’s embrace, not letting go. Brandon looked at his painting and then pointed with his brush to the flowers six feet away from them.

“Oh yeah, yeah, now I see it. Yeah, that’s good stuff.” Ted said.

Brandon beamed.

“Helena, can’t he paint a house, or a building, or a car or something?”

“Why on earth would he need to paint that?”

“I don’t know, something, you know, more boyish.”

“Ted, Brandon is a very talented artist. He needs to paint landscapes because it will allow him to become familiar with how to deal with issues of texture, light and shadow, and proportion, all of which are cornerstones of strong artistic practice and—”

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say, what do I know? When I was twelve, I played sports and had to sneak around the club, so my asshole father didn’t catch me playing golf.”

Helena covered Andrew’s ears. But it was too late. The only muffled voice was Helena’s exacerbated cry, “Language!” She let go of Andrew’s ears.

“Jesus Christ, Helena, he’s heard much worse than that at the club.”

“From you, no doubt, potty mouth.” 

The boys laughed as Ted put his hands on his hips and objected. “You turning my own boys against me?”

Helena shook her head and said to her boys, “Go wash up now. Dinner will be ready soon.”

The boys rushed into the house. Brandon gave Andrew a shove so he could get in the door first. Andrew, carrying his trophy with both hands, couldn’t defend off the push and got muscled out of position.

They ran up the steps like a thundering herd of elephants. The paintings on the wall shook as they slammed their way into the bathroom. Andrew rested his trophy on the sink as Brandon boxed his brother out to the water and soap.

“I won today,” Andrew said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You should play with us too.”

“Golf is stupid. I don’t want to play that game. It takes longer than Monopoly, and all you do is hit a stupid little ball in the trees and sand.”

“You’re not supposed to hit it in the trees and sand. You’re supposed to keep it on the grass.”

Brandon gave Andrew a hip check since his hands were soapy. “I know that, dummy. It’s a stupid game. I hate it.”

Andrew shrugged and waited his turn. Then his eyes got big as a great idea came to his mind. “Hey, you want to play catch after dinner? I think there is another glove in the basement, and mom gave me a new baseball for my birthday!”

Brandon looked at him with his eyes squinting and his face reddening. “No! I don’t want to play catch with you. Why don’t you go find a friend to play with and leave me ALONE!”

Andrew was afraid a fist was coming his way and backed off. Brandon left the bathroom without drying his hands, went to their room, and slammed the door.

Andrew looked in the mirror at his reflection. He took a deep breath and let it out. He stared at his trophy and ran his fingers over the smooth metal surface of the golfer. He asked the trophy out loud, “Is it always going to be like this?”

Andrew’s imagination took over as the trophy answered, “Hey kid, all I know is winning is better than losing.”

Andrew looked back at his reflection. He looked at his blue eyes and decided he would win. Win at everything, period. Only winning mattered because at least he would know he was the best. He had to become the best. He wouldn’t need his father or brother when he was the best. He would be happy, just being the best.