Chapter 1: Hooked

“I’m home,” I called out as I came through the door.

Dropping my backpack, I made my way to the kitchen. Glancing out the big picture window that looked out over the 3rd hole of the Wood Winds Country Club, I saw my buddies getting ready to tee off on the Par 4 hole. Grabbing an energy bar, a banana, and a bottle of water, I paused to give mom a kiss on the top of her head as she sat at the breakfast nook breaking beans for dinner.

“How was school, today?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, same old, same old.”

“Your math test?”

“It wasn’t a test, Mom. It was just a quiz.”

“Well...? She asked.

“Aced it!” I grinned. “As usual.”

“Homework?”

“Already done,” I told her. “I’m gonna go play.”

“Dinner’s at seven. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t, Mom,” I told her as I hurried to the garage to grab my gear. Then ducking out the garage’s back door, I made my way down the short path to the tee box on hole number three.

My name is Alexander (Alex to my friends) Masters. My dad, Darrel Masters, is a pilot for Delta Airlines, and in his free time, loves to play golf. My mom, Laura, is a stay-at-home mom, raising my two sisters, Kelly Ann and Jenna, and me. Five years ago, when Jenna and I were entering the seventh grade (Yes, we’re twins), our folks bought this home on the Wood Winds Country Club golf course. Our green-side home is located in a fairly large upper-middleclass subdivision on the northwest side of Atlanta and came with a one-year family membership to the Wood Winds Country Club, including the pool, the restaurant, and of course the golf course. My dad found me a rag-tag collection of used clubs and immediately began taking me with him to play golf on his days’ off.

I don’t know if it was having my dad’s attention for four or five hours or the excitement of being involved in an ‘adult’ activity with other adults. Perhaps it was just the warrior-like thrill of pitting my meager skills against others, but it wasn’t long before I was HOOKED!

Our Junior High School (grades 6, 7, and 8) did not have a golf team, but I still played almost every afternoon, weather permitting. Since our home was located next to the green on the third hole; if the course wasn’t packed, the club would overlook me and my friends starting our round on the third hole, especially since we walked instead of using carts. Besides, they knew we played pretty fast and were always polite to the others on the course.

For Christmas my eighth-grade year, I received a set of used Ping Irons and an older ‘Scottie Cameron’ knock-off putter. However, with my scores averaging in the low 100’s, the clubs didn’t seem to make that much difference.

Then, in the spring of my eighth-grade year, two things happened that affected me profoundly. First, my folks signed me up for golf lessons, which turned out to be group lessons from the club pro. And second, my dad took me to see the Master’s Tournament® in Augusta, GA.

No, we weren’t that rich, nor did we travel in those rarified circles. But dad’s big boss, the president of Delta Airlines, was a member of Augusta National and shortly after he became president, he began a tradition of providing his employees tickets for the event. In an effort to be fair, these tickets were awarded in a drawing before the tournament. Somehow, that year, my dad’s name was drawn for two of the coveted Saturday/Sunday admissions to The Master’s Tournament®. After our visit to Augusta National that spring, I fell in love with pimento cheese sandwiches and I knew what I wanted to do with my life.

I had watched The Masters on TV a time or two, but honestly, at thirteen years of age, I thought watching golf on TV was almost as boring as homework. However, after my all-too-brief visit to those hallowed grounds, I swore to myself that one day, I would become good enough to play in the Masters.

Not a bad goal for a thirteen-year-old golf prodigy-wannabe. So, I threw myself into my lessons and began practicing almost every afternoon, developing a routine of an hour on the practice range, a quick nine or eighteen holes (depending on how crowded the course was), and then another two hours on the practice range.

My new high school offered two semesters of golf, but only the second semester (spring) had official league standings. However, our high school coach turned out to be the son of our club’s pro, and he had evidently talked with his dad about me. Coach Barnes encouraged me to try out for the fall semester. He felt that the extra time, and any additional growth I might have would only help.

Well, I did grow that fall and winter, adding almost four inches to my lanky frame, as well as adding another twenty-five pounds, but instead of getting better, I got worse. I was so clumsy, I was finding it difficult to walk down the fairway without tripping.

I added a couple of more inches that following spring and stood six-foot-two and weighed in at 175 pounds, but still no significant improvement in my scores. My folks found a week-long golf camp for me to attend that summer, and it was there that I learned what was happening to my body. Growing pains, they called it. So, I quit worrying about being clumsy and awkward and just played to enjoy the game.

After camp, I noticed a slight improvement in my scores, but nothing really noteworthy. I decided to stick with fall golf again, and Coach Barnes said he could see some subtle differences, but I was still shooting double bogey golf (+2 strokes/hole) or scores in the high-90’s to low 100’s on our par 72 course.

During all this time, I was a decent student, thanks to some good study habits my folks insisted on. I also had an okay social life, thanks to my twin sister, albeit it mostly centered around golfing. But in addition to golf, there were the kids in the neighborhood and the pool at the country club for diversionary activities in the summer. I didn’t really have a problem talking to girls, especially about golf. But girls usually wanted to talk about other things and go places and do things that always seemed to conflict with my practice or playing time, so I really didn’t date that much.

I finally made the varsity golf team in the spring of my Senior year. Not because I was all that good, but mostly because there just weren’t that many upperclassmen interested in being on the golf team. I came to realize that for all my love of the game, and as hard as I tried, I would never become a great golfer. I just didn’t seem to have the skill it took. Still, I loved to play the game.

Our first match of the season was the last weekend in February, at our home course, which happened to be Wood Winds Golf Club. With highs only reaching the mid 50’s, and blustery winds, I had my best round ever, breaking 90 for the first time. Okay, 89 is not that much better, but it was my first sub 90 round. In a three-school format with 22 golfers playing, I came in 15th. So, it was my first time placing in a varsity tournament. All my buddies were clapping me on the back and Brandon dumped a can of Coke on my head.

A couple of weeks later, on a Friday in mid-March, we had an in-service day for teachers. That meant a day off from classes for students. I celebrated by sleeping an hour later and was looking forward to playing golf with my buddies. But after making a few phone calls and not finding anyone to play with, I just grabbed my clubs from the garage and made my way down the dirt path to the 3rd tee. It was overcast, but dry as I began my solitary trip around the golf course.

I completed my round when I got back to the #2 green and paused long enough to add up my strokes. Wow! I had shot a new course record, for me, of eighty-eight. But without any witnesses, it was a hollow victory at best. Then I headed up the short path to the house for a quick lunch.

“Anyone call for me?” I asked mom as she set a glass of milk next to my sandwich.

“Steve called and said he was on his way to Chattanooga to visit his grandmother,” she replied.

“Oh, well,” I thought, “Guess his parents are taking advantage of the long weekend.”

“And your dad called from Munich. He sounded sorry that he wasn’t here to play golf with you on your day off.” Dad had recently gotten enough seniority to bid on and win a couple of European routes and seemed to really like it. We all liked that he was only gone for four days (two roundtrips) at a time.

“Thanks for the lunch, Mom,” I called out as I headed back to the garage.

“Be careful, Sweetheart,” she called back. “They’re calling for storms later this afternoon.”

“I will, Mom!” I yelled from the garage. Grabbing my clubs again, I looked to make sure I had my golf umbrella strapped to my bag and headed back to the 3rd Tee. The skies looked darker, and the winds were picking up, but no rain. I figured it was a good thing I was playing by myself because I might not get a complete round in if I was playing with a foursome.

The skies were overcast and the wind picked up as I scampered around the course. After a decent drive on the par 5, 16th, I was walking up the 16th fairway when suddenly I heard the warning claxon that signaled that all golfers should clear the course. As I returned my iron to the bag and picked up my ball, I was wondering if this was another tornado warning. In the spring, in Georgia, the warnings came regularly, but they never seemed to amount to much.

Luckily, when the claxon sounded, I was where I could simply cut through a small stand of pines that separated the golf course from Mayflower Street and then take the sidewalk about a hundred yards up to the clubhouse. I hoped I could make it before the rains hit, but it would be close.

The next thing I knew, there was a buzzing sound as the hairs on my neck stood up and I felt the ground begin to vibrate...

Then an explosion! And darkness!

“He’s opening his eyes!” Jenna squealed into the phone. “What should I do?”

Sometimes, I worry about my sister.

I mean, I really love her. She is only six minutes older than me and a real brainiac. She is the one that always blew the curve for the rest of the class. And she’s the one who made all my teachers speculate on whether I was adopted. Jenna was about to graduate high school with a super-high GPA. High enough to be valedictorian of our class, and high enough to earn a full scholarship to Georgia Tech. Without a doubt, one of the smartest people I know, and yet...

... And yet sometimes she could be so obtuse.

She paused for just a moment.

“Okay. First, I’ll call the nurse. Then, call Mom,” she repeated. “Are you sure Mom won’t be upset that it’s so late?

I figured she was talking to Kelly Ann, my eldest sister and a freshman at the University of Georgia. I’m not sure what her major is, but so far, it seems to be mostly boys and parties.

“You’re right, Kelly Ann! After all ... he is finally waking up.”

The next few hours were both hectic and hazy. First came a stream of nurses and technicians, followed by a couple of the on-call doctors, then my parents, and finally, near sunrise, my family doctor along with a couple of specialists, a neurosurgeon and a burn specialist.

Through it all, I begin to piece together what had happened. Evidentially, I had been hit by lightning.

Jenna described to me how I had been unconscious when another golfer found me shortly after the lightning strike. My left palm had some very painful second-degree burns, probably from where it was resting on the clubs in my bag, while there was some minor first degree burns under my arm and on my ribcage from how I was carrying my bag.

My dad explained how my bag was gone. Disintegrated. And the clubs inside it fused into a molten mass of twisted metal. Even the rubber spikes on the bottom of my golf shoes had melted. But the biggie, the thing I was having the hardest time accepting, was that today was March 21st.

I had been in a coma for ten days!

By the time my pediatrician, Dr. Peterson, arrived, I was sitting up in bed, with the bandages on my left hand freshly re-wrapped and a partially empty breakfast tray on the rolling table beside my bed.

“Welcome back, Alex,” Dr. Peterson said with a wane smile. “You gave us quite the scare.”

Then, after introducing the two specialists, they all went to work, prodding and poking. Giving me a sedative that they said might make me sleepy, they began hooking me up to various machines. The burn specialist checked my hand and under my arm and then left without a word. Dr. Peterson left shortly thereafter, promising to be back tomorrow. The neurosurgeon grunted a couple of time as he examined the EKG and then ordered a battery of other tests before disappearing.

Then the techs with their myriad machines rolled in and the serious testing began. Somewhere in all that, my dad left to take my sister to school, and I finally dozed off.

I woke when the room suddenly became still as all the tech weenies disappeared about lunchtime. That left just my mom and me.

“How are you holding up, Sweetheart?” she asked. “Are you hungry?”

“I think I’m okay. I feel a little funny, like I’m about to start floating, but I’m not. And yeah, I’m a little hungry,” I told her. “Any idea what they’re looking for? And when do I get to go home?”

“A little. It seems that when they did an MRI on you, the second day you were in the hospital, you somehow damaged their machine. The hospital was very upset, and the doctors were very confused,” she said, hesitantly.

“I damaged it?”

“Yes. And a lot of their machines will not work on you, so they have to find alternative ways of testing. That’s why they slightly sedated you this morning before they started testing. And that’s not all.”

“It’s not?”

“It seems that, oddly enough, cell phones and pagers will not work around you,” she added. “It’s all very confusing.”

“That’s weird,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“They want to transfer you to the University of Georgia Research Hospital in Athens to do more testing, but your father and I have said no,” she revealed. “At least for the time being. So that’s why they called in Dr. Vonn. He’s the head of neurology at Emory.”

“What’s neurology?” I asked.

“That’s an excellent question, Alex,” came a smooth baritone voice from the doorway. “Mostly we operate on brain disorders such as tumors and other abnormalities. But in order to operate, we first have to diagnose the situation. And therein lies our problem with you.”

“We cannot find anything that needs fixing. At least by operating. As far as we can determine, the only thing that the lightning did to you was to change the electromagnetic field that surrounds your body.”