Chapter 48: The Yellow Rose of Texas

Reggie left me in the parking lot, so I ran by the bank to make my deposit and then headed for the Golf Club.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be off today?” Melinda asked when I walked in the shop.

“Yeah, I’m off. I just wanted to find out who I had to ask about hitting some balls on the practice range” I told her.

“Well, as an employee, it’s frowned on; but as a student, it’s okay. So if you have your student ID card, you can do it. In fact, I think students get a discount,” she said.

“Thanks!” I said as I turned to leave.

“Daniel...” she called out. “You might want to change out of your work shirt.”

“Shit!” I mouthed under my breath. I hadn’t meant to wear it today. I walked next door to the pro shop and bought a golf shirt that was not a work shirt, and two bags of range balls then headed for the range.

The range wasn’t very crowded for a Thursday afternoon, just a scattering of players warming up before they played their rounds. I walked to the furthest tee away from everyone else and dropped my bag. Then I began my stretching routine.

Before the lightning strike last year, I used to go to the driving range almost every day. Since then, I had only practiced the few days before playing in the Korn Ferry Event in the Bahamas last December. But as I stood on the practice tee it all came back to me.

I realized I was nervous. Not so much because it had been over three months since I had hit a golf ball, but whether I would still be able to hit like I had in December. Because, in December, I had hit it so well, I believed I could have won the tournament if I put my mind to it. And I was concerned that it might have been a fluke.

But I automatically dropped into my old warm-up routine and soon found myself in the zone as I parked my first shot with the driver out over 350 yards.

“Hot Damn!” I thought to myself as I continued to hit long shots. There was even one that rolled past the fence, which I knew was over 400 yards away.

Next, I worked on my draw. The more I hit, the more excited I got. My coach used to say I had a natural draw, except sometimes when I drew it too far left. But today, I was hitting my draw with uncanny accuracy.

My fade shot with my driver had always been my weakness, making me less confident when facing a long dogleg right. But with the distance and placement I was getting this afternoon, I knew that it was no longer a weakness.

After hitting a few more shots with the driver, I was anxious to try my irons, so I skipped the rest of my woods and started with my 7 iron. After my first shot hit the 200 yard sign, I had to stop and mentally recalculate my hitting strategy. Before being struck by lightning, I normally hit my 7 iron about 140 to 145 yards. I knew that most pros averaged around 180 with their 7 irons. Now, I seemed to be hitting my 7 iron out to 200 yards. Unreal!

Then I tried placing some shots, but I kept over-hitting my landing mark. Finally, I backed down my swing, but I didn’t seem to have the same control.

“Oh, well! I guess that’s why we practice!” I thought to myself.

I had finished off both bags of balls when I looked up and saw a group of guys at the other end of the tee boxes. It didn’t take much to figure out that this must be the University of Texas Golf team. I picked up my bag and started to walk around them to get to the parking lot.

“Are you a student here?” a man separated himself from the group and asked as he approached me.

“Not yet. I’ll start this summer,” I replied. I figured he was going to fuss about me being on the range.

“So you’re a freshman?” he asked.

I told him I would be.

“How far were you hitting,” he asked me.

“Which club?” I asked back.

“Driver?”

“The good ones were going about 350,” I told him. I didn’t mention the one that had rolled to the fence. But I saw his eyebrow raise slightly as his eyes narrowed.

“Ya’ll play somewhere before?” he asked. By now I had figured out that he was a coach. Only coaches and cowboys spoke in that clipped Texas drawl.

“Not really,” I replied. I DID NOT want to have him calling my high school coach and asking about a Daniel Williams and I was not going to give him my real name, so I could not bring up playing in high school or on the Korn Ferry Tour.

“What’s your handicap?” he asked.

“Last time I heard, it was a ten,” I replied, making it up. Before the lightning strike, I had a seventeen handicap. I hadn’t checked since the Bahamas thing. I knew that with a handicap of ten, you generally shoot somewhere around 82. Shooing in the low 80s is better than average but certainly not good enough to be considered a college player.

I watched as he scrunched his forehead while he considered my reply. Then he extended his hand. “Name’s Coach Watson,” he told me. “I work with the golf team.”

“Daniel Williams,” I replied. “I just started working for Steve over at the Maintenance Shop. I hope to start UT this summer.”

“Where’d you go to school,” he asked.

“I started high school in Georgia, but ended up finishing in Europe. In France.”

“So you never played organized golf?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m good enough,” I replied, evading his question without really lying.

“I see...” he said as he studied me up and down. “Are you in a hurry?”

“Well ... not too much,” I replied.

“Would you mind stepping up here and hitting a few for me?” he asked.

“Uh ... I guess,” I said.

He led me to a tee box just past where the team was practicing and tossed a bag of balls on the ground. “Let’s see your 7 iron,” he said.

I promptly put two balls out past the 200 yard marker.

“5 iron,” he said curtly.

I sent three balls out about 250 yards.

“Let me see that!” he said gruffly holding out his hand for my 5 iron.

He hefted it and then looked it over closely. “You alter this club?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” I told him.

He handed it back to me and then walked over to the nearest team member and spoke just a minute. Then he came walking back with a custom TaylorMade 5 iron.

“You mind hitting a couple with this?” he asked, handing me the borrowed iron. I noticed that one of the other coaches had made his way over, but didn’t say anything. I took the proffered 5 iron and put the ball out about 240 yards but pulled it slightly.

“Sorry,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. Then I straightened out the next shot for about 265 yards.

“Son, can you hit that green over there?” he asked, pointing to a practice green back down where I had been hitting before. I figured it was close to 210-215 yards so I asked if I could use my seven iron. He just nodded. By this time, the guy who’s club I used and some of the others had gathered around. Nobody said anything.

I pulled my 7 iron out and then quickly put two balls on the tiny practice green.

“Let’s see you rip a few,” the second guy said. He still hadn’t introduced himself.

So I pulled out my driver and fished out a Pro-V1 from my bag. It was left over from the tournament back in December. I knew that it should get me a little more distance than these banged up range balls.

Nobody said a word while I teed up my ball and came set. Then taking a breath to relax, I tattooed that sucker all the way to the protective netting. From this end of the practice tees it was slightly under 400 yards.

“Can you do that again?” the still unidentified older man asked.

“Probably not,” I replied. “That was my last good ball. These range balls won’t quite go that far.”

He looked around. “Humphrey! Give me a ball! One of your good ones!”

The player he had addressed stopped what he was doing and dug into his bag. Then he came trotting over to the older guy and handed him a sleeve of three new golf balls. The older guy dropped them on the practice tee and stepped back.

“Okay, son. Let’s see that again.”

The closest ball was about where I needed it, so without teeing it up, I swung my driver and took it cleanly off the deck. It sailed almost out to the netting again.

“Can you fade one?” he asked.

I teed this one up and opened up the face a little as I sent it fading slightly to the right.

“One more time. This time, show me your draw.”

I did and the ball went where I intended.

“Alright you guys. Show’s over. Get back to work!” he called out. Then saying something quietly to the Coach Watson, he turned and walked away.

When Coach Watson didn’t say anything, I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder and headed to the parking lot. I knew what had just happened, I had just auditioned for the University of Texas Golf Team. But I didn’t know what I wanted to do about it. However, I also knew that they could find me if they were interested.

I was putting my clubs in the back of the minivan when a voice called out, “Here!” I just had time to put my hand up and catch the bottle of Gatorade he had tossed me. It was cold.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” Coach Watson explained. “And I thought you and I might have a little chat.”

“What can I do for you, Coach?” I asked as I opened the bottle of Gatorade while I sat on the open hatch of the minivan.

“Do you mean besides agreeing to play golf for the Longhorns?” he quipped. “And maybe becoming good enough to win an NCAA Championship?”

“Coach. You don’t want me to play for you. Too much baggage. I’m actually running away from a couple of really bad experiences and probably wouldn’t do you much good,” I told him truthfully.

“Running away?” he asked.

“You don’t really want to know,” I said with a sigh. “In all honesty, I love playing golf and I think I would like playing for Coach Fields and the Longhorns. And I would most definitely like to win a NCAA Championship. But until I can get my life straightened out, I really can’t give golf the time it deserves if I were to play for you.”

“If it’s help you need, the Texas Health and Human Services offers mental health and substance use services for UT students. And it’s free. Well ... mostly,” Coach Watson said.

“That’s not exactly the kind of help I need,” I quickly told him. “I couldn’t afford any drugs, even if I wanted them. I’m pretty broke. Heck, this time last week, I was sleeping in my minivan in the Walmart parking lot!”

My words made me realize just how alone I really was. I quickly turned my head so Coach couldn’t see the tears that were forming in my eyes.

“Where are your folks, son?” Coach Watson asked softly.

“They’re in Georgia,” I replied.

Do they know where you are?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said.

Coach Watson looked at me for a long time without saying anything. In fact, it was so long, I became uncomfortable, but just as I moved to get into the minivan and drive away, he spoke.

“You say your name is Williams?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well ... back in ‘76, I had just turned sixteen and took a job delivering hay for Mr. Holderstadt. One day, we were picking up a load of hay that was bound for Longview and for reasons I can’t remember for the life of me, I just decided that I had had enough of my folks, enough of hauling hay, and even enough of Princeton, Louisiana,” he started his story. “So when I delivered that load of hay to Longview, I left the truck there and started hitchhiking my way west.”

I stopped where I was and turned to face him as he continued his story.

““Well, I’ll tell you. A week later, I had only made it as far as Austin and I was hungry, broke, and alone. One of the farmers I hitched a ride into town with had mentioned a soup kitchen at the old Baptist church downtown, so I walked almost six miles in the summer heat, hoping to make it before they ran out of food. But when I got there, they were closed up tight.”

“So here I was, tired, broke, hungry, and not a soul in sight, with sun setting and me without a place to sleep even. And if you know anything about that part of Austin, it’s not a place for a naïve farm boy to be. Not with nighttime coming on.”

I nodded. I had been through that part of town years ago with my folks for something and it wasn’t that great of a place in the daytime.

“All of a sudden, this old pickup truck rolls up and this feller gets out and goes to the door of the church to find it locked. He looked a mite pissed off, but didn’t say anything. He just looked around. And when he did, he saw me leaning against the wall with my hands on my knees, still breathing hard from my little jaunt.”

“You okay there, boy?” he asked me.

“Yes, sir,” I told him.

“What you doing down here this late in the day?” he asked.

“So I told him my story. He just listened without saying anything until I finished.”

“Well, get in the truck,” he told me. Then he took me home with him. He fed me supper and gave me a bed to sleep in. The next day, he drove me out to this small farm. It wasn’t far. There, he introduced me to this widow lady who needed some help, seeing as her husband had passed away and she wasn’t making it too good.”

I just nodded my head for him to continue.

“I’ll tell you the truth. I ended up staying there, working her farm, and finishing high school. When I graduated, that man got me into the university here, and got me some money to pay for it. He even found me an old set of clubs, so I tried out for the golf team and ended up with a small scholarship. After that, he would come around every now and then just to see how I was doing.”

I continued to look at him, waiting for him to make his point.

“Without that man’s kindness, I probably wouldn’t have survived the night,” he said. “And do you know what that man’s name was?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I stated.

“His name was Daniel Williams. He later went on to become State Senator Williams.”

He stopped and just stared at me before going on.

“I ain’t ever told that story to no one in over forty years,” he continued. “But when you told me your name, I couldn’t help remembering. I owe that man everything, so if you be any kin of his, then I reckon I owe you something too. I don’t know your story, but it can’t be too bad. You seem like a nice young feller. But if I can do anything for you, it would sure salve my conscious to be giving back a little for what Mr. Williams done for me way back when.”

“Coach Watson, my Momma gave me this name to honor that same man. He was her father. Thank you for telling me your story. I can assure you that you have just repaid your debt in full!” I told him. Then shaking his hand, I got in the minivan and drove away.

As far as I was concerned, Coach Watson had repaid his debt. He had no idea how his story had helped me. How it had reminded me that I was not alone, or broke, or homeless, or without friends or family. A side benefit was the insight into the kind of man my grandfather had been and I made up my mind right then that I would also try to be that kind of man.

It was then that I remembered about my mom once telling me about Grandpa Williams favorite song and how he sang or hummed it when not many folks were around. I began to whistle ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ as I drove home.

I broke the news to the Hendersons over dinner that night that I had found a place to live starting next week sometime. I also explained how I would still be glad to do any work that they needed doing around the house.

“I’m just a poor college student that isn’t afraid of a little hard work,” I told them. “And if you’ve got some work to be done, and you need someone else to do it, you just let me know.”

Larry and Kim immediately dismissed that idea and wanted to know where I was going to be living. I explained how my Uncle Reggie had met me this morning and said he had a house that I could borrow, but that it wouldn’t be ready until next week.

“So that’s how you came up with that set of clubs you were using out there today,” Melinda said.