Written by Stephen F. Moloney
Maggie quickly buzzed her window back up as another cloud of rust-red dust came billowing towards her car – how right Mr. Duggart had been.
“Now, while there is asphalt in parts on the drive in” he had warned rather ominously just before they left the gates. “For the most part it’s mainly just dirt – and, given we haven’t had no real rain for a few weeks now, it’s probably gonna be a touch on the dusty side, so just bear that in mind as you’re bringin’ up the rear. Might even be an idea to maybe hang back a tad.”
Unfortunately, ‘hanging back a tad’, as Maggie had learned, had done little to combat said dust which, despite her best efforts to leave some space between herself and Mr. Duggart’s truck, had proceeded to leave her car roundly coated in a thick, reddish-brown layer of dirt and grit. If one could have read Maggie’s mind, however, they’d have seen the condition of her car’s bodywork couldn’t have been further from her thoughts as she followed Mr. Duggart through the expansive grounds of Crescent Creek.
In her four and a bit years of being out in the field as a writer, Maggie had been fortunate enough to visit many of the greatest and most iconic courses in golf; Oakmont, Pebble, Pinehurst, The Old Course, Carnoustie, Royal Portrush – she’d seen them all. But as great as those places were, for the past three Aprils in a row, they had all been soundly outdone by the fact Maggie’s job had seen her have the privilege of being able to drive up Magnolia Lane (the very driveway she was named after because of her golf crazy father) to cover the Masters – with the very first in those ‘trilogy of trips’, insanely, having been for her to cover the extra special centenary edition of ‘the tradition unlike any other’ back in 2036. So as far as she would have been concerned before leaving New York for Louisiana three days earlier, there was nothing left to see in the world of golf that would top Augusta. Nothing.
Yet, as she took in the sight of the weed-ridden track she was travelling on; the continuous stretches of tall, overgrown grass either side of it that at one time may have been neatly kept lawns, but now more resembled unkempt African grasslands; plus the bulging treelines on the outer edges of those stretches which were so densely packed with foliage they formed seemingly impenetrable looking green walls, Maggie got the feeling that Augusta’s position at number one was suddenly in jeopardy. And it wasn’t because what she was seeing was somehow more attractive than Augusta National – obviously not. But like the National, Crescent Creek just seemed to have this unquantifiable, yet nevertheless undeniable, ‘energy’ about it; the type of energy which lures you into delving deeper and deeper into the property in search of the magic you know it possesses, but can’t be one hundred percent certain it will ever actually reveal to you. Basically, it had the type of energy that a writer like Maggie lives and breathes for.
Just as her eye was caught by a deer of some description scampering back into the safety of the trees from where it had been happily grazing in amongst the grass just off to the left of her car, Maggie’s attention was drawn back to the track by the sight of the turn signal on Mr. Duggart’s truck suddenly beginning to blink. Thinking this was somewhat strange as she could see they didn’t appear to be anywhere near the end of the track, Maggie, nevertheless, flicked on her own turn signal and followed Mr. Duggart towards the edge of the grass on their right-hand side.
Seeing that he’d both turned off his engine and that he was getting ready to exit his truck, Maggie, spying an opportunity to get some much needed fresh air, promptly followed suit and stepped out of her car. Though still just as warm as it had been out by the gates, Maggie was pleasantly surprised to find the slightest hint of a breeze blowing across her clammy face and neck – the first she’d felt since crossing the state line a few days previously. As she closed her eyes to savour the breeze, she could only imagine what it must have been like to actually play golf at Crescent Creek in this type of weather, with the stifling humidity and withering heat. What really blew Maggie’s mind, though, was that as muggy and as warm as it was, it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet – so, realistically, it was probably going to get even worse after lunch.
Just as nightmarish thoughts of the ‘sweat fest’ that a two o’clock tee-time at Crescent Creek in the middle of July would be like sent a shiver running down her spine, the sound of groaning hinges told Maggie that Mr. Duggart had finally joined her out on the track. When she opened her eyes and looked in his direction, however, she couldn’t help but be thrown by the fact he was carrying a rather full looking grocery bag.
“You know, as nice and all as I’m sure a picnic would be,” quipped a smiling Maggie. “I think it’s best we try and keep things strictly professional, Mr. Duggart.”
“Well, first of all …” replied Mr. Duggart. “You should be so lucky as to be taken on a picnic by Bill Duggart – just ask Mrs. Duggart.”
The smile on Maggie’s face got a little wider.
“And second of all, these …” continued Mr. Duggart, gesturing at the brown paper bag in his arms. “Are for Ray – so let’s get going before stuff in here starts to thaw out anymore than it already has.”
With that, Mr. Duggart began to walk into the grass along the slightest hint of a path where the grass looked as though it had been previously trodden down.
“Wait, we have to go on foot?!” questioned a confused Maggie.
“Yep!” replied Mr. Duggart without turning around nor slowing his purposeful stride.
“Well if it’s that close,” added Maggie. “Could I not just go the rest of the way on my own then? Maybe save you a walk?”
Mr. Duggart, who’d gotten about halfway towards the treeline at this point, stopped and looked back at Maggie.
“Well, that depends …” he answered.
“On?”
“How good are you at dealing with gators?”
There was a momentary pause where Maggie contemplated the proposition of coming across a hungry alligator whilst holding a bag full of groceries – strangely, she didn’t find it all that appealing.
“So it’s just in through here?” she asked dryly, following Mr. Duggart into the grass.