Loopy by Dan Binchy Read Free Book Online Page A

know why I’m always the one to drive these bastards home. I never get one bit of thanks for it, I can tell you. Still”—Norbert brightened as he remembered the goalkeeper’s spectacular save in the first half—“he’s one hell of a great goalie. We’d have lost only for him.”
    Soon they were at the goalkeeper’s home, where his sister and mother would put the burping hero to bed. Later as Norbert dropped off Larry outside the thatched farmhouse he said, “Don’t worry about Wednesday. I’ll take you to the hospital in the van. We can do a few deliveries on the way.”
    His mother and the three younger children were long gone to bed as Larry struggled upstairs to his bedroom. Just before he closed his eyes, the memory of what had happened in the fort returned. Flushed with embarrassment, he buried his head in the pillow and prayed for sleep to drive away the pain and the shame.
    *   *   *
    The thirteenth hole was the most difficult of the eighteen. It required a better than average drive to clear a wide ravine that had a stream meandering through it. The green lay behind the stone wall of a disused graveyard, an arrangement that had caused much comment down the years. The golfer, having successfully negotiated the ravine, was now faced with a testing second shot over the corner of the graveyard and onto an elevated green. Anyone getting a par here had reason to be well satisfied.
    The twosome paused on the tee to regroup and take stock. Pat O’Hara announced happily, “I get another shot off you here Tim. Why don’t you go for the green?”
    Tim Porter brayed happily and snorted, “I think not, old chap. I leave that sort of thing to Joe Delany. Anyway, he had the wind behind him when he did it, or so I am told.”
    O’Hara turned to his caddy and said, “Larry, I need another drop of Lucozade if I’m to get across that bloody thing.”
    After taking a swig from the bottle, O’Hara put it back carefully in one of the pockets of his golf bag and watched as Tim Porter swung smoothly at the ball. It soared effortlessly across the ravine and came to a halt in perfect position on the narrow fairway, a short iron from the green. O’Hara asked Larry for the driver and, as he was teeing up the ball, remarked casually, “There was no wind the day Joe drove the green. I know because I was with him. He hit an unmerciful flake of the ball in those days, with a hint of a slice. Just the perfect shape to land the ball short of the green. From there it just trickled onto the front. Never been done before or since. Most of those that tried ended up in the graveyard.”
    Tim Porter was about half O’Hara’s age. Larry had seen him every now and again. His father owned a large estate nearby and a wine-importing business in which Tim worked. A good golfer, he had plenty of time to sharpen his skills as his sales job in the family business was none too demanding.
    â€œNo wind, you say. Well, that makes it even more impressive. He wouldn’t do it today though, not into a wind right in our faces like this one.”
    O’Hara hit the ball and was delighted to see it land on the far side of the ravine. “I think that calls for a celebration.” Without waiting for anyone to agree with him, he took another deep draft from the Lucozade bottle and suddenly turned to his caddy.
    â€œWould you like to have a go? You don’t mind, do you, Tim?”
    Tim shrugged. If the schoolteacher wanted his caddy to try to hit it across the ravine, that was his affair. Not that Tim had anything against the lad. Quite the opposite, in fact. Despite being in obvious difficulties with a game leg, he kept up with them and didn’t speak unless spoken to.
    â€œNot at all, go right ahead.”
    Larry teed up a ball and took the driver from O’Hara. He completely missed the golf ball on his first attempt, but