The Activist

Chapter 21

Woods Boone was a lifelong mediocre golfer who had never had the time to sharpen his game with lessons or practice or more time on the course. When Theo was ten, his parents gave him a set of clubs for Christmas, and his father attempted to give him some free lessons. However, both soon realized that lessons, free or not, from a weekend hacker were not that valuable. So each year on his birthday, his father gave him a package of ten, thirty-minute lessons from a pro. Theo’s swing improved dramatically, and by the age of twelve, he could almost beat his father.

Weather permitting, they played nine holes every Saturday morning at the Strattenburg Municipal Course, and followed this with a boys’ only lunch, usually at Pappy’s, a well-known downtown deli noted for its pastrami subs and onion rings. Though he enjoyed athletics, the doctors would not allow Theo to play team sports. Tennis was out, too. He could bike, hike, and swim and do almost everything else, but the doctors drew the line at team sports. This irritated Theo and had been the cause of much dismay and argument around the Boone home, but Theo was still on the sidelines. That’s why he loved golf. With a few exceptions, he could play as well as anyone his age, though he had yet to prove this in tournaments. His father discouraged competition on the golf course. Mr. Boone believed golf was a difficult game to begin with and most people made it worse by keeping score, fooling with handicaps, gambling, and playing in tournaments.

But they always kept score. Not on the official scorecard clipped to the golf cart’s steering wheel, but in their heads. Mr. Boone was usually seven or eight strokes over par for nine holes, and Theo was close behind. Both pretended not to know the other’s score.

Mr. Boone was drinking coffee at the kitchen table when Theo came down with Judge. “We have a tee time?” Theo asked as he released Judge through the rear door.

“Nine forty-five,” Mr. Boone said without looking up. “But, remember, Dr. Kohl wants to see Judge at nine a.m.”

“I forgot,” Theo said. “Can we still play?”

“Sure, but let’s move it.”

Theo and Judge ate quickly. Theo never showered on Saturday morning and that was another reason he loved the day. They tossed their golf clubs into the rear of Mr. Boone’s SUV, and at nine a.m. walked into Dr. Kohl’s clinic. He sized them up and said, “Headed for the course, huh?”

“We tee off at nine forty-five,” Theo said, with some urgency in his voice. The course was always crowded on Saturday morning and being late caused major problems. While Mr. Boone waited in the reception area with yet another newspaper, Theo and Judge followed the vet to an exam room. Working quickly, but expertly, Dr. Kohl removed stitches, changed bandages, cleaned wounds, and reworked the splint on Judge’s broken leg, and managed to do all this while talking to both Theo and the dog in a voice so soothing he could almost put one to sleep. In Theo’s opinion, Dr. Kohl had saved the life of his beloved pet, plain and simple, and for that he would always be a hero.

Judge flinched and whimpered a few times, but he also realized he was lucky to be alive. He was a tough dog who could handle pain.

Dr. Kohl pronounced him “ready to go” and said he should come back in a week. Theo thanked him again for saving Judge’s life. “All in a day’s work, Theo,” he replied.

They stopped by the house, tucked Judge away, and headed for the golf course.

With its hills, ponds, abundant sand traps, and at least three treacherous creeks, the Strattenburg Municipal Course was difficult. But when you don’t keep score, who cares?

Mr. Boone had been a bit aloof since the Joe Ford matter, and Theo sensed some lingering attitude. However, when his father parred three consecutive holes, the last with an impossible forty-foot putt, the attitude vanished and all was well. They played for two hours, and enjoyed the scenery, the fresh air, the good golf and the bad. They ignored the law, the firm, the bypass, and talked instead about the game. Mr. Boone had learned not to give advice or pointers to Theo while they were playing, but he was prone to say things like, “Now, Theo, I think Tiger Woods would use a sand wedge here and aim for the front lip of the green.”

Theo suspected his father had no idea what Tiger Woods would do. They were in an entirely different world. Theo, though, had already learned that amateur golfers, even bad weekend hackers, often watch the pros on television and, because they’re playing the same game, feel as though they are somehow connected.

He always listened respectfully to his father, then played the shot precisely as he wanted. So many times, when Mr. Boone was pondering a shot, Theo was sorely tempted to say something like, “Now, Dad, I think Tiger Woods would look at your ball and say there’s no way you can put it anywhere near the green.” But, of course, he said nothing.

There had been two or three occasions when Theo had matched his father shot for shot, and this had caused a slight but noticeable rise in Mr. Boone’s stress level as they approached the last two holes. Regardless of how much he went on about how golf should be recreation and not competition, he really didn’t want to lose to his son.

How can you lose, though, when you don’t keep score?

Theo sensed this and sort of felt sorry for his father. Maybe one day when he was sixteen or seventeen it would be okay to win, but not at the age of thirteen. And not today. Mr. Boone made par on five of the nine holes. He had two bogeys and two double bogeys, for an unofficial score of 42, one of his better rounds. Theo played poorly and was happy there was no written record of the game.

They turned in the cart, loaded their clubs, changed shoes, and headed for Pappy’s downtown and a pastrami sub.

That afternoon, Theo told his mom he was going to watch friends play soccer, and he would be home by 5:00 p.m. She asked a few questions, all of which Theo artfully dodged without being deceitful, then gave her approval.

At 2:00 p.m., as planned, Theo met April at the end of her driveway, and they took off on their bikes to the Stratten Soccer Complex. Normally, such a journey by bike would not be permitted. There were too many busy streets, too much traffic, and too much distance. The complex was 1.5 miles west of Battle Street, “out in the county” as folks liked to say, and too far for city kids on bikes. But, thanks to Hardie, Theo knew a few shortcuts and back roads. He and April rode furiously for thirty minutes, and when they passed Jackson Elementary School they were ready for a break. The complex was within view, its parking lot packed with vehicles.

Hardie was playing on field number six, and the game was in progress. Theo and April found seats in the bleachers and caught their breath. Hardie was a forward, and when the ball rolled out of bounds near the bleachers, he chased it and saw his two friends in the stands. He smiled and nodded, then hustled away. Theo and April watched a few minutes, got bored, and began wandering around. It was an amazing sight to see ten games in progress at the same time, all with fans screaming and coaches yelling and whistles blowing. The complex was in a beautiful setting, with hills on all sides, surrounded by woods and nature, far removed from any traffic congestion.

Why ruin it? Theo asked himself. Why slap a four-lane highway carrying twenty-five thousand vehicles a day through the middle of such a pretty, rural part of the county? Why choke up the place with traffic and smog? It made no sense.

He and April made their way back to the parking lot. Theo was holding his cell phone, and April was holding her mother’s video camera. They began walking along a long row of parked cars, Theo on one side, April on the other, and as they went they videoed the license plates of the vehicles. No one else was in the parking lot; they were off cheering for their teams, but Theo kept an eye on the foot traffic. It wasn’t illegal to video the license plates of a car anywhere, but he didn’t want to be forced to explain what they were doing.

There were actually three large lots scattered around the complex, and it took almost an hour to walk behind every vehicle and record the license plate numbers. No one noticed what they were doing, though there were a couple of close calls. Theo simply put his phone to his ear and began talking.

They counted one hundred forty-seven cars and trucks. The plan was to review the video, write down the license plate numbers, go to the website of the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles), and find a way to get the names of the owners. It was safe to assume, at least to Theo, Hardie, and now April, that the owners of the vehicles parked at the soccer complex could well be some of the strongest opponents of the bypass. What parent would want their kid playing soccer in an atmosphere of exhaust smoke and gaseous fumes?

Fortunately, the Red United team won, and Hardie’s coach was in a good mood after the game. His name was Jack Fortenberry and his son was the team’s goalie. According to Hardie, Coach Fortenberry was a soccer fanatic who coached teams in the complex during the fall and spring and also coached an elite travel team in the summer. Hardie had briefed him on the bypass and its dangers.

They met behind a net, far away from the others as the crowd was breaking up and leaving. Hardie introduced Theo and April to his coach, who quickly made it clear he had strong misgivings about the bypass. He distrusted the politicians, and he suspected a handful of big businessmen were pushing the project. He was angry that the proposed route ran next to the soccer complex, and he understood the potential hazards.

Coach Fortenberry said exactly what they wanted to hear. He offered to help in any way possible, so Theo laid out their plan.