"Sticks" the Book - Read it Now and Live the Golfer's Fantasy

Why did I write "Sticks"?

"I wrote “Sticks” hoping that the reader could recognize some of his own foolish fantasies, that is, the two hundred and fifty dollar driver that you just knew would take ten strokes off your game or the miracle swing trainer that you saw on TV which would be your ticket to the perfect round.
If nothing else, I hope that “Sticks” puts an occasional grin on your face and causes a now and then nod of self-recognition as you read."

Bob Andrews, the book's central character has just bought a new set of golf clubs and he expectes big things to happen to his game!

"He arose and walked straight downstairs, passing the bathroom and the kitchen on the way and walked directly to the garage. There they were, glittering in the early morning sunlight as it poured through the window. Their beauty was blinding, all twelve hundred and fifty dollars of it. The sun gleamed from the nine iron, it danced from the seven and sparkled from the three. The soft leather bag accented the brilliant display with a touch of elegance that sent shivers down his spine. Even the head covers on the woods cast their own special radiance completing the grandeur of the scene.
All the extra hours that he had spent at work in order to buy them now seemed a small price to pay for objects of such beauty and perfection, he thought."

The promises of advertising and the expectations of the buyer are often not fully met.

"He stood on the bank, peering down into the pond with the humiliation and embarrassment crashing in on him. His vision blurred, a dry hard lump swelled in his throat and he gritted his teeth together.
Then, suddenly in a fit of uncontrollable rage, he reached into his bag and ripped the driver from it."And then?? You must read "Sticks" to find out!

Bob swears off golf - forever??

"He hadn’t touched a club or a ball or even watched a golf match on TV since that day. He even found it impossible to listen to the golf scores during the sports reports on the radio. He found himself immediately changing the station the moment they began. The very mentioned of the word “golf” sent shivers down his spine and made his stomach roll.
“Golf Digest” arrived in the mail as usual. He didn’t even tear off the wrapper. It went straight into the garbage can without so much as a page turned.
It was strange to get up on a Saturday at eight thirty. It sure felt better than six fifteen. He hadn’t slept this late on summer Saturdays in years."

Bob meets Merle Arthur, at a house sale and listens to an old man's foolish tale!

"Go down the cellar. In the back, by my workshop, in one of those cabinets on the right, on the bottom, you’ll find a gray golf bag with clubs in it. Bring it up here,” he instructed in a sturdy commanding voice.
Bob knew exactly the bag he was talking about. He had inspected the entire shop, top to bottom and he had especially noticed the bag and its contents. The clubs in it seemed to be different, different from any of the others he’d ever seen, but he couldn’t say exactly how or why.
Without a word, Bob rose dutifully at Merle’s command and walked to the basement. He found his way to the cabinets at the rear of the shop and removed the old but well preserved leather bag from it. The club set it contained was from the fifties, like most of the other items in the shop but again he noticed an unexplainable uniqueness about it.
As he lifted the bag, he could tell that there was something special about them in spite of their age. They were not special in appearance but special in the sensation he felt when he touched the bag. Bob pick them from their resting place and carried them up to the porch. He placed them against the railing in front of the old man.
Merle reached over, drew the driver from the bag, slipped the cover from the club head and cradled the club gently in his hands.
“Son, these don’t look like much. They’re old and out of date but they’re different. When I say different, I mean there’s none other like them, anywhere.”
He held the club up closer for Bob to examine as he continued to speak.
“Here, let me show ya. See this shaft and head. Look at it real close,” he demanded.
Bob leaned even closer to look at it more carefully, as the old man instructed. It was a metal club head and a metal shaft. That’s odd he thought. Metal woods didn’t even exist until the eighties as far as he knew. Well, maybe the old man just put a new head on an old shaft. So what!"

Bob plays a pick up round at the local course with some hustlers. He finishes the round with a surprise ending!

"Let’s see, three hundred – if I played four times a week – ” he thought as he got into his car.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on the shoulder through the car window. He turned towards the open window to see Sam’s burly, red face staring straight into his.
“We don’t like guys coming down here and puttin’ on like they’re just hackers with old clubs and an old bag to play the part and then fuckin’ us over. We don’t take kindly to no fuckin’ hustlers,” he shouted. And with that, he drew back his hand and drove his fist squarely into Bob’s nose.
A flash of pain splashed over his face as he recoiled back from the impact. In the next instant, he found himself sprawled across the passenger’s seat, wedged against the far car door. A warm, sticky, salty tasting fluid was running down over his lips and his nose felt a throbbing numbness.
“There’s something to remind you next time you plan on trying to screw us.”
Sam then turned and got into an old gray Cadillac with Sal behind the wheel and drove off.
Bob looked down to see a patch of red spreading over his shirt. His nose felt as if he’d been swimming underwater for hours, stuffed and engorged with liquid like a loaded sponge was packed into each nostril. He reached for some tissues and sopped up the blood as best he could. Then, he started the car and drove home with one hand on the wheel and the other attending his leaking nose."

What happens next? Read "Sticks"!

You won't believe it - but maybe - you'll just want to believe it!