What's in a Name?

By Al Horn

A friend and I used to play as partners at a golf course that closed at the end of last year. As a result, the league moved to another course nearby. This was an after-work group having a good time while trying to be competitive. Some of the players went elsewhere to play for reasons of their own. That meant we gained a few teams from the members of the new club we had set up at.

On the first night, I arrived at the clubhouse to find my partner already there. He seemed to know most of the people who were regulars. My partner was a long time local to this town.

I picked up the scorecard and asked him if he knew the two players we were matched up against. Before he could answer a man dressed much as we were, polo's and ball caps, stepped up and introduced himself to me. When I asked about his partner he turned to the door of the pro shop and pointed to a man that had just entered. The man noticed we were looking at him and came over to introduce himself as Cal Jones.

"But you can call me Baggy."

'Baggy' didn't seem to fit him well. He was wearing dress slacks and a dress shirt with a nice tie. His shoes were spit polished to the point you could see your refection in them. His beard and hair were short but neatly styled. In his hands was a pair of Wal-Mart bags that looked like they had shoes and clothes in them. He smiled and went off to change.

My partner and I went up to the first tee box to gab with other teams while waiting. The group ahead of us had just ridden off when 'Baggy's' partner called from the clubhouse. He told us to tee off while they loaded up their gear.

My partner hit a shot that went high and down the left side. I followed with a ball that started up the middle then faded to the right. We were both safe and in good position for our approach shots. We had just put our clubs in our bags when the other team rode up.

The driver stepped out of the cart and I was immediately hit by the transformation. Baggy was now dressed in overalls that appeared to be two sizes too big. He wore them over a polo shirt that looked like it had seen better days. The straw hat and dark shoes he had on looked like cast-offs from some past season.

His partner jumped out and hit a shot that was low but run well up the left side. Baggy quietly set up and stood over his ball. After a moment of reflection he quickly swung at the ball. His swing was simplistic; so were the results... long straight and down the middle of the fairway. He grinned at the outcome then jumped into his cart to go to his partner's ball.

The three ball-cappers hit our shots then pulled up to watch Baggy. Again he swung with ease and dropped the ball on the green about five or six feet from the pin. As they pulled away I asked my partner what Baggy did for a living. He told me that Baggy was a Chiropractor.

Suddenly, it all made sense. During the day, good Doc Jones healed the pains of his patients. At night he became a Mr. Hyde that used a club to quietly beat his opponents into submission.