Normally, a putter’s life is not particularly exciting or glamorous.  It’s not like a driver that gets to slam a ball hundreds of yards down the fairway.  Or a wedge that dispatches a ball from a thorny situation, like a sand trap or high grasses.  A putter never makes a WHOOSH or a THWACK.  Just tap!
    That isn’t to say it’s an objectionable lifestyle.  It’s very comfortable, and very pleasant.  You’re always being used, almost every hole.  Sure, there’s the occasional 9-iron miracle hole, but how often does that happen?
    It’s real work, though.  It doesn’t require brute strength or finesse, but it does call for intense concentration.  Move in a straight line, don’t do anything unexpected.  Tap the ball with just the right amount of force.  Do what the arms and hands tell you to do.  A driver, it doesn’t listen to the golfer, it just smacks the ball as far as it fucking can.  A putter has to listen, it has to feel.
    It’s a decent life.  But when your sole purpose in life is to hit a ball in a straight line, things get old after a while.  I don’t like to complain, but after a few years of this, I was ready for something different.  I felt inhibited, and I did begin to wonder if there would ever be more for me than tap!
    Last May, I was at Indian Wells for a casual round.  It was a pretty typical outing.  I hung with all the other clubs in a golf bag in Donald’s trunk on the way to the course.  Lots of metal on metal sounds as we bumped up against each other in those close quarters.  We’re golf clubs, we like to be outside, in the fresh air, so the back of Donald’s car isn’t really our idea of a good time.  A few weeks before, he had thrown a 4-iron into a pond after hitting a ball into a pine tree.  The driver and some of the woods had black neoprene covers over their heads, so not many of us could see each other, we just felt our metal shafts and rubber grips clanking against each other.  We just rustled around, hoping we didn’t end up next to the 4-iron, which smelled from the pond.
   When we got to the course, Donald pulled us out of the car and rolled us to the first hole.  Another guy in a Hawaiian shirt was there waiting to play with him.  Donald brought the golf bag to an abrupt stop, and we all nodded our heads at the other man’s clubs.  We were Callaways, they were Pinseekers.  It was a windy day with threatening weather comprised of some dark clouds, which is not at all normal for Indian Wells in May.  There was no chance of rain actually happening, though, not in May, and as far as I was able to gather, he only had one day to spend there.  And it looked like he was there on business with the Hawaiian shirt.  Donald took out the driver, threw the neoprene cover back in the bag, and got ready to swing.
    For the first few holes, I pay a little attention to the game, then after that, I just enjoy the outdoors, and work when I’m called upon.  Donald wasn’t really on his game that day, taking a bunch of strokes to get to the greens, so there was a lot of time between my appearances.  The other guy was doing better, hitting the balls straighter, and with more power.  When Donald finally got to the green, he took me out, gripped my neck with his leather gloves, stood stiffly, and swung me lightly.  I kissed the Titleist, and it rolled straight into the hole.  It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds.
    Eighteen gray and windy holes later, the other man won, but Donald looked like he didn’t care.  He was talking on his cell phone by the eighteenth hole while the other guy went into the clubhouse.   Donald soon followed him in, leaving us outside.
    We had been waiting out there for a long time when Donald finally came over, and rolled us back to his Lexus.  He tossed us into the trunk, and shut it hard it behind us.  We weren’t alone, though.  Light shown in through the cracks on the side of the trunk, and the first thing I saw sitting next to us were Donald’s white leather gloves, with dark red splotches on them.  Then I noticed a larger object in the trunk with us.  It was wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
    I don’t know what happened to the Pinseekers.

    As exciting as this new development was, it didn’t directly affect me.  Certainly it was exhilarating to find out after each day at the links whether there’d be another body in the back with us.  About one out of every three times there was.  I wasn’t sure why people kept playing golf with him.  When we weren’t on the course or in his trunk, we were cooped up in the garage, so I was not in any position to work out the context in which these golfers were turning into cargo.  The only way it affected me, and a bunch of the other clubs, was we tended to get distracted by the anticipation of each ride home, and probably weren’t putting as much effort and concentration into the strokes as we used to.  Donald went from a twelve handicap to a sixteen.
    About two months and four unfortunate golfers later, there was a lull in activity.  A few weeks went by, and we kept returning home in the trunk alone.  It was a very disappointing period.  The woods had started letting their covers slip off during sudden stops so they could see all the action in the trunk; pretty much everyone was bummed.  We also noticed that Donald had gotten the trunk thoroughly cleaned, so it was pretty apparent that the days of golfers coming home in the trunk with us were over.
    A couple weeks after the cleaning, Donald put us in the car.  It was a Tuesday, which was a little unusual for him, since he usually played on the weekends.  When he stopped the car and opened the trunk, I saw that we weren’t at a golf course, but in a dimly lit garage.  There was only one other car in it that I could see.  Surprisingly, Donald reached for his golf gloves and put them on.  Then, to my utter astonishment, he reached into the bag and pulled me out.  The only thing as exciting as this ever to happen to me was when I sunk a fifteen foot putt for an eagle on a par five at Pinehurst.  Holding me with his right hand around my grip, and the other near my head, he walked over to the other car, which a guy in a Dodgers cap was leaning on the hood of.  The guy put out his hand to greet Donald, but Donald muttered some obscenity at him.  Then he started shouting at him about gambling debts or something bad he did, and before I knew it, he got ready to swing me.
    I was all set.  I cleared my mind and concentrated on the target.  Usually, spotting the target is just a matter of finding a good-looking dimple on the big white golf ball on the short green grass.  It was a little less clear now, but judging by my initial trajectory and the natural inclination to hit globular objects with a golf club, I figured that the left kneecap was my aim.  The force that Donald was using was more than normal for a putter, so I knew I wouldn’t have time to consider any possible spin or elevation change.  I just swooped down.
    THWUNG!!!  Right in the patella!  I shook violently, but Donald kept his grip, and immediately went in for another stroke.  THWUNG!!!  The guy started crying and begging, but I was really on, and Donald knew it, and you don’t stop when you’re having a good day.  THWUNG!!!  After some more hits to the guy’s former kneecap, I realized that my head had possibly gotten a little tilted, and I might have to compensate by aiming more to the right.  THWUNG!!!  This kneecap was done for.  It was great.
    When Donald put me back in the golf back, I knew I’d gained some serious respect from the other clubs.  He could have chosen any club.  A driver might have destroyed the kneecap in one shot, but it also might have entirely missed.  A 4-iron probably would have done the job well, but Donald decided on me, and since I did my job flawlessly, I was somewhat of a celebrity now.
    There were a lot more of these attacks, and each time, Donald reached for the ol’ putter.  As they became more frequent, he hit the golf course less and less.  When he did, he was abysmal, probably since he was taking baseball swings all week.  Also, my head was getting jarred pretty badly, which couldn’t have been good for his putting game.  During one particularly spirited assault, my head went flying off, and Donald proceeded to hit the guy with my steel shaft.  Fortunately, he had me fixed a few hours later, and we even got a round in that afternoon.

    What happened in September certainly wasn’t my fault.  As Donald was disciplining a cheater for some egregious misdoing, card counting or something, the garage’s security alarms went off, and Donald dropped me and ran away.  It wasn’t a bright move, but you can’t blame him; escape is first priority in those situations.  The problem was, of course, that Donald had his full name etched on all his clubs, so when the police came and checked me out, that was pretty much it for Donald.  But it’s been a whole lot of fun since then, with the investigators looking all over me, and courtroom appearances and everything.  I saw the other clubs at the crime lab once, but that was it; I’m the only important club here.  I’ve got at least nine people’s blood on me, and they’re constantly trying to figure out which splatter belongs to which kneecap.
    I only saw Donald one more time, during the trial.  He didn’t hold me; the D.A. did.  She was trying to demonstrate how I was used in the attacks, but her posture was just awful, and her follow-through was borderline criminal.