Read Online The Amateurs by John Niven - Free Book Online

down, someone had put ‘Hallelujah’ by the Mondays on the jukebox and, for a moment, the snug of the Annick bar on the corner of Ardgirvan High Street had felt like the epicentre of the world. Over the last two decades its stone walls and dark wood had contained Gary, Stevie and their friends as they celebrated Christmases, birthdays and–more recently–the arrival of children. Its faux-leather seating had supported and comforted them as they mourned deaths and football disasters, its truncheon-handled pumps dispensing lager which served as champagne or hemlock, depending on the occasion.
    ‘Come tae fuck, it’s no that old…’
    ‘Same age as Christ on the cross,’ Stevie said, tearing open a pack of cheese and onion and spreading the contents on the table before them. ‘Jim Morrison, Byron, James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis, Bill Hicks, Edie Sedgwick, John Belushi, Nick Drake, Otis Redding, Sid Vicious, KennyDalglish, William Wallace…aw deed by the time they were your age.’
    ‘Kenny Dalglish isn’t dead.’
    ‘That bastard died the day he went tae Anfield!’ Stevie spluttered, spraying a film of crisps across the table. He had never forgiven King Kenny for leaving Celtic and transferring to Liverpool back in ’77. ‘Anyway, whit’s the problem wi’ yer swing?’
    ‘Ah’m shanking everything again.’
    ‘Och, yer probably jist standing too close tae the ball.’
    ‘I’d been trying that new tip but–’
    ‘This is the thing, Gary. You’re always looking fur a quick fix: this new tip, that new club, this new book…’
    Stevie shook his head and took a great slurp of his pint at the same time. ‘You’ve got tae take care o’ the fundamentals: grip, stance, ball position. Besides, you’re too nice to be a real sportsman. Look at Linklater. A perfect organism. Unclouded by conscience, remorse or delusions of morality.’
    ‘Ian Holm in Alien ,’ Gary said automatically.
    Stevie had been a decent golfer in his youth, certainly a more naturally gifted player than Gary. He just chose not to play any more. Consequently he had indeed been granted the kind of deep peace, the serenity that only comes to those who have given up golf.
    ‘And I’ve got the Medal tomorrow,’ Gary said.
    The Medal: Ravenscroft Golf Club’s monthly competition. Gary entered every month with the hope that a combination of an unexpectedly decent round and his ridiculously high handicap would somehow propel him into…well, not the top three, the prizewinning slots, but at least the upper half of the field. Maybe get a couple of strokes shaved off his handicap. Actually winning a Medal? This had never crossedhis mind in daylight. It existed only in his most elaborate fantasies, the ornately constructed kind he used to get himself to sleep on restless nights. ‘It’s just, every spring I start off with these high hopes and I…’ Gary paused, looking into his glass, into the swirling amber bubbles, ‘…I never seem to get any better, Stevie.’
    Stevie looked at Gary sadly. They had known each other for over a quarter of a century–since they had bonded over a rare Star Wars trading card in the violent melee of the playground of Castle Glen Primary School–and he felt his friend’s pain. What could he say? The truth–‘you are a very poor golfer who is unlikely to ever get much better’–was unthinkable. Stevie said the only thing he could. ‘Slow down and take a wee bit aff yer backswing. And don’t go up that driving range so much. All you’re doing is practising yer faults. Ah told ye–book a couple of lessons wi the pro up at the club.’
    ‘Aye. You’re probably right enough,’ Gary sighed.
    ‘Fucking hell, it’s no that bad, is it? Whit’s wrang?’
    ‘Ach, it’s no just that. It’s Pauline. We’re no, we haven’t, y’know…for a while.’ Gary looked up at Stevie, sad and ashamed.
    Stevie nodded, using his back molars to grind the last mouthful of cheese-and-onion crisps