Loopy by Dan Binchy

person carrying the schoolteacher’s golf bag. “So you’re the young fella that got the belt of a hurley just as the referee blew for time. I heard there was nearly a riot afterwards—typical GAA if you ask me. Some of those fellows would get a year in jail if they did on the street what they get away with on the hurling pitch. And what does that fine body of men, the Gaelic Athletic Association, the biggest bloody sporting organization by far in the whole bloody country, do about it? Sweet damn all, that’s what! So that’s where you got the limp? I was afraid to ask until now in case you had it from birth or something!”
    Porter’s laugh might have sounded like a donkey braying, but Larry, despite the unfair reference to the GAA, was beginning to like this big, fair-haired man with the posh accent and the double chins.
    â€œThat’s right, sir. That was me that got hurt at the end. They said at the hospital that I wasn’t to even think about playing again until next season. Even then, they’ll have to take a look at the leg again before they give me the go-ahead—”
    O’Hara cut in, “Hurling’s loss is golf’s gain. You’ll have more time to play golf now that Norbert won’t be at you to practice every day of the week.”
    Larry was not as enthusiastic as the other two about taking up golf. Of course it was gratifying, thrilling even, to see two grown men dancing with excitement at the way he had just hit a golf ball. But that did not change his view one iota: golf was a game for snobs. That’s what he had been told for as long as he could remember, and old habits died hard. Admittedly this was only his second time out on the golf course with Mr. O’Hara, but in that time he had never seen anyone of his own age around the place, except for some of the caddies. And they weren’t up to much. When not caddying, they could be seen, hanging around the chip shop, smoking cigarettes and making comments about passersby, especially girls. Only yesterday, a group of them had called after him, “Hey, Skippy, how’s the leg?” and “You got what was comin’ to you from the Lisbeg crowd!”
    Though his ears had reddened, he’d walked past them without making eye contact. There were too many of them to take on all at once—but he hadn’t forgotten their faces.
    The trio finished the round in something of a daze, Larry still being the one least affected by the amazing feat. Instead of heading for the changing room, both men made straight for the professional’s shop with the sign reading JOSEPH DELANY, PROFESSIONAL AND PGA-QUALIFIED INSTRUCTOR .
    Larry had never been there before. Inside was an impressive array of shiny new golf clubs, bags, shoes, sweaters, and all the other odds and ends associated with the game. Behind a counter a strongly built man in his thirties was doing something complicated to the grip of a club as they entered. He looked up and smiled.
    â€œGood afternoon, gentlemen.” He looked questioningly at Larry. “I haven’t seen you ’round here before, have I?”
    O’Hara made the introductions, adding solemnly, “We have some bad news for you, I’m afraid.”
    Joe looked startled at O’Hara’s mock-serious expression. “What is it? What’s the bad news?”
    â€œThis young man”—suddenly Pat O’Hara looked much younger. Larry suddenly realized that this was the first time he had ever seen him look really happy—“has just driven the thirteenth green.”
    â€œFrom the medal tee?” Joe’s eyebrows were arched high in surprise.
    â€œFrom the medal tee, Joe, the same one you hit from yourself all those years ago. What’s more, this young lad did it into the wind!”
    The professional whistled in admiration.
    Tim Porter chimed in excitedly with further details. “His ball finished ten feet to