Ditches, From Above

He doesn't look like a guy you'd find on a golf course. Spring has just
broken and there is maintenance to be done. He's wearing jeans whose
original color is undeterminable and a sweatshirt that just covers his barrel
chest. He brings Mexicans up from Corpus Christi during the busy season
because they work hard and don't cause much trouble. He's the irrigation
man. He's riding on a cherry picker to oversee the course. Just beyond the
clubhouse, the latest truck of piping rolls in. He moves right to see Raphael
and Jesus creating the fifteenth hole's drainage ditch. He'll fix the greens
himself, on his knees, to get a consistent break. He carries a lucky Titleist in
his pocket to test the roll from a dozen angles. He moves as high as he can to
see everything. He closes his eyes and the turquoise sky disappears. The lush
trees and fairways drain all their color and become a lifesize schematic.
Sprinkler heads, check. Two inch pipe, check. Enough Mexicans, check. He
still looks like he'd be more at home at Daytona's hot blacktop oval than
Augusta's rolling green fairways.