Black Titlest 7

By David W. McMillan, Ph.D.

(Written privately years ago and shared now for the reunion.)

          It was Saturday, 8 A.M., August 14, 1960. As I was waking I could hear the rumble of voices downstairs and the opening and closing of the front door. These were the same sounds of my parents having a large party, but it was eight in the morning. These sounds were exceptionally loud because I could hear them over the drone of my window air-conditioning unit.

          With the crystallized remains of sleep in the corners of my eyes I stumbled out of bed, put on some shorts and wandered slowly to the stairs in the hall outside my room with the fist knuckles of the back of my hand rotating in my eye sockets, scraping the sleep out of my eyes. I heard mother’s footsteps running up the stairs. When I pulled my fists out of my eyes my mother met me out of breath at the top of the steps.

          “What’s happening downstairs?” I asked.

          “David,” she replied, ignoring my question taking some time to look squarely at me. “Bill is dead.”

          “Oh mother, that’s not funny. What’s going on downstairs?”

          “David, Bill is dead. He and Jo Carol were parked out in the woods on the other side of the highway from the bluff. Apparently that was the place where they parked to be together. They had the engine on so the air conditioner would work and somehow the air conditioner pulled up the carbon monoxide from the exhaust and it killed them. They say it killed Bill first and then Jo Carol, because his body was more bloated.”

          “Mother what are those people doing downstairs? Bill’s not dead! This is a bad joke. What’s really going on?”

          Eventually it became real to me. At 14 I had my first experience of losing to death someone I loved. Bill was 19. He was spending his summer between his freshman and sophomore college year at home. Bill Jr. was the oldest. Toney was one year younger. I was five years younger than Bill and my sister Betsy was six years younger than me.

          My father, Bill Senior, was an archetypal SOB lawyer. He could unpredictably fill our home with rage. My brother Bill was a classic good boy scout, salutatorian of his high school class, quarterback of his football team, president of the student body in high school, good student in his freshman year in college, best pledge in his fraternity. He was quiet, disciplined, hard working and much loved and respected. My brother Toney was not Bill. He had a temper. He was handsome and graceful.  I was the clown, the dramatic jokester, always wanting to play with my brothers, often in trouble for irritating my father. Mother was like Bill Jr. She was valedictorian of her high school and college classes. She was an expert pianist and vocalist. She put flowers in the church every Sunday. She had a roast at whoever’s home had an illness or death. And gave Betsy, who was born a Down’s baby, every opportunity to learn.

          Bill was especially important to me. In addition to being my idol, he was my protector. He would stand up for me when my father seemed to be on the verge of overpunishing me. Toney was often angry at me and Bill would take up for me.

          When my brothers were in high school we had ping-pong tournaments on the back porch. Toney would challenge Bill. Bill was the high school ping-pong champ. Toney was probably better than Bill but Toney was too impatient and often lost his temper and when he did, Bill easily defeated him. I was always allowed to play the winner. If it was Bill I would somehow manage to win and I would be the champion until Toney would pulverize me, often 21 to 10 or more. And the cycle would be repeated.

          Bill took up golf when he was sixteen. And of course I began to play too at age eleven. I got pretty good at it. We played on our small town’s nine-hole course. I thought I could compete with his cronies. He would never let me play with them because they gambled. But when he wasn’t around I would push myself into a game and always lose more money than I had. Bill would have to cover my losses. After he paid up I would always get a talking too.

          Two days before Bill died we played golf together. Bill had a job at Safeway and had money to buy golf balls. I had to use ones that I found or ones that he would give me because they were too banged up for him to use. Bill was driving his 1957 Chevrolet that he shared with Toney. When we got to the course we got out of the car, grabbed our golf bags, and walked toward the clubhouse and Bill said, “Wait here I’ve got to buy some golf balls.” I wasn’t going to miss this. I followed Bill into the pro shop.

          “Give me four balls from the ball jar and a sleeve of Black Titlest 7’s. Seven is my lucky number,” he said. A Black Titlest was a 100-compression ball. It was the ball most pros used. It was more solid and when hit with great power would go further. Seven was simply one number in nine that golf ball companies used to identify their golf balls.

          I watched as he released the flap of the small box holding the brand new balls. “Here,” he said, as he noticed me ogling these new Black Titlests. He handed me one of the three balls that rolled out of the box. “Black Titlest 7. You can have one.” I grabbed it quickly before he could change his mind.

          “Thanks,” I said. I’m sure my face beamed in appreciation and excitement. I had to play with it since it was the one the pros used and by the third hole I had lost it. Bill lost one of these three new balls on the sixth hole.

          After Bill’s funeral I began searching for Bill’s golf bag. I finally found it in the trunk of his 1957 Chevrolet. He was left-handed so I didn’t inherit his clubs. But I rifled through the pockets on the golf bag. I found a few old balls and the brand new Black Titlest 7.

          It was my treasure. I carried it in my pocket much like boys do with lucky buckeyes. I would reach in my pockets and rub the concave dimples with my thumb, carefully feeling the texture of the many circular bridges that formed those small indentions. I loved to turn the ball until I could feel the carved script. I would feel T-i-t-l-e-s-t spelled out on my thumb like Braille and then the 7 below. As I felt it I imagined the black ink instead of the black and red of the 90-compression ball and I would feel strong – as if Bill was sending me a jolt of confidence. 

          Sometimes when I would play I would think of it as magic. I would pull it out of my pocket and use it as my putting ball on the green. I held on to it, taking it out of my pocket and putting it on my dresser with my change at night. In the morning back in my pocket it went.

          One late afternoon I teed off by myself on the first hole without practicing. I sliced my first ball way right. I hooked my second ball to the left. I hit a third tree shot to the right again into the trees. The only ball I had left was the Black Titlest 7. So I hit it. It went in the woods to the right too. I gathered my golf bag and went off to find my golf balls. The one I hooked to the left was the best play ball. So I found it and hit it toward the green for my second shot. Then I went looking for the balls I hit on the right, especially the Black Titlest 7.

          As I walked over to the woods and creek on the right side of the fairway it occurred to me that I might not find the Black Titlest 7. I went right to the Sycamore tree that I used to mark the line of the flight of the ball. I walked all around the tree using the soles of my tennis shoes to feel for round bumps in the ground that I hoped would be Bill’s ball. I used my nine iron to whack at the tall grass and push down into the small creek that oozed among those trees. I felt bumps and reached to find rocks. I found one of the balls I hit there but not the Black Titlest 7. I became frantic, slashing at the underbrush and poking into the water with my nine iron. Tears formed in my eyes and moans began to emerge from my mouth. Suddenly I heard someone shout “fore.” There was a twosome on the tee. I waved them through, hoping they were too far away to see me crying. I was humiliated, ashamed. I could hear my brother lecturing me about my impulsiveness, my poor judgment and immaturity. It was all true. Losing the Black Titlest 7 proved the point. How could I have even considered hitting it? And now it’s lost. After forty-five minutes I gave up the search. I walked away toward the green wanting to go back and look some more. I felt like I had lost Bill again and this time it was my fault. I will never get over losing that Black Titlest 7.