The Pied Putter

By Jim Corbett
(Copyright 1996)

Once upon a time a strange man sat by a tree, high upon a hill. He had traveled very far to be at this exact location, for he knew he had a very important job to do here. As he sat on the hilltop, he surveyed the countryside below and his eyes fell upon his exact destination -- the Hamelin Golf and Country Club.

From atop the hill he could see the ivy-covered walls that surrounded the club and he could see the very fine golf course with the large sprawling lake in the middle. He admired the classic lines of the clubhouse and the layout of the links. But from this vantage point there was hardly a discernible trace of the reason he had made his journey. For now though, he simply rested in the shade of the tree. On the morrow he would ply his trade.

The Hamelin Golf and Country Club had, indeed, been a beautiful place, but in recent years it had suffered from a terrible blight. The unthinkable ruin was from an infestation so overwhelming that the membership committee at the club did not know what to do. But everyone agreed that something must be done to rid them of this worst of all possible vermin -- HACKERS!

Where the hackers had come from, no one knew. But before you could hit a small bucket at the old practice range, the hackers were everywhere -- and their devastating affect was felt in every corner of the club. They tore up the fairways and never replaced a divot. They never seemed to have heard of repairing a ball mark on the green and they mistreated and abused the caddies, whom were well-loved among the general membership.

Their play was slow, they used rude and abusive language to other players and they threw beer cans and cigarette butts and other litter all over the course. It got so that the real golfers at the club couldn't play a decent round of golf in under five hours.

But the situation on the course was only the beginning of the problems. The hackers had made a shambles of the clubhouse as well. They ran up big tabs and neglected to pay their bills. They threw wild parties, driving golf carts through the main dining room and generally trashing the premises. Someone had to put a stop to this outrageous breach of decorum or the long-time members would be forced to do something drastic.

The chairman of the membership committee had been telling the established members for quite some time that measures would be taken to restore the club to its former grandeur, but it seemed to the old guard that he was quite ineffective in handling the situation. Nothing seemed to work. They put up notices, they wrote articles in the club bulletin, they subtly tried to convince certain of the worst offenders of the benefits of playing golf on public courses. But nothing did the trick.

The chairman knew that if something wasn't done, he would lose his position and with it all of the perks that came with the job. No more free lessons from the club pro. No more free buckets at the practice range. And worst of all, no more free lunches in the club house!

A committee of concerned club members had just entered the office of the chairman to address these very issues, when a strange wind descended upon the club. Golf shirts flapped and flagsticks bowed low in the unusual breeze. The people at the meeting were about to batten down the shutters in the chairman's office when the office doors flew open with a loud crash.

The astonished group turned in unison to see the tall, sleek stranger enter through the doorway. He was dressed in a brightly colored outfit from head to toe. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, pulled low over one eye and he sported a cape of every color in the spectrum that swooped to the floor and which the stranger flourished to very dramatic effect. (The chairman of the membership committee thought he had seen some of the hackers with pants made of that same material, but then recognized that he was mistaken when he realized the cape was actually an attractive garment.)

"Good day," said the stranger. And he bowed low, swirling his cape in a great gesture of introduction. "What can we do for you, sir?" asked the chairman with an air of pompous indignation.

"It is not what you can do for me, friend, that brings me hence, but what I may do for you," replied the tall strange one. "And pray, sir, what might that be?" whined the chairman, showing a hint of losing his patience. "I understand your fine club is infested with a foul vermin, and I am here to rid you of them," the stranger replied.

"You, sir?" inquired the chairman. "And how exactly do propose to rid us of our hackers?"

"With this," and from under his cape the stranger produced an object that appeared to be a cross between a flute and a putter. It was shaped like a putter, but all along the hollow tube of the shaft were holes for fingering notes and the handle end of the shaft was open. "For I am none other than the Pied Putter!"

The chairman chuckled at first and then demanded, "Do you expect us to believe that you can rid us of these horrible hackers with that?" "Ah," said the Pied Putter, "I see you would be interested in reviewing my references."

He waved his arm through the air and said, "It was I who rid the British soccer arenas of their dreaded Hooligans." As he uttered these words the room was filled with the images of those obnoxious low-lives of the world of sports fans. The chairman and the other people in the room were aghast.

"It was I," he continued, "who rid the football stadiums of those creeps who throw snowballs during the football games." Once again he waved his arm and the existing images were overlaid with new images of a disgusting and scurvy lot of wretches. The chairman and the others cowered in the corners.

"It was I who rid Yankee Stadium of those morons who throw garbage out onto the field during baseball games," said the Pied Putter. And for a final time he waved his arm with a flair and another vile picture of the scum of the earth was presented in the air. "Enough, enough!" shouted the chairman, begging for mercy and duly humbled by the display he had witnessed. "Please, don't make us look at anymore of these repulsive images."

"Very well," said the Pied Putter, "but, mark my words. If I can eliminate these repugnant reprobates, I can easily rid your club of a bunch of hackers."

"Well, what will be the cost of your services?" inquired the chairman. The Pied Putter thought for a moment and said, "I will do the job for one hundred pieces of gold -- and a lifetime of free greens fees." The chairman and the committee members looked at one another and nodded.

The chairman, ever the greedy one, said, "But you still have to pay to rent your cart." (He was also on the Finance Committee.) The Pied Putter glared at him from under the broad brim of his hat. "Okay, okay, free carts too. But just make it snappy," agreed the chairman.

"Consider it done," said the tall stranger. And with a flair he turned and strode out the door. In front of the clubhouse he brought the charmed putter to his lips and sounded a note so shrill it pierced the ears of those who had just hired him. But, as harsh as the sound was to some, it seemed to be just that appealing to the hackers, for each and every one looked up from what he was doing and was drawn to its source.

The Pied Putter began to walk along the cart path that led past the 18th green and along the fairway playing a tune that was apparently irresistible to hackers. For the hackers stumbled from every corner of the course to follow the music. There were hackers pouring out the doors and windows of the clubhouse. There were hackers of all shapes and sizes, in all manner of attire joining the march from the woods and pro shop and locker rooms. They fell in line behind the Pied Putter in a grand procession that meandered about the course and skirted the lake until the Pied Putter was sure that every last one of the hackers had been attracted by his spell.

At last, when they had circled the lake, the Pied Putter stood by the shore piping his merry tune and then one by one and in droves, the hackers marched straight into the lake, like the dozens of golf balls they had sent to a watery grave. And when the very last hacker had happily pranced into the pond, never to be seen again, the Pied Putter turned to the cheering membership and took a bow.

As he approached the chairman to collect his compensation the crowd grew silent. "As promised, I have delivered you from the pestilence. It is now time to satisfy your end of the bargain."

The chairman looked him over and said, "Fine sir, we are a humble club and our coffers have been bled by these awful hackers. Certainly you will take a lesser sum for your troubles."

"A bargain is a bargain," replied the Pied Putter. "But it is too much to pay for so little effort," the chairman whined, "Suppose we make it thirty pieces of gold and you get to play once a month for free."

"Do not trifle with the Pied Putter or I will play a different tune that might not suit you quite so well," said the angry fellow. "Do you threaten me?" asked the chairman, "Be gone then, and have nothing for your services!"

"Very well," said the Pied Putter. But as he turned to go he once again drew the enchanted putter to his lips and blew a note so sweet and clear that every living creature for miles around thought it the most beautiful sound they had ever heard. And as he started down the path leading from the grounds he was followed by each and every one of the club's caddies.

The members looked on in horror as the Pied Putter marched the caddies out of the club, but they were powerless to act. They simply stood there and cried as the caddies were marched away, never to be seen again.

But their sorrows were not over because as the last of the caddies was seen marching over the hill, all of the wheels fell off all of the power carts and all of the pull carts. That is why, to this very day, the members of the Hamelin Golf and Country Club have to lug their own bags whenever they play a round of golf.