by Jules Lemelle
He looked like Spencer Tracy, a shock of white, neatly buzz-cropped, a full head of halo. Father MacShane was Irish, despite the spelling. He guided the Parish's blue winged Impala curbside in front of the green house as a young caddy dumped his breakfast bowl into the kitchen sink. Dashing out the back door and down the drive to the awaiting vehicle, the lad jumped in, proudly wearing his plaid collar polo shirt for the first time. Not many people drove in the Texas heat using a terrycloth towel on the wheel, but it made perfect sense if you wanted to keep your grip dry. Beads of water rolled down his forearms and brow, but the Catholic priest refused to run the A/C for economic reasons; he wouldn't want to take advantage of the parish. Golf was his only vice. The Father never played more than nine holes at a time, and for good reason. Stacatto sprinklers cast cool relief along the fairways as around the course went the duo, making par on nearly every hole. Except the ninth. Losing sight of the drive as it vanished from view, the boy had searched for the ball in vain, back & forth accross the green. Lost. Ashamed, he hung his head in defeat, thinking he had failed his patron. Until he heard Father ask: "Did you check the cup?"
I'm attaching an image of Jules below. He says he's "the chap on the far left"...