Frankie Walsh was one of the best golfers I have ever seen.

But he didn’t look like a golfer. Frankie was short, a chubby, weakling looking fellow with an Irish wool peak cap that he wore all the time. On hot summer days he wore baggy shorts that came down slightly below his knees, socks that almost reached his shorts, and usually a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a collar buttoned at the top. When he took his hat off, which was seldom, he showed a large balding spot in the middle and small patches of gray and brown hair on either side that extended down the sides and back of his head. In the spirit of the times (1970’s) he had bushy brown sideburns. He spoke with an Irish brogue that had a high-pitched musical twang to it.

I met Frankie when I worked at Fair Villa Golf Club near London, Ontario. The first time I saw him he was putting on the practice green. There was no one else on the green and as I watched him from a distance I saw him sink three twenty-foot putts in a row. Then he moved on to the next hole and repeated the feat. He never seemed to miss. When I went out to the green to join him putting, everything changed. He’d hit it too long. Or too short. He’d miss the short follow-up putts as well. He just couldn’t sink a thing. I thought, “How odd, when someone is near him, he must get so nervous it messes up his game”. It took me awhile to understand the true nature of his perplexing nervousness.

I tended the pro shop while Ed Rowe, Fair Villa’s golf pro, was away in the afternoons. When Ed was away, things were quiet. That’s when I could do a little practising on the putting green. But on the first day I met Frankie, I couldn’t spend much time with him even though it was great fun to listen to him speak those melodic Irish phrases. Ed had just returned and when Ed came back, things always started to get busy. I’d have to get the shag-bag full of practice balls ready for him as this is when Ed started conducting the daily lesson routine, usually with the members wives first followed by the members, all a half hour apart. Ed was well known for his teaching skills and was very popular with all the members and their wives. While Ed gave lessons, I looked after club preparation for the regulars who would be starting to arrive at the club after work. I’d answer the phones which suddenly started to ring. I’d assign tee off times and administer green fees. Fair Villa was a busy place when Ed was around.

At one point, Ed stuck his head into the pro shop and said, “I see Frankie Walsh is here”. “He plays for free and gets free beer”. “Let the folks in the bar know Frankie’s here”. This seemed strange to me as no one else seemed to get that kind of treatment. Maybe he was Ed’s relative. Ed added, “By the way, don’t play him for money”. And with that advice and no explanation, he left.

Every evening after their round the members would congregate on the putting green for a few small wagers. No significant betting went on but some people could win five or ten dollars with the lowest score for nine holes on the putting green. Everyone threw in 50 cents or a dollar and the one with the lowest score for nine holes kept the winnings. With the opportunity to practice each day I often won a few dollars, and I was always eager to participate.

But something new was happening the night that Frankie first appeared. He had been sitting in the bar having a few (free) beers and came out just as the members started to organize the putting match. With a slight slur in his speech and a bit of a stagger, he smiled and asked, “Would you be minding if I played some putting with you tonight?” “I’ll be wagering $5.00 that I will putt the lowest score”. Now none of the members had ever seen Frankie before and he certainly didn’t look like a golfer. He also appeared to be a little unsteady on his feet. I reached into my pocket for my wallet but Ed grabbed my arm and shook his head. Some of the others immediately threw in $5.00. When they all putted, Frankie seemed to have difficulties reading the green and was never a factor. One of the members picked up the winnings. Frankie made a big fuss about how good the Fair Villa members were. Then Frankie said, “Now that I’ve seen the green, I’ll be wagering $20 that I’ll be winning this time”. Several members jumped at the opportunity. There was now close to $200 in the pot, but Frankie added an additional offer: “I’ll be doubling the wager to $20 more because I’ll be winning with no more than 22 shots. Would everyone still be in?” They all smugly put in another $20 and some of the bystanders kicked in $20 too. No one could do nine holes in 22 putts. There was now a sizeable crowd around the green and all must of thought Frankie was crazy.

That’s when I saw the real Frankie putt. No nervousness. No wavering. Sheer concentration. One after another he sank the first putt. But he missed on the last hole for his only two putt hole – 19 strokes for 9 holes. Those around the green could not believe it but before the money was presented to him, Frankie smiled and said, “This last hole, its a hard one to read, but if you’ll be doubling the money you just lost, I’ll wager that I’ll be sinking all 5 balls out of 5 when I try it again”. In went the wagers. In the hole went each shot. Incredible! Frankie collected his winnings and graciously thanked all his contributors. With much backslapping from the members (who had each just lost a sizeable amount of cash) Frankie happily offered to buy them all a beer at the bar.

After that first night Frankie had few takers for the low score putt-off. So, he simply suggested he could sink a putt from any location on the green. Wager $10 he’d do it or if he missed he’d pay back twenty. Frankie never lost money by the end of the night, but he sometimes missed putts. He knew exactly how to double up or offer some additional creative feat.

Frankie and I would often pass our afternoons on the putting green, talking and putting. After a while as we got to know one another better we would have putting contests for dimes. At first, I’d be winning but when Frankie said, “Let’s be doubling the stakes”, his game always started to improve. While I don’t believe I ever lost much money to him, I don’t believe I ever beat him. And he would never stop until he had won.

One day Frankie came up to me and said, “Would you be wanting to caddie for me today?” This was interesting since I had never seen Frankie do anything other than putt. “I’ll have to ask Ed and usually we’re really busy in the late afternoon”. “Don’t worry about Ed, he’ll let you go. Tell him I’ve been looking for someone to play with, and found em”. Frankie pointed to the tenth fairway in the distance. “He’ll be finishing up in about two hours”. All I could see was a golfer carrying a large golf bag and playing with two others on the first hole of the back nine. When I told Ed what Frankie had said he told me to go ahead and caddie for him. Ed asked me whether Frankie had said who he would be playing with. I told him he had simply pointed to someone on the tenth hole.

In about an hour, Frankie came to get me. I had never seen his clubs other than his putter. It was a junky looking set, to say the least. The woods were worn, and he had no covers on them. His irons seemed to not be a matched set. None of them looked to be “pro line”. “So, young fella, we’ll be winning some big money today”, he said, “but please, just go along with everything I say or do”. I wondered how well he played with that ugly set, but I had already learned that when Frankie said he would so something, he did.

We went over to the putting green and stood there until I recognized the golfer Frankie had pointed out. For his part, Frankie was on the putting green, missing putts in an obvious manner. As the golfer came off the last green, he walked toward the putting green just as Frankie putt a ball by the hole and off the green. Frankie looked up at the golfer near him and smilingly said, “Such a fine day fer golf. Would you be interested in playing a few more holes? Seems there’s no one here to play with.” The golfer indicated no. “I just finished”, he said. Frankie smiled and said, “I saw the way you played that last hole. You were really coming on. I am sure you wouldn’t mind playing a few more holes. While my putting’s a wee bit weak, I’ll bet I could be beating you in a nine-hole match”. I’ll wager $100 I could beat you”.

Suddenly the golfer showed some interest. He said, “Are you telling me you think you could beat me in a nine-hole match?”. He looked at Frankie’s clubs and his usual golf attire. Frankie then added the sweetener: “I’m so confident, I’ll be letting you hit three balls to my one. You can play yer best of three shots. We’ll get the pro to hold the money until we’re done”. I quickly took the money to Ed, who was standing at the pro shop door. He waved to signal all was good. (I did not know it at the time, but there was considerable wagering going on at that moment in the pro shop. Some folks, never having seen Frankie putt, foolishly bet on the other golfer who had just come off the eighteenth tee. Others were betting on how much Frankie would win by. Regardless of the conditions, a good deal of money was being wagered in the pro shop on the results of this match.

Meanwhile, back at the first tee, the match was about to begin. Brent, who said he was an insurance salesman, shook hands with Frankie the chubby Irishman who claimed he was a bartender with his days free to play the beautiful game of golf. Brent carried his matching set of Ping golf clubs in an expensive leather bag with hand carved adornments. Frankie told Brent that I would be carrying his bag because he felt his weak heart could be aggravated by the heat and humidity that summer day. “Okay”, said Brent. Brent wore expensive FootJoy golf shoes. Frankie wore what looked like scuffed leather shoes with a high heel that certainly didn’t look like golf shoes. (Later Frankie told me that for special golf matches he always wore his lucky Irish “hard” shoes).

On the first hole Brent hit his first drive down the right side of the fairway. His second ball finished a little shorter toward the fairway centre while the third ball was long but hopped into the rough on the left. Frankie’s first was topped, rolling just a short distance down the middle of the fairway. He marched to it and hit a similar shot down the middle toward the green. Brent went looking for his ball in the rough and picked it up when he realized his first shot was the best of the lot for him. We waited while he went to each ball. His next three shots were again not consistent for direction but one of them went onto the green. It took some time for Brent to retrieve each ball. After one hole, though, Brent was in the lead.

The match continued in a similar vain. Brent became more erratic with his shot-making but he was still winning the holes. I realized that Frankie was a much better putter than a golfer. Indeed, he was terrible from tee to green. By the eighth hole Brent was well ahead. Frankie approached him on the tee and said: “Brent, yer really giving me a lesson in how to play this game. But my favourite Aunt Fiona, she told me that whatever you start, you must be finishing”. He looked at Brent who seemed to be perspiring heavily in the hot sun and said, “Let’s keep our wager, but let’s make it $100 a hole instead of just for nine holes. That way I can hopefully win me money back”. Brent looked at the fool who obviously had more money (and abilities) than brains, it seemed. “Okay”, he said. “Can I still hit three balls?”. “A bet is always a bet”, said Frankie.

Brent hit his three balls again, but this time not one found the fairway. He seemed to be feeling the strain of carrying that big bag on his shoulder on this hot day. Having to find each ball before hitting the best one had added a lot of walking distance onto his game. His legs were getting tired. After all, having played 18 holes already he had walked almost 6 miles. For the first eight holes of this match he had probably walked another 4 or 5 miles. While Brent was probably not thinking about it, he could be walking another 6 miles before he finished this day – somewhere between 15 and 20 miles for the day carrying a 50-pound gold bag. An insurance salesman probably spent most of his time sitting at a desk by the phone or driving to and from client’s locations in his car. Despite the macho pride he displayed in choosing to carry his golf bag, his strength was likely to dissipate as the match dragged on.

And now it was an eighteen-hole match where only the last ten holes mattered. Frankie suddenly came to life. With his antiquated woods, he began to hit the ball consistently down the middle of the fairway, far beyond Brent’s best drives. His irons – those cheap unmatched clubs – were hit perfectly every time and he putted for birdies on every hole. And we all know how Frankie putts. He missed a couple, but maybe he was tired.

To his credit, Brent tried hard but as the match progressed he realised he had been had. On the fifteenth hole, he turned to Frankie and said: “Would you settle for $1000 if we quit right now?”. Frankie smiled, made reference to his favourite Aunt Fiona, but then looked Brent straight in the eyes and said, “A course, me young friend, and I’ll be buyin’ you the beer. Such a fine fella you are!”

When we reached the clubhouse and went to the bar, everyone wanted to know how the match had gone. Frankie humbly noted, “I jus wiggled through. He’s a fine golfer”. He patted Brent on the back, and shouted, “Beer’s on the house”. The clubhouse was suddenly packed with well-wishers and beer-sharers. Even Brent seemed to have a smile on his face as I left the festivities.

When I went back to the pro-shop to get my jacket, there was Ed holding a huge stack of cash. He turned to me and said, “Must have made a few thousand here today. Can you take this envelope to Frankie before you go?” I looked at him and said, “What is really going on here, Ed”.

Ed told me that Frankie was the best golfer he had ever seen and the best con-man to ever work the London area. “He plays the rube, right down to the clothes he wears and the way he walks and talks. He’s actually a great actor and an amazing athlete”, he said. According to Ed, the money Frankie made playing was only a small amount of the amount he won from the background bets that went on behind the scene. Said Ed, “Frankie takes 30% and has free beer, that’s the rule. It’s all in a day’s work for Frankie but when he comes to town, it’s like a wheelbarrow of cash is coming for all who know about him”.

The next day Frankie was gone. Moved on to another golf course. I never saw him again, but I am sure he was dancing up a storm in those Irish jig shoes before he left.