A frail, diminutive man, barely five feet tall and looking every bit of ninety-eight years old, shuffled into the Pebble Beach Clubhouse for lunch. His 1920s-style suit, complete with a weathered top hat, seemed plucked from a bygone era, yet the staff greeted him with warm smiles, charmed by his quaint appearance. The waitress, Francie, couldn’t help but find the little man adorable as he devoured a towering plate of food with the gusto of a much younger soul. “Quite the appetite for such a tiny fellow,” she murmured, marveling.
Tom, eyeing the man’s single club—a battered number one driver—and his polished Oxford shoes, chuckled. “Celest, where’s the rest of your bag? And those shoes… they’ll slip when you swing.” Celest tilted his head, his voice soft but clear. “I’ve never played this game before. Am I breaking rules with my shoes or my choice of club?” Tom shook his head, grinning. “No, no rules broken. Just… unconventional.”
At the first tee, Celest admitted with a sheepish smile, “I’m afraid I don’t have a ball. At these prices, you’d think they’d include one.” Harold, suppressing a laugh, handed him a pristine Titleist, a tee, and a scorecard. “Here, Celest. Mind keeping score for me?” Celest nodded, tucking the pencil behind his ear with a flourish.
To the trio’s astonishment, Celest played like a man possessed. His frail frame belied a swing that was fluid, almost otherworldly, sending the ball soaring with impossible precision. Pars and eagles piled up effortlessly—on the rugged cliffs of the 7th, the windswept 8th, every hole a masterclass. Bob whispered to Tom, “Is this guy for real?” By the 17th, Celest had the honors to hit first again. He sighed, gripping his lone driver. “Hitting this ball over and over is tiresome. I’d like to finish quickly, if you don’t mind. Thank you, gentlemen, for your company. I lead a lonely existence.” He glanced at Harold. “Thank you for the ball. I’ll leave it where you can find it—on the 18th green.”
With that, Celest took his final swing on the 18th, the par-5 with its gentle dogleg right and the Pacific Ocean glittering menacingly to the left. As the club met the ball, a deafening thunderclap roared across the course, shaking the cypress trees and startling gulls into flight. Celest dropped the driver, tipped his hat, and shuffled off toward the ocean, vanishing into the shadowed grove beyond the fairway.
Bob, Harold, and Tom stood frozen, their eyes tracing the ball’s impossible arc. They hurried to the 18th green, hearts pounding, only to find no ball in sight. Another group, just leaving the green, pointed at the hole. “Whoever hit that last shot—it’s in,” they said, awestruck. Harold peered into the cup. There, nestled at the bottom, was the very Titleist he’d given Celest. A chill ran through him.
Tom, his voice barely a whisper, turned to the others. “Celest… short for Celestial? Did we just play a round with… God?”
Published by Editor, Sammy Campbell.