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Breakroom... Tales from the night waterman...True confession: I was a teenage night waterman. It began innocently enough, with an impact Rain Bird fixation. As a pre-teen golfer and offspring of a pro/super/general manager, my playing time often was compressed to that golden hour just before sunset when the big impact-driven sprinkler heads began to appear on the course. They stood tall, threw water over 100 feet and emitted a soothing, rhythmic noise that could be heard all over the course. The first head of the evening normally went into the first quick-coupling from the tee, so the last few players of the day could negotiate the hole without hitting from artificial rain. I loved those sprinklers. If the cam didn’t lock, the head would come screaming out of the ground like an antiaircraft missile and remove teeth designed for apple eating.I learned how to ram the sprinkler into the coupling and give it a forceful twist to engage the cam effect. I also learned that a good waterman never stood above a quick-coupler sprinkler head and looked down – he always stayed to the side. If the cam didn’t lock, the head would come screaming out of the ground like an antiaircraft missile and remove teeth designed for apple eating. I learned never to kick a stubborn sprinkler head in an effort to help it unlock. Without downward pressure to release the cam, the head simply acted like a giant pipe wrench and the quick-coupling would unscrew, creating a real mess . . . in the dark. When I was 14, my dad began to have trouble with night watermen; they would up and run off during the night. This was due to several factors, the first of which was my teenage insomnia. Living on a dark golf course in the boondocks (real estate courses were rare in those days), I had no evening entertainment save one channel of TV. When that station signed off at midnight, I wandered out onto the course to watch the night waterman, and what I saw usually infuriated me. Most of these guys were intoxicated with various additives, they were sloppy and inconsistent with the water schedule (if they did it at all), and they regularly fabricated pump trouble in order to cover an all-night bender. The part that sent me over the edge was the pay scale: They were making the princely sum of $2.50 per hour, while I slaved over a cup changer and endured golfer insults for 75 cents per hour. One morning, I overheard Bubby the night-waterman bragging to a compatriot about his nocturnal adventures doing LSD while he should have been watering. “Hey, man, check it out,” Bubby spouted, “I’m like, getting paid to trip. It’s far out, man, I’m one with nature.” The next morning, Bubby appeared in Dad’s office, extremely disheveled and bug-eyed. “I quit, man!” Bubby shouted at Dad, “Give me my money. I ain’t never going out there at night again!” “What’s the problem, Bubby?” Dad asked while reaching for the checkbook and casting a quick sidelong glance at me. “Problem?” Bubby hollered. “I kid you not, Norm, you got a monster out there!” (That’s not word-for-word, but you get the idea.) I was temporarily promoted to night-waterman, with a 50-cents-per-hour raise and a warning from Bubby to watch out for a T-Rex with red eyes and a terrifying howl. Soon, however, Dad replaced me, claiming I was too valuable as a cup-changer, cart knave and proshop serf. Riley, a hard-drinking old country boy, got the job and wore his deer rifle slung over one shoulder as he jammed heads in the ground. As the years went by, Dad lost more night watermen. I learned that a subtle moan out of the darkness, spiced up with an occasional glimpse of a dimly lit mask peering from behind a distant tree had more effect than a T-Rex.I learned that a subtle moan out of the darkness, spiced up with an occasional glimpse of a dimly lit mask peering from behind a distant tree had more effect than a T-Rex. And mournfully calling a man’s name from the dark woods was a sure way to create a job opening. One golf course, the aptly named Mystery Valley near Atlanta, suffered more than its share of horror stories, probably because it retained the old-fashioned night-waterman quick- couplers until the late 1980s. When my brother Mike returned to golf after four years with a U.S. Army Ranger battalion, he was immediately recruited by Gary Ready, the Mystery Valley superintendent, to serve as the night waterman. The crew hooted and hollered and placed bets on how long the new kid would last on the spooky back nine, especially when the ghostly old woman that haunted the 18th century cemetery behind No. 14 green made her appearance. After a hard summer, Gary pronounced Mike the best night waterman he had seen, and claimed that Mike was more reliable, precise and consistent than the automatic irrigation system on the other course Gary managed. It was the Mystery Valley crew that was mystified and disappointed. Finally, a crew member approached Mike and asked, “Didn’t you ever see anything out there at night? Anything at all?” Mike nodded. “You mean the old woman that lives in the grave on No. 14? She’s just lonely . . . needs someone to talk to.” Randy Wilson can be reached at rwilson@turfnet.com. |
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