Smashing Castles
John Haines
Smashing Castles
I was ten years old and about to watch my little brother die. If he were to somehow survive, he'd be a bloody mess at best, and worse -- it was entirely my fault. A pesky creature we called “The Mouse,” my brother had just turned eight earlier in the week and even as he flagrantly milked his lapsed birthday-boy status in the mid-afternoon sun along a sandy beach on a small lake just east of Madison, the little rodent did not deserve to die. The fact remains -- Butterfly Effect believed or be damned -- that if not for a klutzy kid named Benji, my brother's blood would forever be on my hands, my hot seat in hell would be eternally reserved, and I would have wasted one hell of a golf lesson.
For six straight summers beginning in 1966 and continuing through 1971, our family headed 50 minutes west to spend a week or ten days at a reasonably priced resort with clean cottages on the eastern shores of a place called Rock Lake. (Sometimes I'm Rock Lake when making restaurant reservations.) We stayed close to home so my two brothers and I could head back into town every other night or so to play our Little League games. It was a ritual, just loaded the whole fam damily into the Catalina station wagon and off we went to ply our diamond might for all that was good and fair. By 9:30 we'd be back at the resort sipping our 7 oz. bottles of soda and munching on the pieces of the Jiffy Pop popcorn that didn't burn. Since the Braves had blown us off for Atlanta, we’d either listen to a White Sox game on WMAQ or maybe get sucked into an especially riotous “Hazel” rerun on our moody nine-inch black and white.
Miss our games? Never. My folks didn’t believe in breaching one’s commitment to a team. And, frankly, it wouldn’t have been fair to some kid who may have biked clear across town just to see me or my brothers play ball. We had a responsibility to our public.
On game days, we were to limit our time in the lake to avoid becoming water-logged, or "sapped" as my dad would say. Those who had a game on a particular day spent a lot of their time either goofing around on the beach or fishing off a crooked pier located about a lazy fly ball away from the roped off swimming area. The descriptive name of this rather sandy beach was in fact, Sandy Beach. Perhaps it was a preponderance of pebbles on the shores of Carmel Bay that prompted the naming of Pebble Beach, I don’t know.
I'll never forget the day I met a kid about my age who was digging around in the sand on Sandy Beach and in the early stages of building the proverbial sandcastle. I never got into sandcastles – or kites, or coins, or model cars for that matter-- but I was amused by the little sand urchin’s architectural intensity and sense of purpose. I went over and watched the kid for a while before saying hello. It was a way to tune out my brothers who didn’t have a game that day, and, knowing I did, amused themselves with splash-happy horseplay and claims of incredible underwater discoveries to go with their exaggerated laughter -- anything to flaunt the water fun I would have to forgo that day.
The sand developer kid was a bashful sort but managed to tell me me his name was Benji. I watched him work the earth and sand for a minute and wondered what kind of return the kid was expecting from digging a hole in the ground. I asked him if he wanted to toss the Frisbee. He made a face like he smelled something stinky before reluctantly agreeing to give it a shot. He proved to be ungainly and eventually went down hard when he caught one of my blazing spinners in the face. The Frisbee had been angled just enough at impact to blow up both of his lips from which came a startling amount of blood that immediately flooded the grooves between his unusually large teeth. Wham-O indeed.
The kid’s mom happened to be sitting under a shade tree nearby and witnessed the Frisbee incident. She went ballistic, screaming at me, and yelling at her son (calling him Benjamin) for associating with the likes of me. She took her boy back to their cottage and cleaned him up. When they came back she let us both have it again, though not as loudly. Benji went off to a corner of the beach by himself and continued digging around in the sand. I looked at the kid and thanked God for making me a shortstop instead of, well, a Frisbee-eating klutz with a crabby mom.
I declined a family boat ride so that I could go back to the cottage and raid our supplies. I found where my mom had stashed an impressive collection of health-free treats from which she would ration them to us over the duration of our vacation. I pounced on a coveted Lil’ Debbie’s twin-pack – the Swiss Cake Roll, no doubt the Debster's strongest offering -- before covering my tracks and kicking back with a Hardy Boys caper. Energized by Frank and Joe’s excellent adventures and the unhealthy goodness, I returned to the beach only to find that most of the beach-goers had gone the day. I also discovered that while I was treat burgling, Benji, the ungainly one, had crafted a sandcastle so spectacular I immediately entered the swing state of total disbelief. I had no idea that sandcastles like the one Benji built were even possible, at least not without some kind of cement. It was mind-boggling. Until that moment, the most amazing thing I had ever seen was the plate-spinning juggler dude on the Ed Sullivan show. Who knew?
“Benji, how’d you do that?”
“I just like doing it,” he said quietly.
"Did somebody help you?"
Benji looked offended -- a variation on the bad smell look. "Nope."
Right then, two taller boys who had been throwing rocks into the roped off swimming area -- in defiance of the sign with the beach rules that prohibited such an act -- came over to us. They were a couple years older, had long stringy hair and stupid grins and looked like they could be brothers. Benji paid them no attention; he was on his knees and continued to dip his hands into his pail of water and worked the sand, setting his creation with the weight the moisture added, putting on the finishing touches. I said “Isn’t it amazing?” to the older kids. But I saw it in their faces the second I said it – these kids were evil.
“Sure is,” said the taller one, who then proceeded to stomp down with his foot and destroyed part of the sandcastle. "Or was." He laughed heartily.
The other kid shrieked in what I supposed was an attempt at a fierce battle cry, but he actually sounded like a kid who just stepped on a tack. He probably knew he sounded ridiculous and somehow thought it could be erased by kicking wildly at what remained of the castle with his bare feet. In an instant, Benji’s castle had become, once again, beach. Wet beach.
It was like seeing a brick get tossed through a stained glass window. “You jerks!” I screamed at them as they went off laughing, not even bothering to look back. Benji was still on his knees. I was afraid he might never recover from something like this. Hell, he was fresh off a gruesome Frisbee attack. “Benji, I’m sorry, I’ll make them pay.” I wasn’t sure how, but I’d think of something. I remember shaking with hate.
He looked up at me, squinting, “Oh well,” he said. “I was just about finished with it anyway.” I watched Benji closely, and despite the coagulating blood on his torn lips, he really seemed okay with how his life was going. “I've seen them around. They're really bad boys. Their mom just lets them do what they want.”
“They’re assholes,” I hissed. Benji’s expression suggested he was embarrassed by my use of such language and reiterated that they were “bad boys.” We compromised, as kids do. We would call them “Badholes.”
That night the anger stayed with me through my little league game and I was only pretty good on the field. Rage was getting the best of me. I despised the badholes for what they did -- sauntering over and ruining something beautiful – after so much had been put into creating it. What really got me was the fact that the badholes had absolutely no fear of me. Practically speaking, why should they. There were two of them, each much bigger, against me and a kid who had just been knocked silly by a Frisbee?
Still, me being me and all, well, I hated the thought of them thinking they could get away with it. Plus, they were stupid, and this was decades before anyone used the word "stupid" before "good."
#
The next day I did not have a little league game and therefore had unlimited lake access, but the water didn’t interest me much anymore. I was unsure of what I'd do if I saw the badholes, but I wanted to find out. I went to the beach early and Benji was already there. The beach wouldn't become crowded for a couple more hours and we started to create a new sandcastle.
Benji had quite the system. He dug a hole for the foundation and then, with remarkable patience, created building blocks from sand using an assortment of different sized plastic pails. He’d mix some water with the sand, put it in the pail, set it precisely where he wanted, turn it over smoothly, and then slowly pull the pail up until just the right moment when he’d snap the pail upward with a flick of his wrists. He’d hold the pail above the new block for a moment and make a quick inspection. This ensured a consistent shape for whatever size block was required. Every time, always smooth. Slow, fast, hold, inspect. Slow, fast, hold, inspect. One block at a time he made his way, satisfied with his work and enjoying it.
Next he began to make windows and carve details into the emerging castle with flat Popsicle sticks and some sharper candy apple sticks. The snack shack people at Sandy Beach were pretty proud of their candy apples judging by all the signs that were posted telling everyone how great they were.
I mixed some sand and water and tried to help out. “Hey Benji, I’m makin’ some boulders.”
“Boulders?” Benji was puzzled. “What do we need boulders for?"
“Uh….just in case,” I said. I was out of my element, but boulder-making wasn't much different than making snowballs, something I could handle.
“In case of what?”
“In case we need to smash something. A castle should have some boulders for smashing the bad guys. You know…the enemy. Gotta have some boulders.”
“Well, alright, they can be cannon balls, but make them way smaller…and rounder, those look like pinecones, make 'em more like meatballs. Maybe leave a couple bigger ones for the catapult.”
“What catapult?” I asked, looking at Benji.
“We’ll make one out of some sticks and these Popsicle sticks when I’m through with them,” said Benji. He ran his tongue over the lip wounds I had given him. Fully engaged, his eyes remained locked on his magnificent castle as he planned the next step.
Every time I thought "we" were finished, Benji would add some new feature to the castle. He even built a ramp leading to the top of the castle so we could roll my boulders down it. Yeah, in case the enemy attacked, we could roll some boulders on top of them and squish them until their insides were on the outside. Yeah, you gotta have some boulders.
This castle was better than the previous one.
I took a moment to admire the sheer magnificence of Benji's creation. I guess you could say I helped, but, really, Benji was a better Frisbee player than I was a castle builder. The new castle was about a minute old when, like the psychopathic savages they were, the Badhole Brothers came tearing around the snack shack near the back of the beach, whooping and yelping. One after the other they jumped from a small grassy hill above us that abutted the back corner of Sandy Beach. Their bodies didn’t carry quite far enough so they had to roll over a couple of times in order to almost completely demolish our new castle. One of the jerks swung his leg around awkwardly and his heel smacked Benji in the face and reopened the cuts on his lips. The sound was sickening, like a soft plum fired into a brick wall.
I winced at the sight and the hate-shaking returned. A few of my boulders remained intact so I grabbed some and threw them at their faces. But the boulders were made from nothing more than wet sand and they crumbled in my windup. Not good for smashing anything really, so I just threw handfuls of sand that might as well have been rice at a wedding..
It just made them madder. They grabbed me and threw me on top of the whole mess next to Benji who was doubled over and dripping blood onto a tiny section of the boulder ramp that wasn’t destroyed. Everything else was wreckage. The sound of their laughter as they ran away will never leave me. I don’t know if I said anything, but I do recall taking some candy apple sticks and repeatedly stabbing the sand.
Benji surveyed the damage. His eyes were watering, but I thought I saw a sliver of mirth in them. “We can save part of the ramp at least.”
I watched long pieces of bloody drool dangle before dropping from Benji's mouth, and shook my head. “You’re nuts Benji,”
"It's fun to build them." He shrugged. “I like doing it."
Benji headed back his cottage to get some first aid for his lips. I was a little surprised, yet not surprised when he returned. And, yes, he said his mom went nutzo again. He actually chuckled when he told me she was blaming “that boney boy with the bald head” for everything.
#
That, of course, would be me. This was the late sixties, high times for the hippie movement and even normal people had Beatle dos and the like. Not me, I had a buzz cut -- the classic, maintenance-free, fun-to-touch, crew-cut, a huge cultural statement in those times. But I got used to the stares and it made me tougher. I always wondered if the stringy-haired Badhole brothers attacked on account of hair. But crew cuts were cheap, there was no need to pay a barber; my dad just mowed our heads with electric clippers that sounded like a gymnasium scoreboard buzzer. Benji’s luck had nevertheless gone bad since he met me, so who could really blame his raging momma-saurus for blaming me, "that boney boy with the bald head."
As I was heading back to our cottage, I ran into the rest of my family who were on their way to the beach. I told them what happened with the Badholes. My dad said something about wanting to find their dad and make sure he understood what could happen. I went and sat in the cottage alone, unable to concentrate on the Hardy Boys, but I did come up with a plan.
After dinner that night, I returned to a nearly empty beach. Benji, of course, was back digging in the dirt and sand, once again making the foundation for a new castle. I told him my plan. I had to convince him, but that was my specialty. I was confident he would come around to my way of thinking.
We gathered up every candy apple stick we could find. The trash basket had at least a dozen. We stuck them in the dirt, sharp side up. Then we found some small pieces of broken soda bottles and planted them under the sand inside the castle. The pieces were too little to do much damage - but we could dream.
Then an idea hit me. I hustled over to the snack shack; just outside the restrooms in back was a cracked mirror that had been set outside the door. I remembered noticing the broken mirror last time I peed. I had kaleidoscope face. If I had to bet, I'd bet the Badholes broke it.
I plucked two narrow hunks of mirror from its frame and showed Benji. Each was a nearly a foot long and very sharp. I was exhilarated with the possibilities. Benji was less enthused but there was no stopping me. I packed each in sand filled Cracker Jack boxes so they would point straight up, like a dagger, and hid them in more sand next to the boulder-rolling ramp of what would become our new, booby-trapped sandcastle.
Once the weapons were in place, I made some more boulders, but I got bored with Benji’s - slow, fast, hold, inspect - routine. I ended up going on an boat ride with my family that was cut short when the 7.5 horse Eveinrude kept conking out. Then I skipped stones with my brothers off the crooked fishing pier until sunset, mostly so Benji wouldn’t be alone in his work. This time, he outdid himself. This castle was bigger and more detailed than the ones that came before it. He used some real stones for the catapult. I’d make Bob Gibson seem positively timid if I needed them this time.
That night I fantasized about the Badhole brothers leaping onto the castle, their flesh punctured or sliced into grotesque flaps. I wanted to see blood spilled on Sandy Beach. They were losers.
The next day, the people on Sandy Beach marveled at what Benji had done with sand and water and Popsicle sticks and stones. In fact, the local paper was there to take pictures of some barefoot water skiing club doing their thing on the lake, but it was Benji’s castle that was on page one the next day. Benji didn’t want to be in the picture for some reason, maybe because his lips looked like leeches.
I thought the PR was great -but was disappointed there was no sign of the badhole boys having been shredded and washed out to sea in pieces. But that changed in time.
The demon Badholes appeared once again, ghost-like this time, again from behind the snack shack. And now they had my 8 year old brother, Rick - The Mouse - with them. I knew in an instant that my brother, a fearless little snot, must have shot his mouth off to the two brothers. Now they were prepared to toss him off the hill onto Benji's castle, now a killer sandcastle.
The Badholes were scum, but they had no way of knowing what was hiding in the sand. I took off from across the beach and ran for all I was worth towards the unfolding nightmare.
Mouse wasn’t scared, but then he couldn’t know what lie in wait either. We told no one. I ran as hard as I ever have. My eyes bounced and jiggled and began to water. The Badholes were laughing, again. I felt sick. They swung my squirming brother in rhythm. The Mouse fought it. No rhythm anymore, and the ‘holes were laughing even louder now. I felt like I was running in slow-motion and the Badholes were operating in double-time. They started to heave him towards the lethal sandcastle. This was bad, the worst. We only wanted to cut the Badholes up a little bit. Teach ‘em a lesson. Not kill my brother.
As I dug hard in the loose sand of Sandy Beach, it was clear I would not get there in time to keep my brother from his imminent impaling on the dagger-like mirror shards, our WMDs – as well as whatever damage the sharp candy apple sticks might inflict.. Making everything worse was the fact that my brother, through all his squirming, had managed to grab the tee shirt collar of one of the Badholes. Even as he was being thrown, he made sure he pulled the Badhole along for the ride.
Great. Now the full weight of a Badhole would crash down on top of my 62-pound brother and impale him. My legs were heavy and I let loose with a miserable, gurgling scream with every cubic-inch of air I had left in my lungs. All around us, heads turned in curiosity toward the back corner of Sandy Beach.
My little bald brother and the Badhole crashed into the sandcastle as the onlookers watched in horror. And all they knew was that Benji’s beautiful castle was ruined. Not the possibility of severed limbs and major artery damage and possible death. I screamed some high pitched non-words. I could barely breathe and collapsed in the sand.
Benji had soldier-rolled away in time to avoid the flying bodies. He got up quickly and looked at me and shook his head. His face fought off a hint of a grin. Then he helped the Mouse up as a handful of adults hauled the Badholes off to justice. He came over to me quickly, his filthy hands held up, palms out - the international signal for ‘no problem mon.’ He explained a few minutes later, after I had recovered from my embarrassment.
“I took out the weapons when you went out in the boat,” said Benji. “Good thing too.”
I couldn’t argue. The moment I knew Mouse was okay remains as the all-time record high on my relief-o-meter. I realized the capture of the Badhole infidels by the adults and the public scorn that went with it was punishment enough for them. Well, maybe not enough, but it would have to do. The people on the beach were hard on them. They would be dealt with. I felt a little shame in having fantasized about carving the Badholes into New York strips. But, oh well.
I felt weak and sweaty and my scalp tingled as the summer breeze cooled it through the fuzz on my head. I looked at nothing in particular, but I saw the big picture. “Good move, Benji.”
“It just seemed like we were doing something they would do,” said Benji. His croissant-sized lips made him sound funny.
“Right?”
“Right,” I mumbled, humbled. This was not comfortable. We walked to the shoreline between the crooked pier and the swimming area, where I could amaze Benji with my stone skipping skills and get back to my comfort zone. I tried to show Benji how to do it but, hey, there was just no way. We were each good at what we were good at.
In the gloaming, we walked back towards the cottages and when we came to his, I said good-bye. He would be leaving in the morning. I told him to “take it easy.” He said “You too.”
But somewhere rattling around inside my kid brain was the crude understanding that, while I may have told him to “take it easy,” Benji actually showed me how to take it a little easier. He went inside and I heard his mom get all over his case for coming back late and running around with “that boney bald boy.”
I looked back at the beach and Mouse was still giving de facto interviews to the adults and probably offering to sign beach towels. I wrapped my own towel around my shoulders, the one designed by Peter Max with the giant watermelon on it, and headed back to our cottage. The sound of my snapping flip-flops seemed to get louder over the steps that remained.
I never saw Benji again. If had to guess though, it would not surprise me if he’s an architect somewhere, designing beautiful buildings - and somehow finding the strength to care for his god-awful mother. She couldn't know what her son had done for me.
****************
At the time of these events I had no idea I’d ever play a single round of golf. I had always claimed that I’d play shortstop for the New York Yankees if I stayed healthy. Decades later, almost immediately after the baseball spikes had been relegated to a nondescript corner of the basement, I began my quest for clues to the mystery of golf.
Through my detective work, I recognized that a lot of life’s lessons and the lessons that lead to better golf are twin beams of parallel light. Light that shows the way until it meets with golf’s carnival house of mirrors, where it still shows the way, but challenges us to trust – trust that things are not as different as they might seem at the moment.
And so it seems that much of what I’ve learned about the fundamentals of better golf and the indelible childhood memory of Benji’s sandcastles have cosmically merged to bear this relationship out.
Benji had a system. And he had a rhythm within this system that demonstrated the importance of finding the comfort of one’s own tempo. Slow - then fast, and then hold the finish, as is taught by all good golf professionals.
As important as anything, in golf or life, he didn’t cry over bad breaks.
He accentuated the positive, or, as most mental game mentors preach, he “reinforced the good.” They'll tell you to never pick up your tee and look away after a good tee shot. Instead, watch it and invest your emotion in something positive - as opposed to the bad habit of investing emotion only when shots go awry – usually with anger or frustration. After Benji went “slow, fast, hold,” he “inspected;” he embraced the quality of his creation, and then moved on.
Benji showed poise, touch, and the ability to focus through distractions. He demonstrated patience and inner strength. He enjoyed the process, as evidenced by his simple declaration “I just like doing it.”
Further, he showed the simple but profound difference between merely beating someone - and winning. Without apologies, I can tell you he never let a Badhole get him down.
When he removed the candy apple sticks and sharp glass he said, “It seemed we were doing something they would do.” Benji’s point: just because someone cheats or leans on gamesmanship, or any other of life’s disagreeable traits, on the course or off, it doesn’t mean one is justified in sinking to similar depths. In effect, he was saying “we are NOT the badhole brothers.” Talk about constructive indifference - coming from a kid no less. Let’s face it, if Seve coughs in your swing on the 18th tee and the leaders still haven’t teed off, does it really make a sound? Does it really matter?
I admit that at first I thought Benji was simply too scared to show anger in fear of worse reprisals from the Badholes. That, perhaps, he knew all about that game from dealing with his crabby mom. Ultimately, I don’t think it was all that complicated. He wasn’t some oblivious savant or the type of kid to break down the motives of the Badholes. I think it was more a case where when one castle was done, he’d learned enough through the process about how to build a better one. And so he did.
It would seem that that is the way every round of golf - be it alone at dusk, at the company scramble, or in tournament competition - should be approached. It’s just a game, but a great one at that, designed for enjoyment, achievement, or both.
It is certainly not the first person named Ben worthy of admiration for what they dug out of the dirt and/or sand. But this one, Benji the ungainly boy with accident-prone lips, has my enduring admiration for demonstrating these lessons – years before I ever considered competing at golf and decades before I would stumble upon the connections; connections between castle building and golf, golf and life, life and castle building.
And believe me, they were smashing good castles.