Unfinished Business

Cafe patrons, including those who had much earlier abandoned their rounds, stared on curiously, as Ben unwound his scarf, revealing his red, wind-chapped face, and no one uttered a word—not even the outsiders.
“Crap,” Ben said. “One lousy hole left!”
“Were you trying to finish up out there?” Cookie asked.
“Oh yes, he was!” Chuck intervened. “I found him on the eighteenth tee, and the weather was goin’ nuts, but even with that, he was still trying to tee it up to play.”
Cookie stared at Ben curiously, as several patrons gathered around the booth, sporting their own perplexed expressions. Each one, old timer and newcomer, wondered what compelled Ben to play on so long past reason.
“Did you try to finish it, since it’s the last round of the season?” Cookie asked and Ben managed a sip from his cup and shook his head. “Then what was it? Everyone else got off the course more than an hour ago.”
“Dang it, Chuck!” Ben said. “I left a perfectly good ball and tee down there.”
“Even if it’s under three feet of snow, I’ll try to get ’em when I fetch the other cart,” Chuck said. Ben nodded and lifted his hat from his head, and despite the frigid temperatures, the sparse strands of silver hair were sweaty. He removed the gloves, from each hand, and eased his numb, tingling right hand inside his jacket pocket to retrieve his crumpled, damp scorecard. He dropped it on the table and stared at it, but his audience stood wondering what significance it held. Ben tapped the card with his index finger and said, “Have a look.”
Cookie lifted and unfolded it, and more people rose from their seats to have a look. Carl looked at Ben then back down at the card, expecting to see some sort of note to explain Ben’s foolhardiness, but all he saw was the marked scores of the seventeen holes Ben did complete.
“I don’t get it—what’s the big deal?” Cookie asked.
“Total ’em up,” Ben, replied.

Cookie trained his eyes initially on the scores of the first nine holes and counted under his breath, then said, “Wow, an even par thirty-six on the front?” Cookie asked and Ben nodded. “Very nice!” Cookie said, and after finishing his same mental calculation for the back nine, a wry grin spread across the chef’s face.
Clive Jacklin dressed in a bright red jacket and black leather pants, rose from his table and, impatiently broke the silence. “So what’s the big damn deal?”
“It’s unbelievable!” Cookie said, “An even seventy for seventeen holes? You’ve never shot like this before in your life, have you?”
“No, not even close,” Ben confirmed, gripping the warm mug with both hands.
“Did you say he shot a seventy with one to play?” Jacklin, asked.
“Yes, it’s all right here,” Cookie, confirmed, displaying the card to him.
“It’s too bad you didn’t get in the last hole, but you weren’t going to shoot worth a damn on it in this weather,” the smarmy Jacklin asserted.