Alec in Wonderland

CHAPTER I: DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

For Alec, a good golf swing was like an expensive watch: a great many pieces needed to be in exactly the right place and move with impeccable precision. After teeing up his ball and lining up his club, he checked that his feet were pointing the right way, that his knees and hips were bent at the right angle, that his arms were straight, that his grip was firm (but not too firm), that his shoulders were properly aligned, and so on. Then, he double-checked and triple-checked all of these things.

Just as he was about to swing the club, his focus was broken when Matthew started laughing. Alec stepped out of his stance and directed an irritated gaze at his grandson, who had been fooling around all day and now stood on the seat of the golf cart, his head cranked out the side.

“What the hell are you laughing at?” Alec asked Matthew as if the boy had committed a crime.

“I saw a white rabbit run into that bunker, Grandpa! I think it lives in the sand!” The young boy spoke gleefully, clearly unaware of the seriousness of his offence.

“Don’t talk nonsense!” Alec scolded the young lad. “Especially not when I’m about to swing.” He readdressed his ball with his usual watch-like precision.

“It had a pocket watch, Grandpa!” said Matthew.

Alec shuddered. His blood was getting hot now. “Don’t be daft!” he said, maintaining his golf stance. He then took a deep breath, drew his club back, and swung.

“Hey, Grandpa!” Matthew called halfway through the downswing. The surprise made Alec miss the ball and lose his grip on his club, which went flying several yards ahead.

The old man turned a fiery stare onto his grandson. “God damn it, Matthew! That counts as a stroke!” He frowned at the boy for a time, letting his disappointment sink in. “What was so important that you had to interrupt my swing for, huh?”

“I just wanted to know why would a rabbit have a pocket watch.”

Alec pointed a finger at Matthew. “That's enough. Start making sense, boy, or this is the last time I take you golfing.”

“Good!” Mathew shouted defiantly. “I hate golfing with you! You’re no fun!”

“Fine, then you can sit in the cart for the rest of the day,” Alec grumbled. He then retrieved his club, readdressed his ball, and took his swing. Though Matthew remained silent, Alec was so agitated by now that he mis-hit the ball, sending it into the fairway bunker.

After driving up the fairway and entering the bunker with his sand wedge, Alec was surprised to see no golf ball there but only a rabbit hole.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong, Grandpa?” asked Matthew from the cart.

“My ball went down this damn rabbit hole.”

Matthew giggled and clapped his hands. “You got a hole in one!”

“Shut up!” Alec snapped. “I just bought that ball.”

He stuck his wedge into the hole, which was so deep that the entire shaft was underground before he felt his ball. He worked the head underneath it, but the thing was stuck. It took a great deal of pulling and yanking and swearing from Alec before the ball popped out of the hole.

But as this happened, the sand began to drain down the hole, as if Alec had pulled the plug in a bathtub. It was like he was in quicksand, and as the rabbit hole widened, he was pulled toward it. By the time he realized the danger he was in, he was already up to his knees in sand and couldn’t move his legs. “Matthew!” he called, holding out his wedge. “Help!”

But Matthew did not heed Alec’s plea; he was still pouting from being yelled at to shut up.

Alec struggled to free himself, but his efforts were futile. The hole grew wider and wider, and he sank further and further into the sand, which quickly reached his chest. “God damn it, Matthew!” he shouted. “Get over here!” But the boy did nothing as his grandfather sank to his neck. Alec let out a guttural yell, not because he was scared or in any kind of pain, but more just out of sheer frustration. Then, he was swallowed by the sand and pulled down the rabbit hole.

CHAPTER II: A RIVER OF TEARS

Alec fell such a long way for such a long time that it defied logic. The things he saw during the fall made no sense, either: cupboards and bookshelves, maps and pictures, empty marmalade jars. “What the hell is all this?” he grumbled as he fell past these items.

A very long time passed, and just when Alec thought he might hit the centre of the earth, he landed on a heap of ball caps. He wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

As he collected himself, he spotted a White Rabbit running down a long, dark passageway, a thin beam of light glinting off its gold pocket watch. Alec frowned at the ludicrous sight. But he also reasoned that he should follow the Rabbit; if Matthew really had seen this creature in the Overworld, then maybe it knew the way back.

He pursued the Rabbit, but it was too quick for him and soon disappeared from his sight. Alec was now all alone in the long hallway, which was lined with doors of various shapes, sizes, and colours. There was a small door covered in silver and gold sequins, a large door made of solid ice, and a gigantic door that was at least thirty storeys high, built from old, cracked wood panels.

Alec passed a great many of these odd-looking doors—all of them locked—until he came to a three-legged glass table upon which sat a gold key. He took the key and continued walking, trying the thing in each door’s keyhole.

He had been at this for a little more than an hour when he happened upon a clay door about the size of a rabbit hole. ‘I bet dollars to donuts the Rabbit went through this one,’ thought Alec. And, to his delight, when he tried the key in the lock, there was a click, and the door opened!

However, the doorway was much too small for Alec to fit through. He got onto his hands and knees and peered through the opening. On the other side was the loveliest golf course you ever saw, and Alec wanted to get onto it more than anything. Not only was the place so lovely and green, but if a sand trap had led him underground, then maybe a sand trap could lead him back to the earth’s surface.

He walked back the way he had come, hoping to find a clue that might help him get to his destination. When the glass table came back into view, he saw a can of soda on it, which certainly had not been there before. “What the hell is going on here?” he muttered, for the constant nonsense surrounding him was getting on his last nerve.

But his mood lifted somewhat when he got closer to the table and saw that the soda was a Sprite. The sight of his favourite beverage made him realize how thirsty he was. He opened the can and took a long swig.

As he drank, a most curious feeling overtook his body. “I feel like I’m shutting up like a telescope,” he said. He punctuated the sentence with an involuntary belch so sudden and violent that it frightened him a little. And then he found that he really had shut up like a telescope. He was only ten inches high, plenty small enough to fit through the doorway to the golf course.

But when he returned to the clay door, it was shut and locked once again. So, he went back to the glass table to retrieve the key, but he had left it on the table and couldn’t reach it “God damn it, Al,” he grumbled. How stupid he was to have put the key down while he drank his soda! It was a more bone-headed move than when Chris Webber called that timeout when Michigan had no timeouts left in the 1993 National Championship Game.

As Alec’s eyes fell, they landed on a glass box that held a dozen miniature banana cream pies. Needing a pick-me-up, he took a pie and bit into it. The delicious taste was the first pleasant thing he’d experienced in this underground world. “God, that’s good,” he stated through an unnecessarily large mouthful of food. He ended up eating all twelve of them, and by the time he had swallowed the last bite, he had grown to over twelve feet tall.

Wisely, he took both the key and the can of soda with him to the clay door, which he unlocked. But when he lifted the can of Sprite to his lips, it was suddenly empty, even though he was certain he had drunk no more than half of it. This was by far the most frustrating bit of nonsense he had encountered yet.

“God damn it!” he yelled through clenched teeth as he threw the empty can down the hall. He was so distraught that his eyes welled up with tears. I know that must seem odd, that a man was so frustrated that tears formed in his eyes. Most people cry when they’re sad, or occasionally when they’re very happy. But Alec was not most people, and sometimes, when he became very frustrated, he would feel as though the whole universe was working against him, and this would make him want to cry.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he blubbered, and before he knew it, he was sobbing uncontrollably. He cried until a literal river of tears had formed in the hall.

Then, he heard a little pattering of feet in the distance. Soon, the White Rabbit came rushing by, dressed in fine clothes and carrying a fan. Alec dried his tears and tried to wave the Rabbit down. But the thing was in such a great hurry that it scurried right past him while saying something about the Queen and dashing through the door and onto the golf course.

In its haste, the Rabbit had dropped its fan, which Alec took up. As the hall was very hot, he fanned himself while wondering how he would ever get back aboveground if nothing belowground made any sense. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t realize that waving the fan was causing him to shrink until he was just a few inches tall. He dropped the fan just in time to avoid shrinking into nothing.

‘Now’s my chance to get through that door,’ he thought. But he had become so small that the river of tears he had shed as a giant carried him away. He fought against the current, but it was no use. He was pulled down the hall and through a crack in the giant wooden door into total darkness.

CHAPTER III: ADVICE FROM A CATERPILLAR

After what felt like hours of floating in the darkness, the sun began to rise, and in the distance, Alec saw land. He had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, land was good, for it meant Alec wouldn't drown. But on the other hand, how could there be a sunrise underground?

“This underground world makes no sense at all,” Alec said to himself. “And if nothing makes sense, I can’t control anything. And if I can’t control anything, how will I find my way home?”

Soon enough, he came ashore near a path that cut through a vast field and led toward a forest. He followed this path, hoping he might come across another traveller who could direct him to the golf course. But, being so small, he was not halfway to the wood before he needed to stop for a rest.

‘I really must get back to my regular size if I’m to get to that golf course in my lifetime,’ thought Alec. ‘But how is that to be managed? I suppose I should eat or drink something. But what?’ He looked around at the flowers and blades of grass around him. He spotted a dash of purple and, next to it, a dash of yellow with sprouts sticking up from them. He instantly recognized these as turnips, his favourite food in the whole world!

He made his way to them, and when he climbed up onto the purple-topped one, his eyes met those of a caterpillar. It was sitting on the vegetable, smoking a tiny cigarette.

Alec and the Caterpillar stared at each other in silence for several beats until the Caterpillar puffed out a cloud of smoke and said, “Who are you?”

“My name is Alec.”

“I didn’t ask what your name is,” said the Caterpillar. “I asked who you are.”

“I don’t see a difference between those things.”

“Then you must not know who you really are.”

The Caterpillar seemed to have nothing more to say, so Alec spoke. “Do you know if eating this turnip will make me larger?”

The Caterpillar frowned. “What’s wrong with the size you are now?”

“Three inches is much too short. It’s such a wretched height.”

“Three inches is a very good height!” said the Caterpillar heatedly. It stood up straight as it spoke; it was three inches high itself.

“Perhaps it’s a fine height for you,” returned Alec with some force, “but I’ve spent most of my life standing several feet tall. So, three inches is not a good height for me.”

“You!” said the Caterpillar. “Who are you?”

The conversation had circled back to its beginning, which had Alec’s blood near its boiling point. There was only one way to deal with wise guys like this: you had to use brute force. “Tell me how to get taller! Right now!” Alec shouted, waving his arms menacingly.

But the outburst did not have the intended effect. The Caterpillar did not flinch or shrink into itself. It only took a long drag on its cigarette, then asked, “Do you want my advice?”

Finally, the Caterpillar had said something that sounded promising. “Yes,” said Alec.

“Keep your temper.”

Alec didn’t see how this advice could help him get taller. He was beginning to think this Caterpillar was as useless as Mark Bellhorn during the Boston Red Sox’s 2004 World Series run. The unhelpful advice made Alec’s blood boil, just like it had boiled every time Bellhorn hit the ball into an easy double play.

He stomped his feet into the turnip. “You cheeky little rascal!” he shouted violently, like this was the nastiest thing you could possibly call someone.

The Caterpillar remained still for a moment looking deeply offended, its mouth agape, its eyes blinking hard. “You old fucker!” it fired back, then crawled away.

“You old what!?” demanded Alec. But the Caterpillar did not respond and soon was gone.

Alec stood there seething for a time, until he remembered why he had come to these turnips in the first place. He removed his golf shoe and used the spikes to chip off a chunk from each turnip. He took a bite from the yellow one, but this made him shorter than ever. He then took a bite from the purple chunk and was suddenly much, much too tall. So, he uprooted both turnips and took a tiny nibble from the yellow one. He was about two feet tall now, not too far from his normal height. So, he took the smallest bite imaginable from the purple turnip, expecting to grow another three or four feet. But, instead, he grew over fifty feet, much more than when he’d taken his first, larger bite from the purple turnip.

“OH, GOD DAMN IT!!!” he bellowed. He almost threw the turnips away, but he stopped himself, knowing they were his best chance of getting to a good size. He took a deep breath and calmly continued nibbling and randomly changing size until he reached an acceptable height. He put the turnips in his pockets and continued along the path toward the forest.

CHAPTER IV: THE CHESHIRE CAT

Alec had not been walking through the forest for long when he reached a mighty oak tree, which split the path. He stopped to analyze the situation. He wasn’t about to make one of those gut decisions. After all, it was a gut decision that caused Marc Crawford to pass over Wayne Gretzky in favour of Ray Bourque to be in Team Canada’s shootout lineup in the semi-finals of the 1998 Winter Olympics. Alec recalled thinking that maybe if Crawford had spent less time fixing his hair and more time planning ahead, he wouldn’t have made such an impulsive, idiotic decision.

Alec would not make such a mistake. He would choose Wayne Gretzky. The only problem was that he didn’t know which of the two routes was the Gretzky one. “Better to stay in place than make a wrong decision, Al,” he told himself. And then he stood there for a while, looking down the left path, then the right, then back to the left again, and so on.

After three-quarters of an hour, his focus was broken by a horrible yowl. Alec looked up to see a Cheshire Cat in the oak tree, frowning severely. “Excuse me, Cheshire Puss,” said Alec. “Would you tell me which path I should take from here?”

In response, the Cat let out another yowl. So, Alec went back to looking down the paths, but the Cat kept yowling, which made it hard to concentrate. Alec glared up at the animal with the intention of yelling at it to shut up. But the Cat had turned around, and Alec saw what was causing the yowling: a large clump of dried feces was stuck to the fur around its ass.

Suddenly, Alec noticed he was standing in a puddle. He glanced down to see a length of hose whose nozzle was at his feet. He took hold of the nozzle and aimed it at the Cat’s ass. Then, setting it to maximum pressure, he sprayed the clumps of dried feces away.

When the job was done, the Cat turned to face Alec, now wearing a wide smile. “That all depends on where you want to go,” it said, sounding eerily like Willie Nelson.

“What does?” Alec replied.

“You asked me which path you should take from here.”

“Oh, yes,” said Alec. “I’d like to get to the golf course, please.”

“Oh, neither of these paths leads there. Or perhaps they both do, I can’t remember. My mind isn’t what it used to be. But I do know that in that direction,” said the Cat, pointing with its right paw, “lives the Mad Hatter. And in that direction,” it said, pointing the other paw, “lives the March Hare.”

“Do either of them play golf?” Alec asked.

“Either of them could play golf, if he wanted to, if that’s what you’re asking,” responded the Cat.

“You can’t get a straight answer out of you, can you?” said Alec, quite annoyed.

“Why should you expect to get a straight answer out of anyone? Haven’t you figured it out yet? We’re all mad here in Wonderland. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” said Alec. “I’m perfectly sane. It’s this place that’s daffy.”

“Oh, you’re as mad as anything.”

“You’re making me mad,” Alec replied irritably.

“Exactly,” said the Cat. “I wouldn’t be able to drive you mad if there wasn’t already madness inside you.”

Alec clenched his teeth. “What the hell are you talking about? Make some damn sense.”

The Cat continued smiling. “When you play golf, do you grip your club as tightly as you can?”

“No, of course not.”

“What happens when you grip the club too tightly?”

“You lose power and control over the ball’s flight.”

“That’s right,” said the Cat in his smooth drawl.

“Thanks, but I don’t need golf lessons from a cat,” Alec said rudely. “I need to know how to get to the God-damn golf course!”

“That was advice on how to get to the golf course,” said the Cat. “At least I think it was. My mind isn’t what it used to be.”

“You said that already.”

“Oh, did I? Sorry. Sometimes I repeat myself. My mind isn’t what it used to be.”

Alec muttered something, but the words were so inaudible that even he didn’t know what he was saying.

“Your problem,” said the Cat, “is that you’re gripping this situation too firmly instead of letting things unfold naturally. It’s ironic: you want control over your life, even though you’re nothing but a random clump of atoms vibrating ceaselessly in an endless ocean of chaos.”

Alec blinked hard at the Cat. “I don’t understand you. I wish someone down here would say something that made some sense.”

“But don’t you see? It’s impossible for anyone to say anything that makes sense. All I can do is produce sounds with my mouth. It’s up to you to make sense of them.”

“That makes no sense, either.”

“Ah! You just proved my point,” answered the Cat. “Let me ask you this: if I were to tell you that I was sitting in a tree, would that make sense to you?”

“Yes, that would make sense.”

“But why would that make any more sense than anything else I’ve said?”

“Because you are sitting in a tree.”

“Am I?” said the Cat slyly.

“Yes.”

“But am I really?”

“Yes.”

The Cat’s smile widened. “What I mean is, who looked at this thing I’m sitting in and decided it should be called a tree? The odds that they picked the right sounds for this thing are astronomical. From a statistical standpoint, it is highly probable that every word you use for everything is the wrong one. And therefore, nothing anyone has ever said has made any sense.”

Alec was stunned, for he found he could actually follow the Cat’s argument. Many times, he had sat in his living room alone, with nothing better to do than to look at various objects and wonder how they had come up with the words for them. Who decided to call it a chair? Who decided it was a window? And even words that seemed to have logic to them—like basketball—didn’t work when you broke them down. Why a basket? Why a ball?

Alec started to panic. If he could understand the creatures of Wonderland, there was a decent chance he was losing his mind.

“Oh, yes. The way you’re going, you’re sure to lose your mind soon,” said the Cat.

“Wait,” said Alec. “Did I say all of that out loud, or just think it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” Alec looked down at his feet. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Were the things he was looking at really feet? Was the thing he was doing at them really looking? Was he really Alec? Was anything really anything?

The Cat broke the silence. “If you want to maintain a shred of sanity in this world, or any other world for that matter, you must accept that everyone, including you, is completely and utterly insane. You must stop struggling against the current, stop forcing things to go your way, and allow the ocean of chaos to carry you where it will.”

The Cat slowly vanished as it spoke, beginning with its tail, until only its wide grin remained, and there it stayed for some time after the rest of the Cat had gone. Before the grin disappeared, it issued a warning to Alec: “If you don’t learn to loosen your grip soon, you will lose your mind, and then you’ll be stuck here forever. So, I suggest you stop a-thinkin' and start a-movin'.”

Alec couldn’t be sure whether the Cat spoke the truth, but he shuddered at the thought of being trapped in Wonderland forever. He needed to get going; it didn’t matter where.

‘I like hats, so I will go to the Mad Hatter,’ was his thought process. It made him feel sick to base a decision on something so arbitrary, but the risk of staying put was too high. He had no choice but to be impulsive.

CHAPTER V: A MAD TEA-PARTY

Alec walked until he came to a large clearing in the forest, where the Hatter’s cottage stood. Under a tree in front of the cottage was a very large table set for more than twenty. But only two were sitting at it: the Hatter and the March Hare.

As Alec approached, they got up on the table and waved their arms frantically. “No room! No room!” they cried.

“I don't want to sit with you,” Alec said. The words pacified the Hatter and the Hare, who returned to their seats. “I’m only looking for directions to the golf course.”

“Instead of looking for directions to the golf course,” saidthe Hare, “I suggest you simply look for the golf course itself. Save yourself a step.”

“Can you tell me how to get to the golf course or not?”

“If I were you, I’d use those legs of yours to walk there.”

Alec gritted his teeth. “And in which direction would you walk?”

“There you go with your directions again,” remarked the Hare, shaking his head. “Pitiful.”

“Smart guy,” Alec grumbled.

“Your eyebrows want trimming.” This was the Hatter’s first speech.

“Yeah, and your mouth wants shutting,” Alec snapped back.

The Hatter’s eyes went wide at the remark, but all he said was, “Did you say you were looking for the golf course?”

Alec brightened up a little. “Yes, I did.”

“You did not!” contested the March Hare. “You clearly said you were looking for directions to the golf course.” He stood as he spoke, bumping the table and causing milk to spill from the milk-jug onto his saucer.

If there was one thing that bothered Alec even more than nonsense and smart guys, it was a mess. He went to the Hare’s spot at the table, took a napkin, and wiped the saucer, saying things like “Look what you did!” and “It’s all over the God damn place!” (even though, in truth, the spill was entirely contained within the saucer).

“Have you ever heard the expression, ‘Don’t cry over spilt milk’?” asked the Hare.

Before Alec could respond (he was going to say "shut up"), the Hatter added his own commentary. “A very good saying. But why should it be called milk?”

The question reminded Alec of his conversation with the Cat, who had advised him to allow the ocean of chaos to carry him if he was to escape Wonderland. Alec wasn’t sure exactly what the Cat had meant by this, but it had something to do with thinking less and acting more.

So, Alec stopped thinking and let his body do whatever it wanted, which, as it turned out, was to hurl the glass milk-jug at the tree behind him. He died a little on the inside as the jug exploded and the milk went everywhere. But the Hatter and the Hare were delighted, and they applauded his performance.

This was the first favourable reaction Alec had received from any inhabitant of Wonderland. So, he continued Marc Crawfording it. He took up a teapot in one hand and poured the hot liquid onto his other hand while he screamed in pain. Then, he turned the empty teapot upside down and placed it on his head. ‘I can’t believe this is my life now,’ he thought ruefully. ‘I am living in a nightmare.’

Meanwhile, his rapt audience cheered. “More! More!” they cried.

And so he went on. He removed his false teeth and used them as a hand puppet. “I’m hungry,” the puppet said. “I think I shall have a finger sandwich.” Alec took two slices of bread, put them around the Hatter’s fingers, and then had the puppet try to take a bite.

The Hatter and the Hare laughed like this was the most hilarious thing they’d ever witnessed, and they joined in on the antics. Together, the three of them danced, performed a parade while walking on their hands, and played a game of baseball where the ball was a lump of sugar, the bat was a teaspoon, and the catcher’s mitt was a tea cozy.

After the fourth inning, for absolutely no reason, Alec grabbed a watch that sat on the table. “Watch this!” he said, dunking it in his tea and intending to take a bite (his teeth were back in his mouth by now).

“Wait! Stop! That’s my watch!” cried the Hatter. “You’ll wreck it!”

“But it’s already wrecked,” Alec said, holding out the watch. “Look—the hands don’t move. And listen—she doesn’t tick.”

The Hatter rubbed his chin. “Interesting theory.”

“Put some butter in it,” said the Hare.

“No, we tried that last time,” said the Hatter, “and it did no good. It just added empty calories.”

“I’m not surprised regular butter didn’t work,” said Alec. “For a job like this, you want peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter?” said the Hatter. “Don’t be absurd!”

“But of course peanut butter is the solution,” said Alec. “Haven’t you ever heard the poem?” He then recited his favourite poem from his childhood, though it didn’t come out quite right:

A Hatter’s watch would not keep time.

Its cogs were all a-clutter.

One day, an old man walked on by.

Tick-tock, peanut butter.

“Of course!” the Hatter exclaimed, removing his hat and throwing it like a frisbee. “How did I not see it before? It was so obvious!” He turned hopeful eyes onto Alec, who opened the watch and spread a good amount of peanut butter on the insides. And when he closed it, the thing was ticking.

A broad smile came across the Hatter’s face as Alec handed him his watch. He shared a look with his comrade. “What do you say, March Hare? Is he bent enough?”

“I would certainly say so,” said the Hare, looking at Alec approvingly. “It takes a very bent man to fix a watch with peanut butter.”

“Should we tell him about the hidden door?” asked the Hatter, and when the Hare nodded, the Hatter motioned for Alec to lean in close.

“This tree has a hidden door in it," said the Hatter, motioning to the tree in front of his cottage. "Knock thrice on the trunk, and a door will appear which will take you to a great hall containing many other doors. I believe you already know which one will take you to the golf course.”

“I do,” said Alec. “But I can never seem to be the right size to go through while it’s open.”

“Ah, but now you have those turnips in your pockets,” said the Hare.

Alec had forgotten about the turnips, and he had no idea how the Hare knew he possessed them—or how the Hatter knew what Alec knew of the doors. But he didn’t mind because, for once, it was to his advantage that nothing made sense in Wonderland. He knocked on the Hatter's tree to reveal the hidden door, then thanked his new friends and bade them farewell before returning to the great hall.

From there, using the turnips, it was relatively easy to unlock the clay door and get onto the lovely green golf course. However, his theory that he could find his way back home through a sand trap proved to be incorrect. He checked every bunker on the course but did not find a single rabbit hole.

Since being chaotic had gotten the Hatter and the Hare on his side, he loosened his grip on the situation again. His instincts drove him to climb a tree and dive into a water hazard. But as he emerged from the drink, he was still in Wonderland, and was now cold, and his clothes were all soggy.

“That didn’t do any great hell,” he thought aloud as he wrung out his shirt.

“What did you expect?” came a voice from behind Alec, who turned to see the White Rabbit.

“I didn’t expect anything,” replied Alec. “I’ve recently stopped expecting things and just doing stuff.”

The rabbit nodded. “That is wise.”

“Although,” continued Alec. “I suppose I was hoping to return to the Overworld.”

The Rabbit’s nose twitched. “There’s only one way for an Overworlder to get back home, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” said Alec. “What must I do?”

“You must beat the Queen in a game of golf. If you can do that, you will return to your world.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch. Of that, I can assure you.”

“Then I may as well try.”

“Ok. But I should warn you, if you lose, the Queen will have you beheaded.”

“What!” said Alec. “I thought you said there was no catch.”

“There isn’t. It’s golf,” said the Rabbit. “Were it baseball, you could count on there being at least one catch. Or American football. Or fishing. Or—”

“Stop listing sports!” said Alec. “This is serious. If I could lose my head, I don’t want to play.”

“Oh, it’s too late to back out now,” said the Rabbit. “By law, anyone who verbally agrees to play a round of golf with the Queen and then backs out is beheaded."

"Then I guess I have no choice but to play her."

"Very good. I will go inform Her Majesty at once that you will play her at golf.” The Rabbit ran only a few steps before stopping and turning its head to Alec. “Also, no one has ever beaten the Queen at golf before. I probably should have told you that before I asked if you wanted to play her.”

“Yeah,” Alec said flatly. “Yeah, that would have been good to know.”

CHAPTER VI: A GOLF MATCH WITH THE QUEEN

The golf match was arranged for the next morning. It had been a long time since an Overworlder had played the Queen, and it seemed the entire population of Wonderland had gathered at the course to spectate. All the Queen’s servants (who were various pieces of sports equipment) were also in attendance.

As Alec stood on the first tee box awaiting the Queen’s arrival, he was informed by the Duchess, who officiated all golf matches, that he may choose a caddy from the volunteers who stood in a line in front of him. There was the White Rabbit, the Caterpillar, the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, and, for some reason, André the Giant.

Then, a grin appeared at the end of the line and floated there next to André for a moment until the Cheshire Cat’s face formed around it, followed by its body and, finally, its tail. Its smile was wider than ever.

“That cat sure seems a lot happier since I gave it that ass job,” said Alec to no one in particular. “It will be my caddy.”

Soon, the Queen arrived. She was very large and wore many jewels and was accompanied by the King (who was also her caddy). He was very small and was not allowed to say anything.

The spectators cheered for their Queen for nearly half an hour. The first one to stop cheering was a ping-pong ball, and when the Queen noticed this, she ordered that the ball be beheaded.

“But he cannot be beheaded,” said one of her guards, who was a hockey helmet. “Because he is a ball.”

“Cut him in half, then,” said the Queen impatiently. “Or squash him, I don’t care. Figure it out.” She then stepped up to Alec and looked him up and down whilst sneering at him. “You’re gonna get creamed.”

Alec found this comment most unsportsmanlike. He retaliated by saying, “Why don’t you show a little class? I thought you were supposed to be a Queen.”

There was a collective gasp from the hundreds of onlookers, who were shocked to hear someone speak to their ruler in this manner. But you could also tell by the way they looked that they were kind of glad Alec had stood up to the tyrannical Queen. That went even for the ones who were sports equipment and, therefore, had no facial expressions. Sometimes, you can just look at a football, and you know it’s glad someone said something.

The Queen’s face turned crimson. “Let’s play golf,” she said threateningly.

As the guest, Alec had the honours. He teed up his ball, which was a small, white mouse who agreeably curled itself up on the tee. Then he grabbed his club, which was a flamingo. He was tempted to grit his teeth and say, ‘God damn this nonsense,’ or something along those lines.

But then he glanced down at the Cat, who had Alec’s golf bag strapped to its back and looked to be struggling under the weight. Looking at the Cat made him think that if he lost his cool, he would also lose the match. If he was to beat the Queen, he would need to loosen his grip on this wacky situation.

Actually, he hadn’t thought all of this so much as the Cat had said it to him. “Perhaps you think a mouse is unfit to be a golf ball and a flamingo unfit to be a club, but the situation is what it is,” the Cat went on. “The more you struggle against what this world gives you, the more control you lose over what little you actually can control.”

Alec gave his furry friend a scratch on the head, then went to his ball, and for once, he did not spend five minutes adjusting his stance; instead, he went by feel and winged it. His drive sailed 220 yards, then rolled and stopped on the left side of the fairway. (Somehow, the mouse was not harmed and even seemed to enjoy the sensation of being whacked and flying through the air.)

“That’s not too fire-bad,” Alec said as he returned the flamingo to the golf bag.

“It was a fine shot, to be sure,” said the Queen. “Too bad it doesn’t count.”

“Why shouldn’t it count?” asked Alec.

The Duchess came forward onto the tee box and unfurled a scroll from which she read, “If a golfer hits the ball without first addressing it, the shot does not count, and the golfer takes a one-stroke penalty.”

“But of course I addressed my ball,” Alec responded. “I don’t see how you could possibly hit the ball without addressing it.”

“Overworlders,” the Queen said, shaking her fat head. “Here, I’ll show you how it’s done.” She teed up her own mouse and then, before lining up her flamingo, bent down and said to her ball, “Good morning, Mr. Mouse.” Then, to Alec, she added, “And now that I’ve addressed him, I can swing.” She took her shot, which went farther than Alec’s and landed in the dead centre of the fairway, too.

So, Alec was already a stroke back, and a stroke back he stayed through the first four holes. Then, on the fifth, one of his flamingos (the seven-iron) acted up on his approach shot. Alec had said to the Cheshire Cat that he would “choke up” on it, and apparently, the flamingo did not like the sound of this. When Alec grabbed it, it went limp so it couldn’t be swung. And then it quickly rolled onto its back and kicked Alec in the stomach, making him laugh angrily. And then they rolled around, and, somehow, the flamingo ended up holding Alec by the legs like he was the golf club! When Alec finally got a grip on the bird and swung, he hit a very poor shot. He would double-bogey the hole and find himself three strokes back.

He finally bested the Queen on the tenth hole when, after he sank a thirty-foot birdie putt, she failed to make a five-footer.

“Ooh, that cost her a lot of money,” Alec commented to his caddy.

“But you’re not playing for money,” said the Cat.

“Oh, right, I forgot,” said Alec, rubbing his throat tenderly as he remembered that his life was literally on the line.

The Queen seemed rattled from losing a hole to an Overworlder. Because she had been thrown off her game—and owing to a lucky bounce here and a chip-in there for Alec—they were tied after seventeen holes.

It was already one of the greatest golf matches the Wonderlanders had ever witnessed, and they waited with bated breath as the Queen took her tee shot on the par-three eighteenth. It was a perfectly arcing shot that hit the green with enough backspin to put the ball less than a foot from the hole. She would definitely sink her putt.

“That does it for you,” she commented as she walked past Alec.

“We’ll see about that,” Alec responded. “I could birdie this hole, too, and we’ll go to a playoff.”

“That is incorrect,” said the Duchess, who stepped forward. Consulting the scroll in her hands, she informed Alec, “The rules clearly state: should the game be tied after eighteen holes, the match shall be awarded to the Queen. There is no playoff hole to be played, for this golf course does not have a nineteenth hole on which to play it.”

“But why not just play on the first hole?” asked Alec.

The Duchess gasped. “Don't be ridiculous! You will play according to the rules. There is no way around it: you must hit a hole in one to win this match.”

"Ah, crud," said Alec.

Then, his life flashed before his eyes (it was mostly highlights from sports he’d watched on TV). The most vivid image was that of the final play of Super Bowl XXXIV, when Kevin Dyson desperately reached for the goal line to score a game-tying touchdown but was ruled down by contact before the ball crossed the threshold. Alec himself hadn’t been able to sleep for three nights after that, and he’d always wondered what kind of hellish torment Kevin Dyson must have endured, what it felt like to be so close to achieving something great, only to come up inches short. And now he knew. It felt like your heart was in a vice, being crushed by the cruel hands of fate.

But there was one difference between Alec and Kevin Dyson. Actually, there were a great many differences between them. One was a beast of a man who spent his Sundays battling other behemoths on the gridiron; the other was an old tit who spent his Sundays working in his garden. But the most important difference was that Alec wasn’t down yet. He still had a chance to make a miracle happen—like the Music City Miracle, which, coincidentally, also involved Kevin Dyson.

He teed up his ball and wished it a good afternoon, then got into his stance. But just as he was about to swing, a basketball started making a ruckus. It was clearly drunk and was trying to bounce into a nearby tree, apparently to get a better look at the green. As it bounced onto a limb, it shook a beehive loose, which burst open when it hit the ground. A swarm of bees darted toward Alec like bullets, even though it was all the basketball's fault that their home had been destroyed.

Alec's first thought was to run, for he was allergic to bee stings. But he had already addressed his ball, and according to the Duchess’s scroll, if he left the tee box now, he would be penalized a stroke and lose the match. His second thought was to drop to the ground, but this would also require him to officially re-address the ball, costing him a stroke.

These were the only instincts Alec had time to consider before the bees were right in his face. So, he stopped thinking and surprised himself by performing a slow-motion backward-bendy move, like something out of The Matrix. The bees flew over and under and around his body, but not one of them stung him.

They directed their attack on a large blue dog, which ran onto the course as the bees chased it. Each time it was stung, it barked; and each time it barked, it shot a fireball from its mouth. And it was charging full-speed toward the tee box—right at Alec.

Another image flashed in Alec’s mind, this one featuring not Kevin Dyson but Tiger Woods. Specifically, he envisioned the legendary chip shot on the sixteenth hole during the final round of the 2005 Masters—the finest stroke in the history of the sport. Tiger had been forced to hit the ball into an impossible slope with his ball sitting up against the second cut. This was something no golfer ever practiced since that specific set of circumstances never occurs. And that’s why, as the camera did a close-up on Tiger's face before he took the shot, you didn’t see a confident man. You saw a man who had painstakingly analyzed a problem from every angle only to realize there was no solution. You could practically read his mind from the expression on his face: ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what golf is anymore.’ But Tiger took the shot anyway, and somehow, it went in.

Now that Alec had been through Wonderland, he understood why that moment had stuck with him: because he had witnessed an actual miracle take place. And it only happened because Tiger had been willing to admit that he couldn't think his way out of the situation, that he couldn't force the world to bend for him, because it never was his world to bend. So, he gave himself up to the ocean of chaos and flowed with it.

Now that Alec thought about it, all his favourite sports moments were like that. They all required the athlete to do something impossible, something that couldn’t be practiced or planned. Because that's the thing about miracles—they can't happen when everything goes according to plan. For a miracle to happen, everything must first go horribly wrong.

And if that was the case, then Alec could very well be in the middle of a miracle right now. But he couldn't complete the miracle unless he admitted that he’d been living his life wrong, that he had wasted a good chunk of his time on earth overthinking every little decision and trying to force things to go his way. To give himself a chance at a miracle, he'd need to surrender himself to the chaos.

And that's what he did. As the blue dog closed in and shot a fireball directly at Alec’s chest, the old man emptied his mind and leapt high into the air, avoiding the fireball and somehow landing on his feet on the dog’s back, all while maintaining his hold on his flamingo. Then, a split second before the dog would have carried him outside the tee box, he backflipped off it and landed on his feet, which barely remained inside the boundary. But in trying to maintain his balance, he stumbled backward and tripped over his feet. He couldn't see his ball as he fell; all he could do was twist his body, swing his club blindly before he hit the ground, and hope for a miracle.

You can imagine his surprise when he felt the flamingo’s head connect with the mouse. And you can imagine his amazement when he got up and looked to see that the thing was somehow falling right toward the green.

All was silent as the mouse landed in line with the hole, bounced twice, clanged against the pin, and dropped into the cup.

The instant it went in, the Queen exploded, but instead of blood and bones, confetti sprayed everywhere and glittered in the sunlight. A great cheer erupted from the onlookers, for the Queen’s reign of terror was finally over. Tennis rackets worked in unison to applaud. A hockey net shed tears of joy. A band of olde-timey-looking prospectors played “Fisher’s Hornpipe” while the Wonderlanders danced and jigged like all hell.

Alec swelled with joy because, in this moment, he was Willie Mays making that impossible over-the-shoulder catch in Game 1 of the 1954 World Series. He was Michael Jordan hitting The Shot to knock the Cleveland Cavaliers out of the 1989 NBA Playoffs. In this moment, Alec was the miracle-maker.

Though he hated showboating about as much as anything, he was so overcome with emotion that he couldn’t resist the urge to wave to the Wonderlanders and smile at them. Then, he felt as though he were floating. And when he looked down, he saw that his feet had indeed left the ground. It was like he was being lifted by the cheers of the crowd.

Up, up, up, he went through the bright confetti and into the clouds, which were so thick that they clouded his vision, in the most literal sense of the expression possible. And when he could see again, there he was, back on the right side of the earth’s surface, in the fairway bunker on the tenth hole of his home course. Matthew sat in the golf cart as if he hadn’t noticed Alec’s absence.

Alec’s ball was still nowhere to be found, and the rabbit hole was gone, too. He shrugged his shoulders, went to the golf cart, and sat down next to his grandson. “My ball has vanished into thin air,” he said as if this were a perfectly rational thing to say.

“I bet the Tree Elves took it,” Matthew said.

The claim was pure nonsense, but this didn’t bother Alec as much as it should have. Instead of clenching his jaw and growling at Matthew to make some damn sense, he smiled at the boy and chuckled. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” said Matthew. “Golf balls are like treasure to them.”

“Did you see where these Tree Elves went?” asked Alec.

The smile on Matthew’s face was almost as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s, and his eyes were filled with equal parts surprise and delight, for his grandpa had never indulged his imagination like this before. “I didn’t see them, but they live in that forest,” he said, pointing beyond the course’s out-of-bounds markers.

Alec started the golf cart. “Then let’s go find them.”

As Alec drove toward the boundary of the course, Matthew (for no discernible reason) said, “Super Mario can jump really high!”

“He sure can, Matthew,” said Alec with a smile. “He sure can.”