Oliver Sturman pleaded with Easton. “You can do it. Just do the same thing you did before. One more time. Just put the ball in the hole.”
He, Luis, and Esme were gathered around the little girl. Luis shook his head. “She doesn't speak English, she can't understand you.”
“Ball!” Easton yelled up at them, her face red.
“Good girl!” Oliver exclaimed, giving Easton a big thumbs-up. He turned back to Luis. “Evidently she does speak some English, Luis.”
“If you speak slowly, she'll understand a lot,” Esme put in. “She's a very fast learner.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Oliver agreed wryly. “Could you please tell her to just keep doing what's she doing?”
Luis traded a look with Esme. “I don't think this girl needs our advice, sir.”
Esme would have to agree with that assessment. In the twenty minutes since Kiley had departed with Evelyn, the putting competition had fallen apart completely as Easton had become the center of attention. It had taken no more than a dozen putts for everyone within sight to realize that the little girl from Colombia had a natural talent for golf. No, more than a talent. She was weirdly, freakily, and unaccountably great at it.
Word of her ability had spread around the club like a brush fire in Topanga Canyon fueled by raging Santa Ana winds. Not only had all the nannies come down off the bleachers to gather around the green, the other young putting contestants were standing in a ragged semicircle just to watch Easton do her thing. Meanwhile, once T-Mobile Sidekicks and BlackBerries had been activated, golfers had abandoned the course and sped back in their golf carts to watch the prodigy, while other club members had hustled down from the clubhouse and the pool area.
The upshot was, there were now upwards of three hundred people crowded around the green, while exactly four people stood on the putting surface—the head pro, his assistant Luis, Esme, and diminutive Easton. As for Weston, she was off to the side of the crowd, huddled in Lydia's arms, babbling away in Spanish that Lydia didn't understand.
“Tú estas lista por una otra?”
Esme asked Easton.
She nodded and pointed to the ground, indicating where she wanted the head pro to place a golf ball. Dutifully, he cleaned a ball on a towel monogrammed with the country club's crest and put it on the exact spot that Easton wanted.
“Adónde?”
Easton asked. “Where?”
“Número cinco,”
Luis suggested, motioning to a hole at the farend of the green. There was a fearsome dip about five feet from the cup; the cup was cut into the side of that dip. “Number five.”
He leaned in toward the head pro. “That's basically an impossible putt, sir. Sixty-one feet from here, exactly. And she's got a heck of a break to the right in order to sink it.”
“O-kay,” Easton assured him in English.
“Yo estoy lista.”
“She's ready,” Esme and Luis translated simultaneously.
As the gallery hushed, Easton grasped the putter just as Luis had instructed her, and leaned over the golf ball. She aimed, took two careful practice strokes behind the ball, then confidently struck it, keeping her gaze fixed on the spot where the ball had been before it rolled away instead of lifting her head to follow the ball's progress.
Everyone else watched the ball as it rolled toward the cup like a slow-speed cylindrical cruise missile locked on its target.
It was uncanny. Somehow the little girl intuitively read the break in the green perfectly and aimed well to the left of the cup; she'd taken into account the downward dip as well, and putted softly enough that the ball was barely moving when it reached the hill. At that point, gravity took over … until the golf ball dropped into the hole with a satisfying
ka-pluck.
The crowd whooped and hollered in delight, and Luis smacked Esme on the back with excitement.
“Holy cow, this is amazing!” the head pro marveled as the cheering continued. Nannies with camera phones
He, Luis, and Esme were gathered around the little girl. Luis shook his head. “She doesn't speak English, she can't understand you.”
“Ball!” Easton yelled up at them, her face red.
“Good girl!” Oliver exclaimed, giving Easton a big thumbs-up. He turned back to Luis. “Evidently she does speak some English, Luis.”
“If you speak slowly, she'll understand a lot,” Esme put in. “She's a very fast learner.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Oliver agreed wryly. “Could you please tell her to just keep doing what's she doing?”
Luis traded a look with Esme. “I don't think this girl needs our advice, sir.”
Esme would have to agree with that assessment. In the twenty minutes since Kiley had departed with Evelyn, the putting competition had fallen apart completely as Easton had become the center of attention. It had taken no more than a dozen putts for everyone within sight to realize that the little girl from Colombia had a natural talent for golf. No, more than a talent. She was weirdly, freakily, and unaccountably great at it.
Word of her ability had spread around the club like a brush fire in Topanga Canyon fueled by raging Santa Ana winds. Not only had all the nannies come down off the bleachers to gather around the green, the other young putting contestants were standing in a ragged semicircle just to watch Easton do her thing. Meanwhile, once T-Mobile Sidekicks and BlackBerries had been activated, golfers had abandoned the course and sped back in their golf carts to watch the prodigy, while other club members had hustled down from the clubhouse and the pool area.
The upshot was, there were now upwards of three hundred people crowded around the green, while exactly four people stood on the putting surface—the head pro, his assistant Luis, Esme, and diminutive Easton. As for Weston, she was off to the side of the crowd, huddled in Lydia's arms, babbling away in Spanish that Lydia didn't understand.
“Tú estas lista por una otra?”
Esme asked Easton.
She nodded and pointed to the ground, indicating where she wanted the head pro to place a golf ball. Dutifully, he cleaned a ball on a towel monogrammed with the country club's crest and put it on the exact spot that Easton wanted.
“Adónde?”
Easton asked. “Where?”
“Número cinco,”
Luis suggested, motioning to a hole at the farend of the green. There was a fearsome dip about five feet from the cup; the cup was cut into the side of that dip. “Number five.”
He leaned in toward the head pro. “That's basically an impossible putt, sir. Sixty-one feet from here, exactly. And she's got a heck of a break to the right in order to sink it.”
“O-kay,” Easton assured him in English.
“Yo estoy lista.”
“She's ready,” Esme and Luis translated simultaneously.
As the gallery hushed, Easton grasped the putter just as Luis had instructed her, and leaned over the golf ball. She aimed, took two careful practice strokes behind the ball, then confidently struck it, keeping her gaze fixed on the spot where the ball had been before it rolled away instead of lifting her head to follow the ball's progress.
Everyone else watched the ball as it rolled toward the cup like a slow-speed cylindrical cruise missile locked on its target.
It was uncanny. Somehow the little girl intuitively read the break in the green perfectly and aimed well to the left of the cup; she'd taken into account the downward dip as well, and putted softly enough that the ball was barely moving when it reached the hill. At that point, gravity took over … until the golf ball dropped into the hole with a satisfying
ka-pluck.
The crowd whooped and hollered in delight, and Luis smacked Esme on the back with excitement.
“Holy cow, this is amazing!” the head pro marveled as the cheering continued. Nannies with camera phones
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