her,” he added. “I’ll wager she’s got a straighter shot than
anyone else on this team.”
I groaned inwardly. Again. The coach wasn’t making my life any
easier.
The boys began to whisper among themselves, and I returned to
studying my feet, coaxing myself not to hyperventilate.
“Well, okay, then,” murmured the boy next to me. “Let’s see her
hit.” He said it like a challenge.
“Yeah,” piped in another low voice.
“Show us,” taunted a third boy.
My throat had turned drier than dust. I clutched the drivers
and irons that poked above the top of my bag. I reached the edges for support.
It was probably the first time I’d ever been grateful that my bag was almost as
tall as I was. My stomach churned, and I felt a little dizzy. The relentless
afternoon sun and the cloudless sky didn’t help.
“Okay.” Coach Lannon exhaled loudly, the verbal equivalent of
wiping his hands together. “Grab some balls and spread out!” he barked.
Each player slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to a
ridge at the edge of the field that faced the rear of the school. I quickly
claimed a spot on the end where the grass was matted and spotted from divots. I
removed my driver and a couple of stubby white tees from the side pocket of my
bag. I’d found the stubs on the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range where other
golfers had left them for trash. They were as good as new. I laid my golf bag on
the ground because my bag didn’t have one of those fancy built-in stands like
the newer ones.
As I readied myself for my first swing, I felt every pair of
eyes on me like a dozen clammy fingers. I knew that they were silently
critiquing everything—the way I reached into my bag, my rusty clubs, the obvious
lack of proper golf shoes. I walked over to one of the ball buckets, my chin
high but my eyes lowered, and scooped out a handful as my forehead began to
throb.
Returning to my corner spot, I teed up the first ball on a
patch of matted-down grass and then stood behind it. Balancing my club against
my hip, I removed my new golf glove from the back pocket of my khaki shorts
where I’d kept it all day like some kind of lucky rabbit’s foot, pulling it out
every so often just to touch the soft leather. I carefully slipped it over my
hand, snapping the mother-of-pearl button at my wrist. Then I clenched my hand a
couple of times, mostly to stop my fingers from trembling. No one said a single
word, not even the coach. Only the distant school bell rang on the half
hour.
I began to concentrate on my breathing. Gaze still lowered, I
took another deep breath and spread my legs shoulder-width apart a few feet from
the ball. I took a practice swing, then another, letting the club swing backward
and forward around my body till my arms and shoulders lost some of their
tension. Then, very methodically, I approached the ball perched on its tee and
swallowed back more dryness in my throat. I aimed the face of my club at the
ball, pulled it back around my body and swung.
And muffed it.
Crap!
The ball dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically no more
than six feet, not even to the edge of the ridge.
Totally embarrassing.
Someone chuckled.
“Nice shot,” another chided from somewhere up the line. It
sounded like Zack Fisher, but I didn’t look up. A few more dry laughs followed,
the raspy kind that always sounded creepy.
My breathing quickened along with my heartbeat.
I bent down for another ball and placed it on the tee. I wiped
a thin layer of sweat from my forehead with the back of my left hand. Then I
closed my eyes, just for a second, and pictured myself striking the ball clear
across the field in a perfect arc. When my eyes opened, I spotted a lone bird
drifting overhead. I lifted my face to the bird, squinted into the sun and
smiled, just a fraction. It could have been any type of bird—a crow, grackle,
hawk, even a falcon—but I nodded at it anyway, once.
And then I gripped my club with both hands, right over
anyone else on this team.”
I groaned inwardly. Again. The coach wasn’t making my life any
easier.
The boys began to whisper among themselves, and I returned to
studying my feet, coaxing myself not to hyperventilate.
“Well, okay, then,” murmured the boy next to me. “Let’s see her
hit.” He said it like a challenge.
“Yeah,” piped in another low voice.
“Show us,” taunted a third boy.
My throat had turned drier than dust. I clutched the drivers
and irons that poked above the top of my bag. I reached the edges for support.
It was probably the first time I’d ever been grateful that my bag was almost as
tall as I was. My stomach churned, and I felt a little dizzy. The relentless
afternoon sun and the cloudless sky didn’t help.
“Okay.” Coach Lannon exhaled loudly, the verbal equivalent of
wiping his hands together. “Grab some balls and spread out!” he barked.
Each player slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to a
ridge at the edge of the field that faced the rear of the school. I quickly
claimed a spot on the end where the grass was matted and spotted from divots. I
removed my driver and a couple of stubby white tees from the side pocket of my
bag. I’d found the stubs on the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range where other
golfers had left them for trash. They were as good as new. I laid my golf bag on
the ground because my bag didn’t have one of those fancy built-in stands like
the newer ones.
As I readied myself for my first swing, I felt every pair of
eyes on me like a dozen clammy fingers. I knew that they were silently
critiquing everything—the way I reached into my bag, my rusty clubs, the obvious
lack of proper golf shoes. I walked over to one of the ball buckets, my chin
high but my eyes lowered, and scooped out a handful as my forehead began to
throb.
Returning to my corner spot, I teed up the first ball on a
patch of matted-down grass and then stood behind it. Balancing my club against
my hip, I removed my new golf glove from the back pocket of my khaki shorts
where I’d kept it all day like some kind of lucky rabbit’s foot, pulling it out
every so often just to touch the soft leather. I carefully slipped it over my
hand, snapping the mother-of-pearl button at my wrist. Then I clenched my hand a
couple of times, mostly to stop my fingers from trembling. No one said a single
word, not even the coach. Only the distant school bell rang on the half
hour.
I began to concentrate on my breathing. Gaze still lowered, I
took another deep breath and spread my legs shoulder-width apart a few feet from
the ball. I took a practice swing, then another, letting the club swing backward
and forward around my body till my arms and shoulders lost some of their
tension. Then, very methodically, I approached the ball perched on its tee and
swallowed back more dryness in my throat. I aimed the face of my club at the
ball, pulled it back around my body and swung.
And muffed it.
Crap!
The ball dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically no more
than six feet, not even to the edge of the ridge.
Totally embarrassing.
Someone chuckled.
“Nice shot,” another chided from somewhere up the line. It
sounded like Zack Fisher, but I didn’t look up. A few more dry laughs followed,
the raspy kind that always sounded creepy.
My breathing quickened along with my heartbeat.
I bent down for another ball and placed it on the tee. I wiped
a thin layer of sweat from my forehead with the back of my left hand. Then I
closed my eyes, just for a second, and pictured myself striking the ball clear
across the field in a perfect arc. When my eyes opened, I spotted a lone bird
drifting overhead. I lifted my face to the bird, squinted into the sun and
smiled, just a fraction. It could have been any type of bird—a crow, grackle,
hawk, even a falcon—but I nodded at it anyway, once.
And then I gripped my club with both hands, right over
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