Prompt Wednesday #4: Golf Buddy
Prompt: A character runs into their childhood hero and forms a friendship.
“Where you headed?” asked Pam without looking up from the stack of mail in front of her. Micah answered as he reached in the refrigerator for a bottle of water, “To the driving range. I need to work on my long irons.” Pam looked up at her son and cinched her eyes tight to one another.
“That’s a relaxing way to spend the afternoon. You gonna call Ryan or Harris to go with you?”
“I don’t know. Both of the those guys are headed back to school in a week and I’ll still be here,” replied over his shoulder as he packed his golf bag.
“All the more reason to see them before they go.”
Micah did not reply, instead he jammed several blueberry granola bars into a pocket and zippered it shut. Then he steadied himself, plastered a thin smile to his lips, and said goodbye to his mother. She knew he was embarrassed and alone. Micah chose to drop out of college after a single year, but did not consider what it would look like to his friends. Micah was going to be special, everyone said so. His friends said so. And when Micah made the announcement during a cookout, Pam and her husband Andy watched as each friend tiptoed through a long awkward silence. And most of them never asked “what are you going to do next” because they assumed Micah will work for his father’s as an electrician.
“It’s like their all brainwashed into believing college is everything,” steamed Andy later that night. “Every dumbass I ever hired had a college degree, as if knowing the capital of Paraguay makes you fucking genius. I’m glad he’s not going back. I am. Fuck these kids.”
“Shh. He’ll hear, Andy. Don’t make it worse.”
“Worse? How? Dropping out of college isn’t a big deal. Having a bunch of shitty friends is a big deal. It can’t get worse.”
Pam eased up and let the tension ebb back toward calm. And in a low voice she offered, “No. College isn’t everything. And I’m upset too. But, need I remind you, Micah’s friends are still more like boys than men. Let them sort themselves out. The good ones will stick around because they love our son and the dumbasses will fade away.’
Andy drew a strong breath through his nose and leaned back in chair, his was of conceding the point.
At the driving range, Micah paid for a full bucket of balls and set up his clubs on a driving green at the far end of the greens. He liked having a forest of Loblolly Pines to his left and only one person to his right, if anyone at all. The range was maintained by the old man who opened it, with well watered pitching greens and a comfortable clubhouse. Nothing fancy, but most golfers are happy with cheap beer, an overstuffed chair, and sports blaring from the TV in the corner. The one flaw was it’s location, too far outside of Charlotte for the serious golfers. In fact, this particular range, was more of a weekend range for half drunk duffers. As such, Micah rarely talked to anyone.
Micah began his visit to the range the same as always. He took out his 3 iron, gripped the club with both hand (one on either end), and held the club high as possible above his head. Then he leaned back, sideways, and finally into a forward fold. He felt his hamstrings complain a bit, then went through the routine once more. The day was perfect, he thought. Cool for a summer afternoon in North Carolina with a slight breeze at his back.
With a one wood in hand, he teed up his first shot. And as he approached his ball, a tall black man with a thin gold chain and slick golf spikes set up on the green one down. He instantly recognized the man and tried to concentrate on his shot. After a few practice swings, Micah sent his first attempt into the woods. A wicked hook. And without looking he tied up another. Slice. The fuck is that, he murmured to himself as he shoved his driver back into his bag. Then he watched the black man settle into his first drive. Crack! Hsssss! shot the ball down the middle of the range, landing beyond the two-hundred and fifty sign. Micah almost congratulated the man on his drive but stopped. He assumed Sterling Blunt came to that range for the same reasons he did. And by remaining silent, he honored the hero.
Micah went back to working on his game. For confidence, he pulled out his trusty nine iron and began whacking shots down range, beautiful and lofty shots. After a sip of water and a granola bar, Micah began working his way through he clubs until he reached his long irons. His nemesis. You can do this, he mumbled to himself. And on the first shot, he sent a chunk of turf flying with a thud. Micah closed his eyes and flexed the club over his shoulders. The next shot was what they call a worm burner, because the ball raced over top of the grass past the hundred yard mark. Micah shook his head.
“It’s the club,” injected Sterling from the metal chair behind his green.
“You think?” blurted Micah with wide eyes and flush cheeks.
“Yeah. I’ve watched you hit everything. And I think you’re problem is mental. You smack that five iron over 150 but can’t get your two to play for you. I get it. Here, try my two iron.”
Micah stumbled over himself as he went to retrieve the club. And for the first time he looked his neighbor in the eyes. Sterling held the two iron out with his left hand while puffing on a cigar in his right. The old athlete was still in shape, his shoulders still broad, and his stare still intimidating.
“Hopefully, this works,” joked Micah.
“We’ll see,” quipped Sterling before adding, “Always forget your last shot. Good or bad, you don’t know what’s over the hill.”
Micah returned to his spot and dropped a ball to the turf. He took a few practice swings and instantly felt the difference. Sterling’s club was lighter, more balanced, and somehow easier to swing than his own. Then, after a quick prayer for a good rip, Micah fired the ball down the range, well past the two hundred sign. Sterling clapped and let out a triumphant puff of cigar smoke.
“Guess I need new clubs,” Micah joked still looking down range.
“Wouldn’t hurt. I know my game changed when I got the right clubs. Hit a few more if you like.” replied Sterling.
“Thanks. I will.”
As Sterling packed his clubs, Micah continued to take swings, falling ever more in love with Sterling’s clubs. And then Micah felt eyes on his neck and quickly returned the two iron to its owner.
“Thanks again. I’ve watched videos and asked for tips from everyone. No one thought it could my gear,” Micah offered as he handed the club over. Sterling nodded and wiped his brow and face with a towel. Then the two discussed all things golf. Micah nodded and took time answering questions, his attempt to restrain his excitement. The longer they talked the more Micah geeked out. Why was Sterling Blunt talking to me about golf, he wondered. His bag is on his shoulder and keys are in hand.
“I need to get going,” Sterling finally said. Offering his big hand, he added, “I’m Sterling, by the way.”
Cooly, Micah shook Sterling’s hand, “And I’m Micah. Nice to meet you.”
“For sure. I’m here a few days a week. Next time, come borrow a club or two. Until you get your own.”
For the rest of the summer into the fall, Micah and Sterling shagged balls at the driving range. A few days a week. They didn’t talk about Sterling’s career or Micah’s life after college. Neither invited the other out for dinner or a drink, though Sterling offered to buy Micah a beer at the range and Micah had to decline. Sterling laughed when he found out how young Micah was. And when the weather turned cold and rainy, the trips to the range stopped. As happens in life.
The last time Micah saw Sterling, the old man showed him a new putter, one of the new ones with a long shaft and big face. “I’ve cut down on my two and three putts. Now it’s more like ones and twos,” he proudly announced. Micah laughed at the size of the club, but didn’t question the results.
