Schistocerca: Growth Through Golf

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A fast-paced work of sports fiction. Schistocerca is an intimate exploration of golf and how it reveals those who participate.

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Dedicated to Bert Kea

Prologue

Rain continues on the windshield. I kill the engine but keep the power on to heat my lower back. With a flick, I switch the fan setting and the windows fog opaque.

We slept in the rigour of an argument unresolved. I can’t remember if we ran out of words to use or the energy to continue.

Zz-zz.

This is not a great use of a vacation day. I realised this last week, 5-down to Edgar Chu, when the steady- handed seventy-something tweaked his back getting out of a bunker and withdrew! Sending me into this quarterfinal tail between my legs.

Zz-zz.

Probably another thing I have been passively cc’d on. More of the same from the same few customers. My only concern is if one of those notifications came from Grace.

The rain softens. I get out and tie my shoes against the back bumper, breathing in the heavy air. One of two cars in the lot. I feel the pockets where I have my yardage book, gum, water. Check, check, check.

The range is all mine. I place my bag behind a stall with a fresh patch of turf and begin to stretch.

I shouldn’t be surprised that my back is in knots, but this morning's reminder of my fading adolescence hits me right here. Bent over, my fingertips hover a good 2 inches clear of the pavement.

“What is going on with you?”

I’m doing a bit too much looking around. I raise my gaze, complete a breath, then rake the first range ball onto the back end of a stale divot. I make an abbreviated swing that finds the centre of the clubface. Phew.

I rake another.

I make a larger turn that bumps into the tension in my back and catch it on the toe.

“You’re not yourself recently. I’m worried about you.”

I rake another. Same result.

I back off, then lean the club against my bag and clasp my hands behind my back. I bend at the hip, and slowly lift my hands to release whatever thoracic muscle is holding on for dear life. Blood fills my face.

“Does this have anything to do with our appointment next week?”

I stand up and rake another. This one finds the centre, but I finish off-balance. Thank God this is matchplay.

Stroke play is the marathon, matchplay is the duel. In stroke play, mistake avoidance is rewarded. It identifies golfing skill in the simplest form: least strokes wins. But those must-make moments that golfers crave, the situations they remember forever, happen more rarely.

Matchplay on the other hand, is full of them. All that matters is in your pairing. Situational awareness is paramount, and mistakes are far easier to forget. You’re in the fight until you run out of holes. It brings out a better mentality in every player.

I catch one off the heel, recheck my alignment, rake another. It comes out of the centre.

“That’s the one.”

“Shit. You scared me.”

“Good morning.”

Jim has an XL coffee in his left hand, along with an assortment of gear tucked under his arms. It's been a few months since I last spent time with him and he looks a little worse for wear. Not on the waist, but in the eyes.

“Who we got today?” “Leonard McClure.” “Slick. Love it.”
“You know him?” “Know of.”

I decide to leave it there, and not give Leonard too much of my attention. If I play well, he should have a hard time advancing past me.

At the practice green, Jim leans on my 6-iron as if it’s a cane. In this drill, the clubhead serves as an impromptu hole. I hit two chips toward it. One mid- height-and-spinning, the other low-and-running. He waits for the second shot to stop before kicking them both to a different spot. My touch rapidly improves as we fall into the cat-and-mouse rhythm.

“Hands.” He says in compliment, as my low pitch softly rolls past the clubhead.

I am grateful that he’s here with me today. This game can be lonely, particularly on a rainy Wednesday morning. That’s the thing about Jim. He has this valence. Like the world revolves around him though he never asked it to. Plain, honest, circumstantial acceptance.

Jim, huge ask but any chance you’d loop for me on wednesday? matchplay quarterfinals. [9:02pm]

Sure thing—don’t have much else going on. Will be fun. [9:45pm]

But I knew that wasn't really true. He has been through the ringer in the last 18 months. I only heard grapevine details, but apparently things started to spiral when his young daughter was hospitalised with some freak infection—it was touch and go for a few weeks.

Then it was his job. His firm was purchased, and as per the press release, he didn’t ‘fit into the restructuring.’ In reality, there were a few years of very crude, very public negotiations that drew him into the ire of activists, so the company packaged him. We’ve played like 10 games together during all of this and I had no clue. ‘Round it goes I guess.

I switch to my putter and simulate the essentials. After a few long lags, I set up some tees in-close. Starting with 2 footers, then working my way back to mid-range.

A teenager sets a bag down on the first tee. Leonard must have his son caddying for him today. Suddenly, I’m struck by the feeling of what it was like to skip school. The imagined freedom rotted by guilt. Nothing has changed.

As I approach the tee I see an even younger boy waddle up the path, caddy bib down to his knees. I have them mixed up.

“Hi Leonard?” I say to the older one.

“Lenny,” he says without eye contact, crouched down by his bag fidgeting with a golfer’s standard carry.

“Nice to meet you Lenny.” I make my way toward him and he stands up—right hand occupied—then extends a clammy left with unsettling reluctance.

“Thanks,” he says.

I then introduce myself to Lenny’s caddy and immediately forget his name. Shit. He looks familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen him before.

“This is my friend Jim.”

“A pleasure gents. Let’s have a good one today.”

Jim’s niceties are met with muted glances that read a little too indifferent to blame on intimidation.

The quiet starts to feel more awkward than serene. Rain resumes.

Lenny steps up to the deck and flips a tee between us. It falls, bounces, and comes to rest pointing squarely back at him.

He swipes it off the ground and then turns and pegs it between the markers—indented from the right block.

I give him the customary “play well”. “Thanks” he responds.

Lenny is tall and stringy in the way that only seventeen year olds can be. He is oozing with the God- I’m-so good mannerisms made famous by far more accomplished golfers.

The only way I can describe his swing is freedom. No interference, no energy loss. Impact. Though it only occurs for a fraction of a second, the audio registers in my mind as if the head of his driver just swallowed the golf ball.

Lenny finishes his swing and all-in-one-motion picks up his tee. He doesn’t watch more than the first second of the ball flight. The headcover is back on his club before it crests its apex.

“Shot.” I muster—trying to mask my impression.

“Thanks,” he says immediately. Okay, my turn.

I, too, indent from the right to open the left side of the hole. As I begin to make some rehearsal moves, I get the feeling my tee might be too low. I tell myself low is fine. I take my line, stand to the shot—Damn I really did tee this thing low—waggle, turn, and let it go.

As expected, it comes off the bottom half of the face. It’s the kind of strike that gives you the feeling of control at the cost of yardage.

The flight peels from the left side of the fairway into the middle, a good 40 yards behind Master McClure’s. Off we go.

“What’s his caddy’s name again?” I ask Jim.

“Eddie.”

“Really?”

“No clue.”

Come to think of it, Lenny and his looper do resemble the Ouimet/Eddie Lowery duo.

The first hole is a gettable par 5 that invites you deep into the heart of the property, holes go every which way adjacent to the green. With Lenny a half a mile ahead of me, I’m going to have to take a crack at hitting the green in two.

A slight mud ball, but the lie is alright, just below my feet. I tell myself to make a tidy, balanced move at it. Tidy it is, just not as balanced as I wanted. It’s the kind of 15 yard pull where I end up on my toes. My ball bounds into the front left bunker, leaving a touchy shot for the sand save birdie.

“Pretty good for shitty,” Jim declares as I hand him my muddy 3 wood.

Lenny wastes no time holding off an iron that reaches through the wind, touches down on the front of the green, and rolls about 15 feet past the flag. Alright, my move.

Jim walks slightly behind me, which I take as a signal that he isn’t feeling particularly chatty just yet. I look around and try to get into this moment. In one of my favourite places on earth, slight rain, barely a breeze, and one sand save comin’ right up.

After circling the shot, I hunker down into the left trap. The lie is clean thanks to the wet sand. Good thing, ‘cause I'm a bit more short sided than I originally thought, and Lenny is in that range where I have to entertain the possibility of him making an eagle out of the gate.

I dig my feet in to build a stance, hover the club over my spot, and commit. The strike has that pitched-up thud I was hoping for and checks up to about 3 feet.

“Nice clip there,” Jim says in his unhurried fashion, leaning on the bunker rake.

Lenny surveils his eagle putt while I mark my ball and position myself for a casual view of his line. He tugs at his sweater sleeve, then takes a wide open stance, and makes his stroke.

The speed looks good—almost perfect—but in the last 4 inches it wobbles, taking the low lip and stopping behind the hole.

“You little fucker!” Lenny seethes.

I stifle a laugh. Where did that come from? Hiding my expression, I look down to line up my putt. Lenny walks over to his remaining 5 inches.

“This good?”

“Oh yeah totally—sorry.”

Sorry? What am I apologising to him for? He could have just knocked it in without question, but instead he forces a concession.

I have the kind of 3 footer that isn’t straight, but it's barely breaking. Jim throws me my cleaned ball and I find my line.

I decide on pretty much straight but favour the right side. By my green reading technique, perfect speed enters the hole at 5:30. I take my stance and decide I don’t like my line as much from address. I back off, then reset. It’s a straight putt—just line it up and go!

A sciatic impulse. The stroke is over before I even realise it started. I’ve blocked this putt 4 inches outside of my line. It doesn't even touch the hole. The air leaves my lungs. The ball pathetically rolls to a stop 8 inches from the hole. I’m frozen. Lenny and Eddie take off toward the second tee.

I make a point of setting up the come backer and knock it into the centre of the cup. Lenny takes the first hole—or rather, I give it to him. It's the worst kind of loss, the kind that shows your hand. I have a feeling I’ll be putting everything out today.

“Onward,” Jim says and replaces the flag.

On the elevated second tee, I consider just how much the conditions set the tone of a round. Rain should mean perfect scoring conditions, but I can’t remember a wet round where I was truly engaged. I look out over the strait and see lighter skies upwind—perhaps this is temporary.

On paper this is a simple par 3, but it has its quirks. The tee is protected from the typical wind and the contouring around the green forces you to consider bounces with a wedge in your hand. Back flag today, and long is no good. I know what I need to do: centre of the green, 5 yards short of the pin.

Lenny is up first. With the entire course to ourselves, I don’t anticipate many pauses for small talk. Unfortunately, that means the tension he seems to be enjoying isn’t going anywhere.

Jim takes a chance.

“Off for the summer yet?” he asks Eddie.

Eddie, hanging his hands on a towel draped around his neck, responds, “yup,” toward the ground.

“Fun,” Jim says.

Lenny, with his ball on the tee, goes back toward his bag and leans a wedge up against it, then pulls what looks like a 9-iron and restarts his routine.

Similar to his previous iron, his ball seems to carve through the heavy air, stopping in the centre of the green.

My turn. I pull 9-iron as well. I’ll need 145 out of it. Though I can’t feel it here, I know the breeze is slightly into us, out of our 2 o’clock. I make a few practice swings rehearsing a held off finish. I obsess over my alignment, so it takes me a bit to settle into the shot. Eventually, I pull the trigger and make contact on the bottom groove.

“Go! Go!” I beg, as it heads toward the pin on a line over the right bunker.

It carries the bunker but hits the shaved downslope leading to the back section of the green then kicks away from it.

“That's a chip you can hole,” Jim says, as I hand him the club.

I want to believe him, but my hands are far too unsettled to welcome that possibility. I shake them out, and make a few deep breaths. Jim removes the pin then puts my bag down behind the green.

I grab my wedge and begin to inspect the lie. It looks good, sitting up on the short rough. I make a few rehearsals, trying to feel the club's weight. I decide this should be hit low-and-running.

I take notice of Lenny, leaning on his putter. In his own world.

Back of the stance, low-back-low-through, the nerve- proof chip shot. I clean the grass cuttings from the face, address it, and let it go. It’s on the right line but hit high on the face and comes off dead, leaving me with 5 feet uphill for par. Shit.

Now with even less stress, Lenny reads his putt from both ends. After locking into his weird stance, he looks back to the ball, and strokes it. With a clean roll, it starts out toward the bunker and then takes the slope back down to the hole. It too stops short, but a few feet inside of my mark.

Lenny’s ball rolled backward to the right as it fell into inertia. I concede Lenny’s putt, confident I have the line now. I am decisive, committed. I set up and stroke it confidently. It carries a bit too much speed and lips out on the high side. Lurch.

A deep breath. 2 down.

Lenny and Eddie are already on the winding path that takes us to the third hole. Lenny is walking like a boxer with a camera in his face. As if 10&8 is very much in play—I can’t say he’s wrong.

“You hit a good putt,” Jim says plainly, and a sunbeam hits us like a spotlight.

Warmth creeps up the back of my neck. I ditch my rain jacket without breaking stride. Clubs clicking, we cross the road into another realm.

By the third tee, surroundings become apparent. We are on a treasured ribbon of coastline. Grass becomes rock, which yields to tidal waters that reach back and forth throughout the strait. The horizon wears a set of mountains that will stay snowcapped into the midsummer months.

I’ve been here before, right here like this—but in a dream. Trapped under fresh sod, just about to suffocate.
When I struggled out, naked, muddy, alive!
It was when I knew this was my Burningbush.

I stare at the water in a trance. The only thing audible is the ocean, lapping on to the stony beach below us—until it's joined by the keyboard clicks of Lenny’s iPhone.

The third hole is the most challenging. A long par 4 with OB all along the left side. Most players layup to the right bunkers, or play into the fourth fairway for safety. I chose the former and pull 2-iron, yielding the tee to Lenny.

“You’re up. I already hit” he tells me.

“Oh, okay” I say, swiftly removing my head from my ass.

I take aim at the right bunkers, stand to the ball and pull the trigger, all in rhythm. This one is flush, with the charging fade that tells me I’ve cleared my lower body properly. My ball comes to rest just short of the bunkers.

I have no idea where Lenny will be playing his second shot from, but he and Eddie head up the adjacent fourth fairway in a hurry. For the first time today, it seems that Superstar may find himself out of position.

“Why do teenagers struggle to appreciate?” I ask Jim, now devouring a homemade PB&J.

“Only teenagers?” He says through a bite.

I look over to Lenny who is so far right that he’s technically on the left side of the next hole. It's a poor angle, but manageable given the difficulty of this green.

Not even bothering with it, Lenny places an iron just short, setting up the uphill pitch.

“Go right at this. It’ll spin, but it's an easier up-and- down from right of the hole,” Jim advises.

“That right bunker is dead though, no?” “150 bunker. What does your P fly?” “140 max.”
“Perfect, let's hit that.”

“I'll be way short.”

“As long as you're short and right of the flag, that’s perfect.”

“Alright.”

It feels defensive but I know he is right. I can feel the breeze behind me, the sun on my back. I make a deliberate, balanced turn. The shot comes out solid— another slight fade that grabs the front of the green and spins back into the fringe.

“Textbook. Great swing.” Jim offers a fist bump before taking the wedge. I sand the divot.

Lenny has about 15 yards and plenty of slope to deal with. He hits a low checking pitch that grabs just before it can crest the top of the slope.

“Oh, nice hands, Lenny.” He says sarcastically.

His ball makes the slow journey back toward him, coming to rest a few yards from his feet.

“Tend it,” he orders Eddie.
Eddie runs up the slope and holds the flag.

“Other side.”

Eddie switches hands and stands on the other side of the flag. The second attempt Lenny clips perfectly. It charges up the slope, puts the brakes on, and stops two rolls short of the hole.

“Oh!” Eddie recoils.

“That’s good.” I say, conceding his bogey.

Eddie picks up Lenny’s ball, then shines it on his towel.

“You can leave it in for me, please,” I tell Eddie. He clears the green.

From the fringe, I make a few practice strokes. I try to ‘see’ the speed it needs to make it up the slope and then slow down. Once I’ve got the picture and the sensation to match, I address the ball, focus on my starting line and commit to what I have in mind.

The ball rolls neatly along the front part of the green. It carries pace up the slope and rolls out 3 feet past the hole.

Lenny says nothing. My mistake on the first green is already haunting me. As it should, I suppose. With ease,I set up and stroke it. It takes a slight break and then falls into the centre of the cup.

“Solid,” I hear Jim say.

Okay, 1-down. Onward to four.

We climb up to the tee where I’ll have the honour. The four of us stand in silence, staring at the mountains across the strait. The breeze passes through us.

I go with 2-iron to keep it short of the coastline pinching in from the left side. I find the same feeling I hit the previous tee shot with and send one down the middle.

Lenny has his driver out to force the issue. This one resembles the strike he made on the first hole. A high launch and low spinning ball that seems to reach through the wind. Safely up the right side, he’ll have a wedge to this back flag.

In a similar stride we walk down to the fairway a few feet from one another.

“What’s next year look like for you Lenny?” I ask.

“Golf. Same as every year.”

“No school?”

“School’s pointless.”

“I don’t disagree,” Jim adds.

“What makes you say that?” I ask him.

“Theory isn’t worth that much. Just gotta get yourself in play.”

Lenny separates himself from the pack. I don’t know how to respond. I am about to ask Jim to elaborate when we arrive at my ball.

“138,” he states, lowering the laser. “Playing what, 145?”
“If that. Can’t be long here.”

I club up to keep it low and avoid it spinning off the front. I choke down on an 8-iron and rehearse the same kind of held-off finish I played on the second tee.

“Got it?”

“Yup.”

“Giv’er.”

I settle in, check my lines, and pull the trigger. With a deep controlled turn into an abbreviated follow through, the ball comes out perfect, bounces twice then stops. I’ll have a decent look at birdie.

Lenny has a tough wedge shot. He puts a great strike on it, but it jumps over the back before it has a chance to spin. Expressionless, he two-hands his wedge toe-first into the turf and then walks away from it.

Eddie retrieves the wedge, and begins working at the inch of mud caked on the clubface.

“What’s his problem?” I quietly ask Jim as Lenny makes his way around the green.

“His father,” he says plainly.

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah. Played together as juniors way back when. He got really good but never cracked the pro game— was always a royal prick.”

“Huh. How far did he get?”

“Far. But it wasn’t enough. He was our club pro at one point, then disappeared for a while.”

“Where?”

“All over.”

“What brought him back?”

“Family stuff. Took a Gov job. Ministry of Something.”

Lenny is behind the green, a good 6 feet below the putting surface. He hits it double the height I was anticipating. It lands deft. No spin. Just the perfect trajectory rolling out to a foot from the hole.

I concede his par. Then put a good roll on the highest line I imagine. It takes forever to start breaking, but when it does, it pulls the e-brake and turns toward the cup—just missing on the high side.

“Good,” Lenny says from off the green.

I scoop my ball with the back of my putter. Jim replaces the flag.

“So his parents put a lot of pressure on him?”

“Quite the opposite. Don doesn’t think he stands a chance.”

Onward to five, one-down.

Five could be on a postcard. A short par 4 with the beach bordering on the right. It demands equal parts power, control, and touch. Fittingly, it seems to yield equal parts birdies, pars, and bogeys.

Lenny and I don’t hesitate to take driver. The play is to get it up around the green and see what kind of wedge test it deals you. I take the tee and hit a fade off the left tree line. It falls into the middle, leaving me 40 yards short of the green.

“Prime time buddy,” Jim calls out.

Lenny takes a big lash, sending it over the left trees with no shape, leaving himself a wedge from the rough.

We walk along the coastline, enjoying the scent of saltwater. I pace off my yardage, then look over at Lenny to determine who is away.

“I’ll go,” he calls without debate.

Lenny has a delicate shot to this front pin. He’ll have to carry it softly into the back section of the green and let it trickle down toward the flag.

He puts a high pitch onto the back shelf. It runs up into the fringe and begins to roll backward, but it gets stuck way above the hole.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?”

I have to admit, it's a real shit break for him. He’ll have a near impossible two-putt from there.

Jim provides no input here. I just need to chip this up into the middle of the green. I make a few rehearsals, finding the bounce of my wedge and the proper rhythm. I get over the shot, settle into it, and catch it thinner than I intended. It carries past the hole into the slope that separates the front and back section.

Chasing to get a view of it, I watch the slope kill its speed and the ball begins to trickle backward toward the pin. Phew. I’ll have 5 feet for birdie, but more importantly, I’ve taken away the option for Lenny to putt defensively. He will have to aim down the slipstream and hope to hit the hole.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Jim smells blood.

Lenny barely gets his ball through the fringe when it starts to gather speed. So much so, it takes the slope past the hole and heads toward where I just played my approach from.

“Yo! wedge!” he calls, walking after it.

Eddie snaps out of a daze and rushes over to the bag he’s placed halfway to the next tee, leaving Lenny with a moment alone with his frustration. From the green, I watch Lenny wilting amidst the coastal vista.

Eddie heads down the hill, wedge in hand. Lenny seems to rush his pre-shot routine and catches it heavy. The ball doesn’t make it over the front edge of the green.

He begins to laugh. It’s this kind of awkward cackle that only deep discontentment can produce. It invites no comment, so no one comments. Desperate to end- scene, Lenny scoops his ball as it torturously makes its way back toward him.

“Your hole,” he says.

Onward to six. All-square.

Six imposes two blind shots toward a large subtle green. I take a 3-iron with the intention of clearing the hill, and setting up a wedge.

I try to conduct my routine in rhythm, but I’m not quite comfortable with my setup. Spastically, I tell myself, ‘hit the thing!’ and make my worst swing yet. It’s fast with more slide than turn, resulting in a shut clubface I have no time to save. The ball goes hard into the left trees that line the hill. Fuck.

With the door wide open, Lenny takes a driving iron and sends it a little more right than he wanted to. He begs for it to draw but it won’t listen.

“Let’s see what we got over there.”

“I think it's clear of the hill, we would have seen it roll back if it was short,” I justify.

Nothing forces a golfer to focus quite like looking for a ball missing in action. Jim and I scan the trees and the rough underneath them for a tense minute until I hear Jim say “oh, lovely.”

I walk over to him.

“Jail?”

My ball sits underneath the second last tree in this cluster. The good news is, I think I can get it out of here. The bad news is, I’ll only have a quarter of a backswing before the low lying branches interrupt me.

I motion to Lenny, over in the right bunker, to go first. I have to be careful here. It is very easy to whiff when the golf swing is obstructed. I try on a running shot with a long iron, but worry that the rough will swallow it up if it doesn't get high enough. I decide on a shut 8-iron so I can hit down and still have enough loft to get it running down the fairway.

“Where did Lenny end up?” I ask Jim.

“He’s fine. Left of the green I think.”

Crouched underneath the tree, I see the gap my ball will have to travel through and I feel good about my choice. I find my alignment, settle into the shot, and chop it out. The ball comes out hotter than I envisioned, chasing along the fairway, through the crossing, and down the hill toward the green.

“Hell yeah! Nifty play there,” Jim says as I hand him the club.

While it was a great shot, I have a feeling I'll be up next—and with the more difficult pitch.

From a downhill lie, the green 8 feet below me and the pin 20 yards away, this will be delicate. I envision a mid-height shot that releases toward the hole. I rehearse a few of these, letting the bounce of the wedge bruise the turf. I remember to soften my arms while keeping a stable base. I catch it clean but it lands a bit softer than I’d imagined, leaving me with 10 feet left for par.

Lenny plays the high percentage shot, a low runner that checks briefly and then trickles into gimme range.

I oblige, accepting that my putt will have to drop. I read it carefully from every angle. It looks as if it will break less close to the hole, so I choose a more direct line. I track the anticipated path with my eyes. It feels obvious.

Without hesitation, I let it go. It stays left longer than I thought, but it sheds speed quickly and drops in on its very last roll.

“Yes! Way to grind!” Jim cheers from the fringe.

I’m relieved to have escaped that hole with a halve. I try to collect myself before leaving the green. I’ll need some higher quality ball striking to stay in this.

Onward to seven, all square.

The more I play, the more I understand golf as an exercise in fear facing. It requires us to act regardless of consequence.

Iwrotethatdownawhileago. It'spartofbeingfree and eager, a golf maxim I came up with, but mostly fail to adhere to.

A bell tolls.

Eddie has rung the bell on the path to the seventh tee. It's meant to signal to the group behind that the sixth green is now clear, but with no one around today, it feels ceremonial.

Jim places my bag down and we take in the scenery. This hole takes you south toward the point of land, once again framed by the mountains. There is a 40 foot pitfall on the left all the way through the green, and on the right, there is rock and gorse that make it difficult to retrieve a ball, let alone advance it.

The tee shot puts you in a precise conflict. These hazards that flank the fairway are the narrowest at 200 yards out, then get wider afterward. So the long iron layup requires marksmanship, while the driver play demands nerve. I choose the latter.

“Love it. Put a good move on it,” Jim encourages as I remove the headcover.

I tee it slightly lower, which typically promotes a more level, disciplined golf swing. I take aim at the hazard line on the left, settle into the shot, and pull the trigger. I’ve hit it on the button—a soft fade neutralised by the wind off the right. I grab my tee. Your move, Lenny.

Lenny, also with driver, hits a high sweeping draw that the wind shoves into uncertainty.

“That will be close,” Jim says.

As we walk down the fairway, and the lower portion comes into view, we see just one ball in play.

“You FUCKING LOSER!” Lenny bemoans. “Where should I drop?” he asks.

“That stake is fine,” I say, pointing a few yards behind him.

Lenny and Eddie take the drop, and begin to calculate the approach. Jim and I are in position, 50 yards ahead and 20 feet below them. We turn our attention to this tricky approach.

The seventh green is divided into two major sections. The left side is more docile but borders the hazard, whereas the right side is higher but with contouring that can repel even good wedge shots. Today we have a front left pin.

Lenny’s up first, with some kind of short iron that he hits solid.

“Be good!” Eddie tells it.

Whack! His ball strikes the pin, rips off the green, and falls into the ocean.

We wait for the explosion...but it doesn’t come. I look back at Lenny, bent over, hands gripping his knees, silent.

“Fackin’ shame...was a great shot” Jim mumbles.

I get this feeling that Lenny is not playing against me at all. He has barely acknowledged my existence, but somehow the stakes seem so much higher for him. As if the fate of his golf ball is some object of paternal struggle.

Jim and I know what we need to do. I select the simplest shot I can, and place my wedge shot 5 yards behind the flag.

As I walk up to mark my ball, Lenny strides through the green.

“Your hole,” he says.

Onward to eight, 1-up.

The eighth provides reprieve, but does a good job of protecting itself. It’s an 110 yard wedge shot, almost always into the wind. Jim and I decide on a knock down 120 shot to keep it from spinning down the slope that defends the back right flag.

I set up, then feel the wind pick up. “125?” I ask, stepping off it.
“Yeah I like that. Commit.”

I make a deep, controlled turn with soft arms. The ball is on line, just right of the flag and holding its trajectory.

“Might need to sit?”

It lands softly, 4 feet right of the flag and gets a nudge even closer.

“Whoa,” Eddie calls out.

Lenny plays something more exaggerated. A chip shot of the 110 yard variety, and pulls it off perfectly. We watch it carry the bunker, run up toward my ball and then slip past the hole.

“Finally, we’re playing some proper golf here!” Jim calls out.

“Cool shot Lenny,” I admit.

“Thanks.”

I take in the surroundings on a stressless walk to the green. It looks like the sun is here to stay. We approach our results—both of us have 4 feet.

“Good for good?” I ask Lenny, offering to halve the hole with birdies.

Lenny doesn't flinch. He marks his ball and begins to read his putt, ignoring my offer.

I feel like a fool. Alright, let’s putt. I’m away, and taking my time. I’ll need 100% commitment to this downhiller. I pour it in the middle and begin to leave the green. I watch Lenny make his putt from afar.

We’ve found our spark.

Onward to nine, 1-up.

The ninth is panoramic. I take in the expanse of the strait, looking down into the tidal water below. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a seal, smiling up at me from the surface, welcoming heat from the sun. As our eyes meet, it effortlessly slips away. I turn back and take the tee.

“What do we have here?”

“190 total. But it's soft, so playing all of that and then some.”

Another par 3, but this one requires much more club and is protected by a cross breeze congruent with the green’s slope.

I reach for my 5-iron and rehearse a swing where I allow the club to release.

I take aim and hit it flush. The sound of the strike has this depth that I can never purposely cause. I’ve simply allowed the club through the ball.

Channelling the intensity he left the eighth green with, Lenny answers. Putting himself in position short and right of the flag.

We make our way up to the green. Our putts will be mirror images of one another, mine the more terrifying of the two. Lenny has one he can be aggressive with. He can take some of the break out of his by hitting it firmly uphill.

“Who’s away?” I ask.

“You,” Lenny decides.

It's close, but I think he is right. After surveying our putts, I realise there is a very high likelihood that Lenny will make, so I don’t worry as much about the leave should mine miss the hole. I take my posture and make a trusting stroke that begins to wiggle as it works its way down toward the hole. I'm convinced I’ve made it, when suddenly—it deeks left and continues a few feet past.

I mark. Lenny wastes no time with his putt. He steps up and brushes it into the back of the cup. On
his way to the hole he picks up my coin and promptly throws it back to me. I catch it against my chest.

Onto ten, all-square.

Ten runs parallel to nine, so we head straight into the next test. The temperature is rising and with it, the tempo as we walk toward the back tee deck.

A positional tee shot, followed by a partially blind second to a rather docile green. It’s a wide fairway, but it's flanked by gorse, and the constant cross breeze is keeping us uncomfortable.

Lenny takes driver and I can’t believe my eyes. A miss on either side and he’ll be lucky to find it. Jim shoots me a look that says, “okay then.”

He takes a wide stance, aiming down the left side, and makes a massive turn before clearing perfectly. His ball charges along the left side and fades toward the green.
It gets no run, and yet, he’ll have only a 50 yard flip to this back right flag.

I tee my 3-iron a touch higher than normal, looking for a held off finish with a slight up-strike to create a windproof flight. I commit to my line, settle into the shot, and pour the speed on evenly. No violence. I feel the club fall into place and it's untouchable, drawing into the breeze.

We walk up the cut path in silence. The sun has won its struggle against moisture. The grass seems to stand at attention. I can feel rhythm within me, in my swing, in my step, in my breath.

“147 flag,” Jim says, peering through the laser.

“If you take it left of it, it should give you a pretty simple look at birdie,” he adds.

“Yeah I like that, let’s go with 8.”

“Bit much, no?”

“Lenny will make par at worst. I’ve got to take this on. A 9-iron could spin back on me”

I rehearse a soft, choked down 8-iron, keeping it as fluid as possible. I have 145 in mind and try to create that feeling with my body. I address it and make my move.

“Sit, sit, sit, sit,” I plead.

I’ve caught it two grooves thin. It lands where I intended, but the trajectory is too low, and skips over the back fringe.

“Shit.”

Way up ahead, Lenny plays his pitch with a syrupy tempo. It lands 3 yards short of the pin, takes a second hop, then stops on velcro. Eddie holds out a fist that Lenny either misses or ignores.

As we approach the green, Lenny’s ball looks closer and closer to the hole. It’s about 8 inches behind the flag so I knock it back to him. I’ll have to hole this chip to get out of here with a halve.

The lie is ok, but I can’t put much on it as it will start running away from me once it hits the green. I rehearse away from the ball, trying on Lenny’s tempo.

“Jim, can you pull it?”

“Yessir.”

It comes out of the rough as softly as I hoped but still carries too much speed and runs through the break. Jim retrieves it from beyond the hole.

Onward to eleven, 1-down.

The next stretch of holes demand even more from us tee to green. The eleventh is a monster par 4 with OB all down the left side. Today, the wind is straight in, exaggerating whatever shot is offered up to it.

Lenny hits a high draw starting down the right. It begins to take shape when the wind gets a hold of it.

“Get down!” he begs.

It lands in the left rough, likely safe, but he may have some tree issues.

I take aim down the right. As I settle into my shot and notice a shadow moving slowly in front of my ball— I back off.

I trace the shadow up toward Lenny, who is casually leaning on his driver looking down the fairway. I can’t decide if he did it on purpose.

I retake my stance. The shadow cast by the bill of his cap remains still, just in front of my ball. As I take the club away, it shifts. I hang back on the downswing and block it a mile right.

Lenny quickly takes off down the fairway, Eddie starts after him.

“Did you see that?” I ask Jim as I hand him the club.

“See what?”

“Lenny’s shadow all over my fuckin’ ball,” I hand him the club.

Jim absorbs my complaint with an austere glance. He gently pulls the head cover over the driver, then looks me in the eye and says, “no.”

We walk toward my ball in silence.

“198 flag, 190 to carry the front bunker,” Jim prescribes. Across the fairway, Lenny is barely visible among the cedar branches, but he is able to escape down the fairway into short iron distance.

“Alright, good swing here. Let’s take this hole.”

“What do you think it's playing?” I ask.

“Probably add 10-12 yards,” Jim says, squinting.

“I like 210 just right of it, let the wind shove it left.”

I pull 4-iron, and rehearse a full release, careful to ensure I get my weight forward and get this up over the trees. I catch it solid, producing the trajectory I was after. The ball clears the bunker and stops 15 feet short of the flag.

“Bingo,” Jim says.

We make our way along the adjacent fairway towards the 11th green. Through the tree limbs I watch Lenny play his third. The contact sounds good, but I lose sight of it in the air. As I look toward the flag, it just about slam dunks into the hole.

As we approach the green I see Lenny’s ball is barely 2 feet away. I pull the flag, but leave his ball to send the message that I’m onto his shadow antics.

Without a putter, he walks up and marks it. Eddie puts the bag down then walks onto the green to hand Lenny the putter he didn’t think he would be needing. Perfect.

My putt will slow down as it gets to the back portion of the green, where it will begin to break toward the ocean. I make a confident stroke that rolls tight to the green surface. It takes the break as it loses speed, but grabs the edge of the cup and spins out. I tap in what remains and walk off the green, leaving Lenny to think about this stingy 2 footer.

He pours it in.

Onward to twelve, 1 down.

What the wind took away from us on eleven, it gives back on twelve. Which I'll need because this is the longest par 5, playing right into Lenny’s length advantage.

Lenny is up first and hits a high drawing ball that takes forever to reach its apex. The wind keeps it from moving too far left. It comes to rest in the rough, where he’ll have a good angle to approach this tricky green. A quick fist bump to Eddie and Lenny yields the tee, leaning on his bag in contrapposto.

The pressure is now on me to get into position. I aim up the left side and make a disciplined swing. It takes off with a high fade heading toward the left trees.

“Softly! Soft, soft,” I plead.

Splat. I got what I asked for. The ball hits a wet spot on the left side of the fairway like a dart on a board.

We walk off the tee, Lenny 10 yards ahead of me. I look back and see Jim and Eddie in that cool caddy walk. Bag on back, hunched forward, both swinging one arm in perfect sync.

I turn back toward my ball and take two deep breaths as I get closer to it, crossing my fingers that the lie is ok. It's not. Just outside of the crater it made, my ball sports a glob of earth.

“You’re not gonna like this,” I say to Jim as he approaches.

“Fack. Brutal.”

We both know the mud ball takes the green out of play and any full shot out of reason. I’ll need to hit something safe-and-running. Defence.

I set up and hit the punch I intended. It ditches the mud and chases up the right side into the first cut of rough. I’ll have a tough wedge shot to this back right pin.

“Smart,” Jim states.

Though the bad break stings, it stokes my hunger to make birdie anyway. I can barely wait for Lenny to hit his approach. I gather my laser and a few wedges and make my way to the far side of the fairway, alone.

From a distance, I hear Lenny hit a wood out of the rough.

“Down ball! Get down!”

It lands on the green, bounces, and rolls into the slope of the back tier.

“Stay there!” Lenny commands. Though it's hard to tell if it has stopped moving.

“Fucker!”

The ball disobeys, trickling away from the back tier into the middle of the green.

I arrive at my ball and begin to take the measurements for what I'll need to produce in order to stay in this hole. 64 flag, 56 to carry the bunker.

I rehearse a shallow lob wedge, something that will carry, then stop. With a slight uphill lie, I am conscious of my weight and try to maintain my posture.

Jim hangs back as I line this up, then make a motion that has something most golf shots don’t—faith. I hold the finish.

Immediately, I know it is carrying the bunker and the sensation of contact tells my mind that it will spin. I am able to relax and watch it land. I’ve done all I can.

The ball carries the bunker, lands up by the hole, and stops 3 feet behind the flag.

“Oh yeah! What do you need me for?”

I bump Jim’s fist and hand him the laser. I grab my putter to show Lenny I mean business. He will have 25 feet for his eagle. I slowly walk up to the green as he surveils his putt from every angle. I mark my ball. Lenny says nothing—I don’t expect him to. I take a stance at the back of the green and watch.

Eddie, tending the flag, flashes five fingers toward Jim. Jim replies with a thumbs-up and a grin.

Lenny pulls at his sleeve, finally addressing the putt. He takes one last look at the hole, then back toward the ball, and strokes it firmly to get up the slope. It races up the hill, carrying pace onto the back tier.

Eddie eagerly pulls the flag. Lenny’s ball crashes into the back of the cup, pops up into the air, and drops in.

“Yessss!” Lenny erupts, fist in the air

Eddie drops the flag, raises both arms and runs over to him.

“Nice three,” I mention quietly and pick up my mark.

With that, Lenny has stolen the wind from me. I am stuck on what ifs should his putt have raced by. As we stroll away from the green, it becomes quiet. All that is audible are cleats on gravel and the echoing remains of Lenny’s roar.

Onward to thirteen, 2-down.

I hang back before heading to the thirteenth, desperate to recenter before I give up further ground. Many matches are decided on this stretch of holes. They’re a shot maker’s haven where solid golf can squeeze the will out of an opponent. At 2-down with 5 to play, Lenny just about has me in his grip.

A few deep breaths. What if I had just parachuted into this match? I’d be free of the weighty narratives that brought me here. I am playing great. It's time to be free and eager. I unclip, duck under the tree limbs, and catch up with the group.

“1-6-2,” Jim mentions, waiting for me on the tee.

This tee shot requires a good strike, which is exactly what Lenny puts on it. He hits a high mid-iron that drifts right but gets kicked away from the bunker and jumps into the middle of the green, 25 feet short of the back pin.

“Shot,” Jim abides.

I select a full 8-iron, aiming left of the flag. I settle in and make a good turn with a strong finish. Contact is a sensation felt within and not somewhere specific. The ball holds its line left of the hole.

“Easy now,” I warn as the danger of long-and-left looms.

The ball lands short of the green edge and checks into safety. I’ll have a similar length to Lenny, but more of a slider instead of straight uphill.

“Safe.” Jim picks up the bag in stride. I trade my 8- iron for the putter he has extended in front of me.

We walk up the path and take in the elevated view of the green. The sun has disappeared for the moment, the lower light brings a chill to the breeze. Lenny and I begin to study our putts, unsure of who is away.

Mine will ride a ridge then break left-to-right in the last third of the putt. I visualise an entry around 8:30. Lenny is coming uphill, and I imagine his putt is rather straight.

“Me or you?” He asks. “I think it's you.”

I’d rather he go first. The last portion of my putt will show him the fall line and give away the read.

Lenny doesn’t disagree and lines it up. He makes a few deliberate rehearsals while staring at the hole, then steps in and strokes it. It has plenty of pace coming up the hill then begins to shed speed. Approaching the edge of the cup, it stops one roll short. Lenny shakes his head, and taps in.

Finally, I am putting to win a hole again. I circle it once more and feel even better about my line. I remind myself to commit to this—don’t look for the result, just let this go. I settle in and stroke it confidently. It begins to take the break late, but not enough to turn it toward the cup. It misses a few inches on the high side and continues 3 feet by.

Silence from Lenny.

I inhale the fresh air through my nose and mark my ball. The breeze crashes into the elevated green creating an updraft. It's the feeling of an outdoor stage. The focus of this scene is a performative downhill 3- footer. I decide quickly on my line—just inside right— make a compact stroke, and the ball tumbles into the centre of the hole.

I have all I need to win this match, there is no doubt left. I’ve fought through today’s dose, I can trust myself from here on.

To fourteen, 2-down.

As we climb up to the fourteenth tee, I peek at the adjacent eighteenth green. The pin is set on top of what the members refer to as the hog’s back.

Fourteen plays downhill to a huge green that slopes away from the tee such that it plays a sliver of its actual size. Today, the pin is tucked in the back right. For a reasonable look at birdie, I’ll have to take on the bunker with a shot high enough to hold the green.

“1-9-1,” Jim calls out.

I look back at the flag, luffing away from us, signalling this is downwind. I wait for Lenny to play first.

Lenny hits his patented draw starting at the right side of the protecting bunker, and brings it back toward the middle of the green. It lands and begins to trickle away from the pin, setting up an outside chance at birdie.

“Ok. What are you feeling?” Jim asks.

“I like a smooth 6 at the left edge of the bunker. If it goes long I’ll be chipping from below the hole.”

“Perfect. Good swing here.”

I stand behind the shot. The wispy clouds put shadow puppets on fast forward all over the tee deck. Focusing on my line, I move through my routine. I make a good turn and find a solid strike. The ball takes off a little higher than I envisioned.

“Down please—”

It's futile. My ball is at the whim of airflow now. I crouch, praying for it to come down safely. Finally, it lands on the back section of the green just right of the flag, takes one hop forward into the collection area and stops. Phew.

“Easy chip right?” Jim says as I hand him the club

“Easy chip.”

As we make our way off the tee it occurs to me that I feel perfectly comfortable—temperature, body, breath. Lenny has 30 feet or so, breaking about 6 feet from the right. It's not a great chance at birdie, but I’d bet on a make over a 3 putt. I’ll need to get this up and down. Jim surveys the green but doesn’t offer any input. This one is straight forward. A low checker that will turn right at the end.

“Can you tend it?”

“Absolutely,” Jim says, glad I’m thinking aggressively.

I make a few practice strokes and start to see and feel the speed. The ground is soft, so I’ve decided on a shut- down gap wedge off my back foot. I pick out my start line, check it once, then again, and let it go. The ball grabs just before it crests the break and yawns toward the cup, just short of perfect.

Lenny walks up toward the hole, picks up my ball and throws it back to me.

“Thanks.” I say.

One big exhale. Two sure fires there. I allow them to fill me with confidence, without detracting from my focus. I stand beside Jim, leaning on my bag just off the green. He subtly extends a right fist toward me and I bump it. Then he opens a hand underneath the muddy towel, I drop my ball into it. Our attention turns to Lenny, who is still deciding what his putt will do.

I know what it would do to me. This is the dagger.

Should Lenny make, I would be 3 down with 4 to play. I would then have only one path to victory—win each remaining hole—which is unlikely, given the calibre of golf Lenny has been playing on this back nine.

He lets it go on a high line with what looks like the right pace until it rolls through the break and continues on. Lenny is already walking as the ball trickles to 3 feet past the hole. I don’t move.

Telekinetically we consider a concession, but both of us play it off. Lenny stalls by brushing some sand away from the green surface, then lines it up, settles in, and strokes it into the back edge of the cup.

As it disappears, we all spring into cued motion. Lenny retrieves his ball, Jim and I start heading toward the 15th tee, and Eddie replaces the flag.

Over to fifteen, 2-down.

We cross the parking lot on our way to fifteen. A few more vehicles now, but considering the conditions, I’m surprised there aren't more of them. Then I remember it is noon on a Wednesday. I take notice of my car, and like a Pavlovian rat, I go for the phone in the top pocket of my bag.

“It’s 7pm and you’re in bed. Every second you aren’t working, you're reading about the universe. We haven’t tried in two weeks...why are you avoiding me?”

No! We have four holes left—if I can help myself— and Lenny has me on the brink. I open the bottom pocket instead, grab my nicotine gum and chew a few times before tucking it into my cheek.

Lenny waits to take the tee. I can see he has a ton of club for this simple shot. The fifteenth is a hard dog-leg left, with a corner you can’t really cut because of the skyscraping Lombardy poplars that line the left side.

They’ll grab anything in their vicinity and dispose of it at their base, leaving you no shot to the green. Lenny has the length to get past them, but will have to draw it 25 yards for it to be worthwhile.

I play fifteen differently. A disciplined long iron to set up the mid-iron approach. It's conservative, but I find there just isn’t enough reward to warrant the more aggressive play. That, and at 2-down, I have virtually no appetite for risk. A shot in the poplars could end my day in the next few minutes.

I’ll need to select high probability shots, match them with quality golf swings—and then I’ll need to get lucky.

Lenny chooses to straddle the left tee marker with his stance. It always surprises me when a player does this. There is no way that ‘Ok, now you better not fuck it up,’ doesn’t cross their mind. Perhaps Lenny doesn’t think like that, but I have a feeling he does.

Nevertheless, he hits this bullet 3-wood, starting it just right of centre then begins sweeping left. For a moment it looks perfect, until it seems to be doing more sweeping than carrying-corner. We don’t hear any branches, and Lenny has long stopped watching what he thinks was perfection. Though I’m not convinced.

I pull 3-iron and tell myself what I always tell myself here: down the middle and don't get greedy. I make a solid swing that produces a fade peeling off the target line. I’m fairway bound and have set up the angle. It just might take another 3-iron to reach the green from there.

“Game on,” Jim says as I hand him the club.

Jim takes off ahead of me down the cut path that joins the tee decks. Keeping a no nonsense pace, his gaze is locked up ahead to where my ball sits in the open fairway.

This game really is less individual than it seems. At first I was surprised that Jim agreed to do this, but now it's obvious why. He is enthralled by this game. He sees a path to win this match, it's written by his body language. I hurry up and by the time I catch his stride, I've embodied his resolve.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see that Lenny is not in the fairway up ahead, he’s in the left trees. He and Eddie are crouching around the lie, which tells me its total shit. Mentally, I assign him a par and carry on with the task at hand.

“1-9-8,” Jim states, looking through the laser.

Short of this flag is better than long. If I can put myself into a good position here, Lenny will need to try and force the issue from the trees.

Walled off by the 80-foot poplars, I can’t feel any wind. I try to map out the angle in relation to the fourteenth tee.

“Wind out of 1 o’clock?” I ask Jim.

“Yeah that’s what I’m thinking.”

I decide on a flighted-down 5-iron that should carry something like 195, and rehearse a few swings. I know I’m comfortable because I am able to go slowly and have a good feel for the clubhead. I obsess over the line, drawing it back toward the ball, take my stance, and settle into the shot.

The strike is okay, perhaps a groove or two thin. The flight stays low and on the intended line. It touches down on the fairway just short of the green. I’ll have a mid-range look at birdie.

From afar, I can tell Lenny is in a difficult situation. He and Eddie have been discussing potential options for the duration of my shot and still, Lenny seems torn. He keeps addressing the ball, then rehearsing a partial swing without following through. I assume he’s close behind a tree with just enough of an angle to have his imagination running wild. Unfortunately for him, it will be hard to curve the ball from the rough and with a wedge no less. That being said, this is match play and he’s got some buffer he can spend.

Finally, Lenny sets up to the shot. He makes a flat swing that ends abruptly with his club against the tree. As suspected, the ball comes out of the rough, but with no hook. It settles behind the right greenside bunker.

For once, Lenny is unfazed. I reach my ball—just barely on the green. I mark and throw my ball to Jim, who is already crouched behind me reading this putt. I take a look at it myself, pretty straight.

“What do you think?”
“Will fall to the right, but barely” he says. “Yeah, I like that.”

Lenny is again rehearsing some big lashes at the deep rough. He’ll have to take it way up in the air to carry the bunker. And he does, but it comes out too soft. The ball traces its apex well short of what will get him over the bunker. It lands in the top section and rolls back into the middle of the trap.

“Fuck you.” He slams the club into the ground.

Jim and I don’t move. Lenny is still away, and we don’t dare to disrupt the flow of his unravelling.

Lenny clambers into the bunker and hits a decent shot, leaving himself 7 feet for bogey.

I visualise what my ball will do when gravity and the ground are playing with it. I settle in, but make a meek stroke that leaves it 2 feet short. I don’t hear Lenny concede, and I won’t dare inquire. This hole is mine for the taking. I set up and knock it square into the back edge of the cup.

I walk through the green without looking back— feeling clearer, lighter, sharper. Matchplay is a momentum game, and while I’m still trailing, I’m playing better.

Onward to sixteen, 1 down.

It's a long walk to the sixteenth tee, and it’s one I welcome every time. A moment of pause as you come down the stretch. With the honour, it will be up to me to get into position first.

Into position. I used to believe I could force things. That work, grit, and repetition led to perfection—but all I did was build habit. Work ‘hard’ is just what people say. What they mean is, get into position so you don’t have to rely on luck. The more I’ve understood this, the healthier my relationship with outcome.

Maybe that’s what Jim meant about getting yourself ‘in play’—he sounded so assured. I can’t quite tell if he is fraught or feeling grateful. Those emotions read eerily similar. He seems like himself, but looks shittier than he did a few months ago. Maybe it's just the silver stubble and the Saturday-morning-short haircut. Or maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Maybe that’s it. Eager. Free.

On the tee and well ahead, I watch them make the walk toward me. Lenny twirls his driver around with his wrist.

Eddie and Jim are behind, walking in stride. As they reach the tee, I haven’t exactly decided what shot I’m going with here.

“Downwind, but I don't want to bring the left trees into play,” I share with Jim.

“Yeah, and it's way back there today, eh? Gotta stay short, give yourself some options on the approach.”

He’s right. If I hit driver, I can get a wedge in my hand, but a drive up the left short sides me to this pin. Best to long-iron my way up the middle, then mid-iron my way to the centre of the green.

I take 2-iron, aiming at the last bunker on the right, knowing I'll never get it there. I hit it the way I wanted to, but it starts out to the right and the wind’s not touching it.

“Sit. Sit. Sit.”

Sand. Second trap on the right. Not a huge miss, maybe 8 yards off line, but damn does that give Lenny some options.

Lenny boldly stays with driver, looking for something that will carry all the bunkers on the right and leave a little wedge to this back pin. He makes a solid move. The ball lands in line with the last bunker. No one is sure if it's in or out.

Like cavalry, we pace up the fairway, clubs clicking, both of us anxious for the fate of our tee shots. Then a ball way past the third bunker catches my eye. Lenny is in prime position, in the fairway with the perfect angle. I can hardly look as I approach the second bunker. My ball has come to a stop in the flat section, and is sitting perfectly.

“Hell yeah, it’s on a tee for you.”

“Almost too good.”

There is no such thing as too good for this shot. Given that Lenny has a birdie in his crosshairs, I need to hit the right shot at the right time. That time happens to be right now.

The back left section of the green is separated by a huge slope that makes it tricky to access with a wedge without running the risk of going long.

“Ok, 140 flag and 136 to the ridge.” “What carries the bunker?”

“131 in line with it.”

The smart shot is something short and left of the pin. It provides the best probability for a makeable birdie putt. I prescribe myself a solid pitching wedge left of the flag.

“Whatcha got?” Jim asks. “P.”

“Lovely.”

Hunkering down, I dig my feet in and get my legs engaged. The damp sand gives me confidence that I otherwise wouldn’t have from here. I check my line and make my move.

I catch it solid—dead solid. It's barely left of the flag and hanging up in the air.

“Whoa now,” Jim beckons.

I almost say the same, but there is nothing to add— it's perfect. It touches down behind the pin and pulls back within a yard or so, leaving me a short putt for birdie.

“Golf shot!” Jim pats me on the back as we trade spots, and begins to rake the bunker.

Up ahead Lenny flashes a thumb in acknowledgement. I can’t believe my eyes. Perhaps it was just a bizarre version of his sleeve lift. I must have misread this Lennyism. Must have. I clean up my wedge and slide it into my bag. I take a long drink of water and watch Lenny.

He settles into the shot and makes his big, slow, turn. The ball takes off with a charging trajectory, looking awfully good from my angle. He relaxes his finish, spinning the club on the way down.

“Be good!” Eddie calls out.

The ball lands short of the pin but past the ridge. It jumps forward and then grabs hard and spins backward.

“Stay, stay, stay!” It does—but barely.

Lenny flicks his wedge onto the bag, grabs his putter, and then quickly takes off for the green, hurrying to get a mark on it before the slope pulls it any further from the hole.

As we approach the green, my shot keeps looking better and better. I put a mark down behind it. I’ll have 3 feet, while Lenny has more like 20. His stance straddles the ridge, making for an awkward set up. He backs away.

My mind goes from Lenny’s putt to mine, which I begin to obsess over. The green doesn’t look great in this shady section. Logic tells me it may move a bit right, but I’m having trouble trusting it.

Lenny has steadied himself and rolls a pearl from the awkward stance. As it starts to lose speed, it deeks left and then carries on for another 2 1⁄2 feet. Lenny smashes his open palm into his putter face and stands in disbelief holding both ends of the club.

I throw his ball back to him. This is my putt to make. My hole to win.

“Jim, can you sanity check me here?”

Jim saunters over with the flag in his hands and crouches behind this little putt.

“Yup,” he says after taking it in for a second. “Yup what?”

“That’s a straight fucking putt.”

“Alright, alright.” I begin to line it up.

I take my stance and hit it with pace into the back edge. The soothing rattle of urethane on aluminium is my audible queue. Mission accomplished.

“Good putt,” Jim states facetiously and replaces the flag.

I turn back and see Lenny is well on his way to the next tee, Eddie rushing to catch up to him. This match will go the distance. Game on.

Onto seventeen, all-square.

The seventeenth tee is right beside the clubhouse. The sun radiates off its windows, creating pocket of warmth to hit a driver out of.

I resist the temptation to risk a fade over the left trees and instead opt for a safer shot up the right. I catch it solid and watch it draw gently into the middle.

“Check.” Jim says. I nod and hand him my driver.

Lenny sees the hole differently. He sets up for a big drive into short-iron range. Then makes a move similar to his first of the day, creating width with his hands and hips and then timing them perfectly.

The audio reverberates off the clubhouse walls. We watch the ball slip through the air, carrying the trees on the right. It doesn’t draw enough to find the fairway, and settles into the rough on the right side.

Our duel has 3 moves left, with 3 resulting positions. This approach, the next tee ball, and the approach on 18. Jim and I reach my ball sitting pretty in the middle of the fairway.

“187.”

This pin is dead centre, marking the narrowest portion of the green. I’d be smart to put it behind the flag and give myself a chance for an eagle. I can feel the wind again, no longer protected by the large trees that thrive away from the coastline.

“Playing 205?” I ask for assurance.

“I’d say. You can hit this 200 and be looking real good.”

“Yeah that's what I’m thinking.”

I grab my 5-iron and decide on a stock shot that feels right. I make some slow rehearsals. When I address it, my body creates its swing shape without effort. The strike is solid. I hold my finish, wide eyed, eager for the result. It falls past the pin and releases into the back right portion of the green.

“Check.” Jim punctuates.

I sand the divot, swap my 5-iron for my putter, and stand with Jim as Lenny stalks his approach.

On a different line, but at least 30 yards closer than I was, Lenny makes a mighty lash out of the rough. The ball comes out a mile in the air.

Lenny seems to like the line, and from our angle it looks good. His ball lands past the flag and rolls out onto the fringe 20 feet behind the hole. Neither one of us is blinking here.

I’ll be first to play from the back right of the green. It’s a long putt that will break about 4-5 feet—one that can run away if I’m not careful. Lenny is in a similar situation, with a few feet of fringe to judge.

Jim and I map out where the ball will leave its start line and begin breaking toward the hole. I circle it carefully a few times, trying to picture the speed it will be carrying as it leaves its traverse and heads downhill.

It’s a feel putt if I’ve ever faced one. I choose not to line up the ball. Instead, I find an old ball mark I want to roll this over, and the feeling I want to let it go with.

It hangs on to the traverse longer than I was anticipating, then begins to take the break toward the hole, just not quite enough. It carries on 2 feet past.

“Good four,” Lenny says.

I drop my mark back into my pocket. I can tell that Lenny likes his chances at eagle here. I can see it in his eyes. Hereleasestheputtfreely. Ithopsonthefringe, spills onto the green, and heads straight for the cup. Lenny lifts his putter into the air—the ball grabs the left edge of the cup and lips out.

Lenny can’t believe it didn’t go in. I think he’s lucky it caught the hole—as evidenced by the 3 1/2 feet left over.

Then something possesses me. A synapse of reciprocity, or maybe, deep down, I don’t want the match to end.

“That’s good.” I feel everyone shoot me a look. Onward to eighteen, all square.

I stand on the tee. There is a buzz as other groups make their way through the neighbouring holes. The sun is still playing with the spotty cloud cover. Jim catches up to me, and for a moment I think he’s going to ask me what the fuck I was thinking back there.

“2-iron all day here?” he asks. I should have known better.

“Yup.”

I peg it on the right side of the tee markers, find my alignment, then settle in. I make a pass that finds the ball with the middle of the clubface. It reaches deep into the fairway, and takes a soft bounce to the left. Position A.

“Check” Jim sticks to the script.

Lenny chooses 3-wood to avoid the bunker that protects the green. He puts a tidy swing on it, and gives us another continuous finish-to-tee-grab. The ball lands just past mine and releases. Position A-1.

Heading up the 18th fairway, all that is audible is the breeze on our ears. In stride, Lenny sniffles then hawks. Eddie wrestles with a shoulder strap while his feet work to keep up.

We approach my ball and I inspect the lie. It's not perfect, but I won’t need to be too careful with it. Jim puts the bag down.

“Let’s get a better look,” he says and continues up toward the green. I follow him, although I know exactly where I need to put it.

“Hog’s back,” Jim says once he sees where the pin is. “Let’s play short of it?” he asks.
“I say we play the number.”
“Yeah fair, and you have a wedge, so it’ll grab.”

With a pitching wedge, I rehearse a short swing with my hands halfway down the grip. As I stand to it, I feel the ball is more above my feet than I anticipated. This may draw more than I thought. I step off.

“Good?” Jim asks.

“Yeah good.”

I adjust my line, readdress it, and pull the trigger. It comes out solid.

“Whoa, whoa,” I caution.
I chase it up the fairway to bring the green into view

but don’t see my ball. Shit.

“You’re fine long, just fine.”

Halfway up the hill, I hold still while Lenny stalks his approach. A bright red jacket catches my eye. Our first spectator, leaning against the railing on the clubhouse patio.

It sounds like Eddie offers a suggestion, which Lenny either doesn’t hear or just doesn’t acknowledge. I get the sense that this may be something of a defining moment for him, an opportunity for his ego to answer ‘what are you made of?’.

Lenny clocks a wedge. The flight is a version of what he hit at the flag on 16. The wind helps it along, but it stops short and spins back. He’ll have about 40 feet uphill.

“FUCK!”

I walk through the green when my ball comes into view. I’ll be chipping from the collar.

It's a tender little shot. I want this to land once on the fringe, then check into the slope. I rehearse for the feeling and find it quickly. I address the ball, check my spot, and let it go. It reaches up the hill but doesn’t break until it crests the hog’s back. At that point there is no speed left in it.

Phew. I slide my coin behind it. I’ll have 3 feet from above the hole for par.

“Out ok?” Jim asks Lenny, his hand hovering beside the pin.

“Yeah.” he says so quickly it may as well have been duh.

“What do you see here?” I ask Jim.

“Let him go first,” he says, leaning on the flagstick.

Lenny wipes the putter face, addresses it, and lets the putt go. It produces a sharp roll and carries what seems like enough speed into the hill, crests on the high side of the hole, and starts to break behind the cup.

“Stop. Stop!” eventually it does, but not until it has crept 6 feet past.

Lenny is putting every bit of his focus into this next putt, fixing imperfections that may or may not exist. He takes a few practice strokes, addresses it, then releases it. It’s too firm.

“How does that not BREAK?”

Lenny looks as if he’s been holding his breath for the last 5 minutes. His ball comes to rest just outside my mark when I hear it again. As he notices that he is still away, another few dreadful bars of sarcastic laughter escape him.

I quickly move my mark one putter head over to get out of his way, then slowly step back to let him finish.

Lenny makes a delicate stroke. His ball avoids the hole.

Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.

We wait for a cue—any cue!

Lenny comes-to, and picks up my mark. Conceding my putt, and with it, the match.

He faces me and makes eye-contact so direct it stuns me. He swallows, the blood has drained from his face.

“Great playing” he says through a voice crack.

He extends his clammy right hand, which I gladly meet square on.

“Thank you, Lenny,” is all I manage to say.

Eddie puts the flag in. We all exchange awkward thank yous.

I pull my bag over my shoulder, turn back, and watch Jim make good on his bet, handing Eddie a fiver and messing up his bowl cut.

“Hold up—” Jim calls to Lenny, already striding toward the driving range. He stops and turns to Jim.

“You’re a real talent Lenny. See how far you can take this game.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking Jim’s hand.
As Jim heads up the path, I intercept him. “Thanks a million for today.”

“Of course. Exactly what I needed. Awesome golf, just awesome golf champ.”

“I’ll see you around.”

“You bet.”

Jim takes off, I head for the change room. I drop my bag onto the stand, gather my rain gear, and pocket my phone.

Epilogue

“I am here when you want to be helped. Just know I’ll neverchangemymind. I’mreadyforthis.”

As I climb up the clubhouse steps, I notice the bright red jacket from the patio at the other end of the narrow hallway. I walk toward him cautiously. The floorboards creak awkwardly under my feet.

He inspects the club memorabilia that decorate the walls outside of the men’s change room. I keep my pace. He straightens out one of the plaques.

“Did he fold on you?” he asks without facing me—just when I thought I’d avoided conversation. I halt at the threshold of the doorway, hooked by his question.

“Not really, it was an exciting match.” “But for it to end with a four-putt,” “Anything is possible with that pin.”

He continues along the hall as if it’s memory lane. Hands folded behind his back, twirling a marker in his fingertips.

I look over at the plaque he adjusted: Men’s Club Champion. I scan through the decades. Each era seems to have be dominated by certain players. When I get to the 1990s, I see the same name every year: Donald McClure.

I make my way through the locker rows until I reach 290, then carefully spin through my combination. The slightly bent steel door falls open. I sit back on the bench and finish the remainder of my water bottle in a few long pulls.

Bracing myself, I open my phone and scroll through the cacophony of issues and resolutions, questions and answers. Much of it seems urgent, but all that matters is the notification that is missing. The one that breaks our silence.

At the end of the locker row, I see the AV Macan Men’s Matchplay draw. I walk over to add our result. As I get closer, I realise it is already there.

Unlike the others, which are carelessly scrawled, our result is written in perfect scoreboard calligraphy—the work of a professional. My name is already slated for the semifinal.

I know who the man in the red jacket is.

Though I can’t figure out if this is his victory. What parent could root against their child? It’s senseless. Unless he is trying to protect Lenny.

I take an unusual route through the locker maze until I am met by a staircase I don’t recognize. It brings me to the underbelly of the clubhouse. Vents hum, joined by the hiss of water pressure. I wonder if I’m supposed to be here. I turn left and see what I think is an exit at the end of a dim hallway. I head straight for it. On three sides, the door is framed by a crack of exterior light. In full stride, I hit the push door, spilling out onto the drive at the backside of the building.

Fresh air surrounds me. Heart racing, I walk through the parking lot. Half-full now. I lay my clubs in the trunk, then release my feet from these wet leather shoes and slide them into sandals. I settle into the driver’s seat and turn the engine over.

I open the windows, cool air rushes in. I hesitate for a moment then dial Grace. The bluetooth connects as I idle through the lot. No rings are audible, so I turn up the volume.

“Hi, you’ve reached Grace. If you feel like it, leave a message”

I signal right. The clicks are joined by a beeeeep.

“Oh. Hi... I guess I’m leaving a message”

Click click. Click click. Click click.

“I’m uhm, I’m on my way home now,”

Click click. Click click.

“And uh...,”

Click click. Click click. Click click.

“I’m sorry...”

Click click.

“I’m ready for this, too.”

Click click.

A flush creeps up my chest—I shrug my sweater off revealing the earned scent of fresh air and sweat, then make my right turn.

I hang up from the steering wheel and the call yields to the radio.

Into the distance, a ribbon of black. Stretched to the point of no turning back.

I max out the volume.