By D.C. Fasciglione 

GolfWRX Contributor

“I want to be the best there is.”

It was a simple statement, not boasting, softly yet firmly spoken.  The kid leaned comfortably, one arm resting upon the golf bag, legs casually crossed.  The old man’s eyes narrowed and he nodded.  He could tell the kid had game.  From the moment stepping up to the first tee box the old man sensed confidence.  That was a player’s bag.  The university name was written all over it, along with the name T.R. Parrow in flowing red script against a white, simulated leather that matched the kid’s belt.

“You have honors, sir.”

“Just great. Probably the last time I’ll have ‘em.” The old man pulled his cart up and reached for his gamer.  It was a relic from the last millennium, a Titleist 975D with a stiff graphite shaft.  He teed it low, opened the face a touch, and let it fly.

“Sweet 3-wood!” the kid exclaimed.

“That’s a driver.”  That’s how it’s done, he thought.  Let the kid hit it a mile with some adjustable watermelon on a stick.  Damnable thing’s so bright I need sunglasses to keep the glare outa my eyes.  Besides, we know where that’ll end up.  Woods.  Good thing Dorothy packed the Cutter’s.

While the old man was quietly hunting for his bug spray the kid stepped up to the tee.  There was an easy grace one couldn’t help but notice.  Placing the tee in the ground didn’t cause a loss of breath or three shades of red in the face.  The alignment and posture were perfect, and the old man noticed.

Thwaaack!!! Dang it all to H and back again he thought; that was fast.  He missed the kid’s swing on account of finding an old, crusty, and half eaten tunafish sandwich below his sharpies and two or three tattered gloves.

“We’ll find it.”

“I hope so, sir.  It’s in the middle of the fairway.”

“Everybody gets lucky once in a while.”  The old man winked.

His irons gleamed in the sun, with the exception of the worn, nickle sized dull spots on the lower center of the club faces.  The grinds were custom; seventeen years of plowing ball and turf made them so.  The green was up ahead, inviting yet deceptively dangerous.  The old man sighed.

“I guess I’ll hit first.”  The kid was up ahead, too, about 50 yards up ahead.  Dead center.  Sitting high and pretty.

“Tempo, tempo,” the old man repeated under his breath.  Little bit cool today, despite the sun, he thought.  Hurting wind from the east; bursitis in the shoulders, also hurting.  He reached for his 7-iron knowing that would put him on the first part of the green.  “Don’t want to short-side myself.”

The club thumped against the turf. The ball rose steadily with a subtle fade intended to counter the wind.  He couldn’t quite make out where it landed, but if he had ciphered correctly he thought it would be tight.  He could feel it in his hands at the moment of impact.

The kid, who was waiting patiently, whistled.  “Okay.  Well played. Very well played.”  The pair approached the lie, the kid with wedge in hand.  Standing directly behind the ball the young athlete eyed the line.  Once again, the old man thought, perfect alignment.

With a very compact, sawed-off swing the kid sent the ball into the air.  It travelled like a missile, landing 6 feet to the left of the pin.  Unfortunately, the ball spun back and further to the left, eventually coming to rest in the bunker.

“Bad mistake,” the kid mumbled.  The old man realized the shot was exceptional, but a bit unlucky.  Had the wind not kicked up the shot might have holed; it was that good.

“Unlucky is all,” the old man grunted.

The old man felt a little better.  Other than the fact that the left wheel of his hand cart was incessantly squeaking, he felt less and less annoyed.  His ball was within 15 feet of the pin, leaving him a slight uphill put for birdie.  He felt strong.  He felt smart.  He felt young.

The kid was already in the bunker, sand wedge in hand.  No shine on that club, the old man thought.  Stance slightly wider than normal, knees flexed, club face wide open, the kid hesitated.

“Could you pull the flag, please?”

“Sure, kid.”  The old man reached for the pin thinking, “Yeah right.”

Thump.

Click.

“Are you kidding me?”  The old man was stunned.

“Everybody gets lucky once in a while.  Maybe today’s my day,” the kid laughed as she tapped the sand from her shoes.

Shaking his head from side to side, the old man thought she had a game that could only be matched by her smile.