Until November

Chapter 31

Ben 

Golf is a love-hate relationship with my soul. Strict movements. Wins determined by inches. I play the first round starting at hole #3 with my group of four, my jaw perpetually tight and my every thought obsessing over my strokes. My form is flawless, it's always perfect. I'm in the tee box area with competitive gazes trained on my back. The driver is positioned steadily in my hands. Elbows slightly bent. The rough is in my peripheral. Breathe held in so tight I don't feel it leave my mouth. 

Slam. Club to ball. The stroke is good. The ball launches in a high arc and drops to the greens just shy of the sand bunker. Positioning is good, but could be better. My caddy is at my side and we wait for the next competitor to take his swing. The foursome in our group switching off, our jaws hard and our glances aggressive. The putting green is where I shine. Known as a short-distance shooter, my skills excel in all shots under one hundred feet. A curse leaves my mouth quiet enough for only my caddy to hear. The hope is for a birdie. With my putter in hand, my hips spread apart just enough. A slow practice swing and the real one. The ball is tapped and rolls with an aggravating stop two inches in front of the hole. My ball marker is placed so my competitor's shot is obstructed by my ball and I wait on the sidelines. 

And wait. 

Waiting more. 

"You're up." The rule's official nods at me. 

The last shot should have been mine. The last tap of the ball is like I'm pampering the damn thing. "Yes." It's good. It's in. My closed fist swings a high, wide arch. 

The first round of the tournament is a grueling, multi-hour event. The leaderboards change. Fans snap photos. Their voices raise in a crescendo of, "Oooh's," and "That a baby!" Each approach I make, I think of Jocelyn. I think of Noelle. They are constantly in my mind. My hands slide down the club and the two of them come to mind. Hole #17 means I am close to finishing the round. On this swing, I take my time, my approach is awesome and I whack the ball a good three hundred yards with some serious speed. The image of Noelle in my arms takes my breath away. Despite my precise swing and the hundreds of hours I put into training, my game feels off. 

Years before, when I knew Jack would no longer show up to my games, I stopped paying attention to the crowd. Jocelyn cut out earlier than I expected. Her brief presence gave me a reason to look at the crowd and I keep looking, like maybe I wasn't sure. 

The last three holes I was able to shoot under par. The last of the competitors take their turn and I make my way to the players' tent to exchange score cards. A warm breeze hits my back. After scores there is a press conference. 

My caddy and I walk towards the tent. The applause of the fans is all around us. He walks next to me, his eyes hiding behind sunglasses. It feels good to have my team in town. I have work to do, but I intend to come out swinging at the end of the next round.

Several things happen immediately following a tournament game. The scores are checked and rechecked. Handshakes with other competitors. Caddies lug away the golf bags. Players and fans trickle towards the tent as rounds end. The post-game traditions take time. Especially with millions of dollars at stake. 

Marty waits for the news to be official. 

"You made the cut," he says, greeting me with a slap on the back and shaking my hand. "Not bad. Some of the players are meeting at the hotel for drinks. I'll see you there." 

Anxiousness is in every breath. Or is it restlessness? The last couple of days have worn me down. Another player passes us, slowing in his golf cart to say the same. "Drinks at the Speakeasy bar at the hotel at 8:00."