Hoax in One

| 11 |

Maybe a golf course could compete for my second happy place.

The Florida sunshine reflecting off the grass, the smell of petrichor in the air, the lines raked into the sand pits, and the ponds where an alligator or two were probably lurking all made me feel weirdly at home.

Maybe because my backyard growing up had been a golf course. Right behind the black steel fence that lined our backyard, my dad would play golf, and I'd tag along on his golf cart. Sometimes my mom and I would sit in rocking chairs on our back porch and wave to him when he passed. "There are my two happy women," he'd always say.

As much as I wanted to only follow Tate as he played, I found a spot to park myself that had good lighting and a nice background of yellow flowers behind the tee.

It was important to capture all of the golfers, especially on the first day to make sure I didn't miss photographing anyone who could possibly be in a position to win the next day. I'd wait until then to follow Tate (who would most likely be in the lead).

I studied my shot, making sure I'd have the entire golf club in the frame. Golf looked good from the waist up too, but I preferred the entire body and club in my photos. I adjusted my shutter speed to 1/1000 second to start.

Golf was a different sport to capture. While it did move slowly, the average golfer swung their club around ninety miles per hour, and a professional swung closer to one hundred and ten. There were quite a few guys on our team who would likely try to go pro and swung like one.

And golf had different rules; one of which was to be quiet. If I made a noise in someone's backswing, I'd get yelled at—including from the sound of a shutter, which can be strangely loud when everything else is silent. Golfers were notorious for their concentration, so if I caused them to shank a ball, my head would get taken off. And it's embarrassing being that person.

I swung my camera out to the right, searching for Tate through my viewfinder. He came into the frame, standing in a group of five guys, Seth included. All were in their purple polos and khaki pants with a Southern Florida hat on. Except Tate, who had the bill of his stuffed into his back pocket. Why did that make my stomach knot and then inflate?

Tate caught me and my lens focused on him. Quit stalking me, he mouthed slowly.

At least the camera hid my goofy smile. I shook it back and forth like I was telling him no, and he smirked.

Seth followed Tate's eye line. When he found me at the end of it, his mouth scrunched up in irritation.

I took three pictures as an inside joke with myself saying, Screw you, Seth.

I was a delight again thanks to Tate, and I wasn't doing anything to annoy Seth besides existing.

I snapped candids of all the men as they talked, as they shook hands with students from opposing teams—there were old friends from their days playing junior golf and new friends they were making connections with.

Tate was watching me. It was subtle, quick, stolen glances, but our eyes were magnets, sucked right back together as soon as possible.

I'd taken more pictures of him than anyone else. Only because I couldn't stop admiring his tall frame an inch above everyone else's and the way he glided as he walked. His lean muscles were working underneath that polo that was tight in all the right places as he fiddled with something in his pocket or clapped someone on the back. And now I knew what was under there—all those solid dents and rigid hills that had gotten a little more solid and a little more rigid.

Everyone—players and coaches—was trying to get their turn to talk to Tate, reminding me of when I'd go with my dad to our golf club. I never understood why people always wanted to take a picture with him until I was much older. It was just something I'd learned to expect.