14 Clubs and a Dream
14 Clubs and a Dream
by David Horne
"Target, grip, stance, swing," I said under my breath as I took a mighty rip at the dimpled ball teed up off my left foot. That is where you position it for a driver, you know. I learned this from Mr. Welden’s junior clinic a few weeks ago and here I am playing, in my first golf tournament. Move over G.I. Joe and Luke Skywalker, those toys are for kids. I'm eight now. I must think about my future. And my future is traveling the world with fourteen clubs and a dream.
Yesterday, I wasn't sure if I'd ever play again.
We showed up at the golf course early, needing to prepare for our big tournament tomorrow. The New City Country Club, Jr. Club Championship is a big event for junior golfers in our small town. Held every June, its past champions included some of the regions finest golfers. Jack Kennedy, Ross Pittman, and Mark Martin, to name a few, later became collegiate All American's and professionals. This tournament is heralded by many as the venue the next heir to New City golf royalty is crowned. Tomorrow, there would be a new prince.
Today was the practice round. All the junior golfers in the county showed up to compete. Kids brought their "A" games since big trophies and bragging rights were on the line, and none stood larger in our minds than this one. Our group is comprised of Justin, Will, Kelly, Stan, and myself. I’m Fin. We play together almost every day. If we start early in the morning before the “Newbs" and "Hot Dog" groups, we can easily get in thirty-six holes before the shadows stretch and our parents pick us up. We love golf so much; we talk about sneaking out at night to play with glow-in-the-dark balls. None of us have ever had the courage to do it, but we talk about it a lot.
Justin leads our group. He calls me “Marbles,” but that’s a story for another time. He’s the coolest guy we know and one of my best friends. For his birthday this year his parents gave him real golf shoes. They even have metal spikes like the pros wear. The rest of us still wear canvas tennis shoes that absorb the morning dew like a sponge. I'm still wearing my red Nike AirMax with orange shoelaces. I got the shoelaces in Florida during our last family reunion.
The best golfer in our group and tallest one of us is Will. He is so tall in fact——he can touch the bottom of the pool in the five-foot end without his head going under water. He drives the ball farther than any of us. He even hits it past the creek on the first hole. I can't imagine what that feels like. I'm not sure what height has to do with golf ability, but we all want to be tall like Will.
Kelly is good at everything and isn't afraid to tell you. She was on the all-star teams in soccer, baseball, basketball, golf and bowling. She said she would have swept the MVPs of each too, but she and the coach didn't get along. She is the most vocal and knows how to push your buttons and get inside your mind. I think she watches old Muhammad Ali tapes. Once you get past the bravado, Kelly’s a loyal friend and always has your back.
Stan hangs around the pro shop every day. His family lives on the fourteenth hole and he's at the course as much as Divot, the stray cat that took up residence on the club's front porch ten years ago and never left. Stan is the only person I know with double jointed elbows. He can bend both arms like something from Ripley's Believe It or Not. It's hard to look at, but impossible to keep from watching.
Justin teed off first, as usual, and hit a high fade down the middle of the fairway. Will followed with a nice drive of his own. Stan was up next. Kelly and I were to the back right of the tee box waiting on deck and warming up. I always marveled at Stan’s golf swing. His flexibility and intensity produced a spectacle of a golf swing. It was one part contortionist and two parts Tasmanian devil. "There he goes again" I thought, then WHACK!
His club swung back and hit me right on the side of the mouth. I was stunned, frozen by shock. I came out of my stupor and looked down at my once white shirt. It was crimson. Instantly, I dropped my club, held my mouth, and sprinted to the clubhouse. I may have screamed the whole way. I don't know. All I could hear was a dull hum, like in the movies after a loud explosion.
Somehow I made it to the men's locker room and got my first look at the wound. I took a quick inventory of my teeth, thankfully all were there. However, I did have a sizable hole on the bottom of my left cheek, and I'm pretty sure it was not my mouth. My friends ran to the pro shop and called my folks. They raced over and took me to the ER.
The doctors said once the stitches inside and outside my mouth healed, I would be fine in a week or two and could get back playing golf again. I don't have a couple of weeks! The Club Championship is tomorrow! This is my shot at glory, to become the next great golfer in the history of New City Country Club Jr. Champions," I exclaimed. Well, exclaimed to myself. I couldn't really talk all that well in my current state. My dad could see my disappointment and asked the doctor if I could still play in my tournament tomorrow. Against his better judgment, I'm sure, the doctor said it was up to us but he recommended rest.
When we got home, my dad and granddad sat me down and told me I didn't have to play. There would be another tournament next year and they were already proud of me but if I wanted to play, I could.
They spent hours with me, teaching me how to putt and chip and hit the ball. They had also instilled in me how golf was a game of honor, integrity, patience, work ethic and discipline. I didn't understand what they meant by all of this, but they smiled and said I would one day.
I did want to play. I wanted to play for them.
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