A Wedding in Truhart (7 page)

Travis went into great detail. He explained how his shoes were the same ones Phil Mickelson wore and revealed how much they cost. If he thought that would help his stance he was an idiot. I tried desperately to look attentive as he continued. I held the club all wrong and Kevin corrected my grip and smiled at me when I did it right. Nick just leaned against the cart and glared. Fortunately, I was the only one who knew he was glaring. To everyone else he looked like he was sending me an encouraging smile. I barely heard Travis Hartwick as he continued with his tutorial. I kept thinking about Nick's words. Why did he take everything so seriously?

We waited patiently as Travis practiced a minimum of ten times before actually taking his shot. The shot faded slightly, which I could have predicted by the way he was standing. He marched back to the cart and said nothing.

Kevin and Nick went next. They hit their balls in a nice arc and landed a good distance down the fairway. While Kevin demonstrated his swing, Nick did not acknowledge me in any way, but as he lined up to swing I couldn't help peeking. His wide shoulders and trim backside made my mouth go dry. Even as annoyed as I was, Nick made me feel like a schoolgirl watching the quarterback from the bleachers. When he swung I was reminded of what a good athlete he had always been. Whether it was golf, football, or baseball, he was a natural.

I swallowed and moved toward the ladies' tee. I feigned worry as I looked back at the group behind me. “Am I going to be okay? What if I hit someone?”

“Don't worry, Annie, the group ahead of us is almost at the next hole. You'll be fine. We'll give you a few practice swings,” said Kevin.

He walked over to me and stood behind me with his arms around my shoulders as he moved me through a swing. Richard made a comment about Kevin's enthusiasm and I laughed nervously, glancing back at the carts. Nick was seemingly fascinated with his clubs and never glanced my way.

Stepping back, Kevin encouraged me to try on my own. I slowly moved the club, getting the feel of the grip in my hands and adjusting to its length. Then I stepped back in place, gauged the ball with my driver, then readjusted for a miss, and swung.

Afterward I looked down at the ball. It was still on the tee. “Oh no!”

“Don't worry, it happens to everyone, although you Northerners have a habit of over swinging and topping the ball, I must say,” said Travis. “Try again.”

I tried two more times before I finally hit the ball. I wasn't going for power at this point, just a nice easy swing. I struck the ball fairly well, I had to admit. It sailed forward and landed about ten yards behind Kevin's ball, right in the middle of the fairway. I was pleased.

A silence fell over the group behind me.

“Wow. That was pretty good, Annie.”

“Well, I had great teachers,” I said, smiling.

As we played the first few holes, I tried to keep it low-key and shot just to the right of the green. I found myself enjoying the challenge of purposely missing my target.

My brother used to say that for people who sing well, it is really hard to deliberately sing off-key. But for golf, I found I could challenge myself to hit the ball at a different target, say ten yards to the right or left. It was kind of fun. For a little extra entertainment I found myself aiming for Nick's ball. If we were playing croquet I could have knocked him right out of range into the lake near the third hole. For now I had to settle for a little amusement by getting in his way and messing up as much of his game as I could. He remained unruffled and it only fueled me more.

I kept thinking of his comment about me stepping into trouble. “Trouble, my—”

“What was that, Annie?” asked Richard when he heard me muttering under my breath.

“I'm having trouble with my grip, that's all.”

“Here, let me show you again,” said Kevin eagerly.

“You're holding us up, Annie. Practice it when you aren't ready to putt,” said Nick.

The testiness in his tone made my blood sing. Finally, I had managed to annoy him as much as he annoyed me.

“Now, Nick. Don't hurry the little lady,” Travis said magnanimously. “Everyone can just wait. We aren't in any kind of rush. Annie is from a small town in Ohio and they don't know this game like we do in the big league. You should know that.”

It turned out I wasn't the one holding us up. Travis Hartwick took more practice strokes than anyone I had ever seen. Even though his form was off, he commented to me about every swing as if he was a golf pro and I was his student. At one point, we stood on a putting green at the eighth hole. Nick was getting ready to sink a long putt. Just as he started his back swing, a shrill ring went off. He missed the hole by yards and his ball ended up going downhill toward the lake on the side of the green.

Travis pulled a phone out of his pocket.

“What's up, Hal!” he said so loudly that the players on the adjacent hole looked our way.

I stared at him and wondered if he had lost his mind. Even on our laid-back golf course back home we turned off cell phone ringers. I watched in astonishment as Travis Hartwick told Hal all about how he would call him back after he finished playing with his young friends from Ohio. I sent Nick an exasperated look and he just crossed one foot over the other with casual unconcern. We ended up letting the group behind us play through.

“Whoops. Let me get back to you, Hal. It looks like everyone's getting impatient,” Travis finally said. Turning to the rest of us, he made things worse. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah.” He picked up his marker, which sat at least six feet from the hole. “Sorry about that call. This one's a gimme, I believe,” he said, marking it in his score sheet.

I started to say something, but Nick put his hand on my shoulder, turned me around, and squeezed hard. “Don't worry about it,” he said.

We continued to play, but I could sense everyone's lack of enthusiasm.

Travis Hartwick was a cheat.

If he went into a bunker he dropped the ball practically in the middle of the fairway before playing it again. He called his own “short” putts gimmes. He flirted shamelessly with the girl on the beer cart, trying to squeeze her behind when she handed him his third beer. And I couldn't even think about his scoring. By the second half of the round I was ready to smash a club over his head.

By the thirteenth hole I made up my mind it was time to revive my hustling ways.

I shanked the next tee off on purpose, aiming for the lowest branch of a nearby oak tree. I brushed a leaf on a hanging branch and had to mask my satisfaction at the shot. “Aww. Just when I thought I was getting it.”

“It's okay, little lady. That happens. Now this hole is a dogleg. You want to use an iron on that next shot and stay left of the water.” I watched as he squared up to the tee and took practice swing after practice swing. We had just waved another group through on the last hole.

“Now in Ohio I know you probably play on some pretty small-time courses . . .” He began another endless golf lecture. I nodded my head and forced a smile.

Now, if you ever asked anyone from Michigan if they thought the day would come when they would defend a person from Ohio, they would say “no way.” But I was getting defensive about the derogatory comments.

When we started the final hole, I said, “You gentlemen have been absolutely wonderful to teach me today. I feel like I am finally getting the hang of this game.” I sighed. “Why, if I were a betting woman I would bet a whole dollar on this hole, but of course I'm not.” I giggled and pulled the wrong club out of my bag.

Travis Hartwick whistled softly. “Why, honey, there's nothing I like more than a little green in my golf, and I don't mean the grass.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“What's that?” I said, pretending to miss his meaning as I practiced teeing off with an iron.

Travis walked over and laughed. He pulled a driving wood out of my bag and handed it to me. “Well now, how about we each stake a hundred dollars on the last hole.”

“One hundred dollars!” I put my hand on my chest in shock. I could feel my blood racing in my veins. This was the challenge I had been waiting for.

“Sure. It'll keep this last hole from getting too tedious, you know?”

Kevin reluctantly agreed and Nick said nothing. He had become strangely quiet over the last few holes and I knew he was probably thinking all about me and trouble again. Well, I was tired of worrying about trouble. Travis Hartwick was a bully and an old snob, just like his wife.

Besides, there was the whole state of Ohio to defend!

I lined up at the tee and let it rip on the sweet spot, packing more power than even I thought was possible. A hushed silence fell over the group. I smiled absently and just said, “Wow.”

Nick and Kevin hit well, but landed behind me on the fairway. Travis Hartwick shot low, failing to get the height he needed, landing short of the rest of our shots.

My next shot was clean and straight and landed right on the green. If I stayed focused I was sure I could birdie. Travis Hartwick landed in a bunker on his third shot. I watched incredulously as he dropped his ball close to the middle of the fairway, a move any self-respecting golfer could never get away with.

“That's kind of taking liberties, Mr. Hartwick,” I said.

He acted like he hadn't heard me.

I looked to the other gentlemen for some support. They said nothing.

Fine. I could win this without their help. Travis Hartwick would probably shank the next ball.

The only trouble was that by sheer luck he made a good chip to join us on the green. Before I knew it, he and I were the only ones left to win the round. Nick and Kevin had overshot the green and Travis and I hung back, letting them finish since they were out of the running with a double bogey each. Nick sank his putt and stood nearby with his hand in his pocket, watching Kevin's final shot sink in the hole.

When the ball dropped, I leaned against my putter and watched in trepidation as Travis Hartwick picked up his marker and turned to the men. “Too bad, gentlemen. You may need to practice more than you think. Let's see how I do . . .” He took two sly steps closer to the hole and placed his ball on the green, farther from his marker and closer to the hole.

I opened my mouth to say something. “You—”

“—should make sure to clean that ball, Travis,” interrupted Nick.

“But—” I started.

“—of course it is up to you,” he said, butting in again.

I was livid. I turned to Nick to say something, but he just shook his head fiercely at me. I couldn't believe he was being such a wimp. I looked at Kevin and Richard near the cart, waiting for someone to say something. But they stayed silent.

Travis turned toward the hole and went through the irritating routine of practice strokes that we were nauseatingly used to by now.

Then he lined up and gently pulled his club backward . . . just as his phone went off in a shrill ring.

The ball stopped four feet short of the hole.

A flurry of four-letter words escaped his mouth as he stomped around the green, pulling the phone out of his pocket. “Well, shit! No one is even there! I don't even recognize the goddamn number,” he said, staring at the phone. “That's a mulligan!”

He lined up again and repeated the previous routine, practicing his putting form over and over until I wanted to clobber him with his clubs. Finally he was ready. Just as he pulled back, the phone rang again and the ball went off the other end of the green into the water.

I laughed.

He threw his clubs down and let loose a string of obscenities. Picking up the phone, he turned it off and threw it in the cart, continuing to swear up a storm. By the time he took the shot again he was too frazzled. Even without the phone ringing it took him several attempts to sink it and he ended up shooting three over par.

“Your turn, Annie,” said Kevin as Nick shifted nearby, his hands still in his pockets as if he hadn't a care in the world. I stepped up to my ball and measured the shot with my eye. I was about thirty feet from the hole and no one expected me to make it in one shot. But putting was a particular specialty of mine. It reminded me of looking through the lens of a camera. I measured the distance and angle like a photographer. I often wondered if Jack Nicklaus or Greg Norman were good photographers, because it took a certain eye to understand a putt. Anyway, it would have been an interesting study. I smoothly rotated my shoulders backward and tapped my ball with the putter.

It was a thing of beauty.

All eyes watched as my putt rolled across the length of the green and made an incredibly satisfying plunk into the hole. Behind me Richard gave a whoop and Kevin clapped. Travis looked like he had swallowed a ball. Nick just sighed.

“That was a lucky shot!” I said. “I didn't know I had it in me.”

I looked back at Nick's impassive face and felt like sticking my tongue out.

My victory was sweet. Kevin and Richard were elated and we exchanged high fives all around. If they were embarrassed by my newfound giftedness they said nothing. They both drove off to return the cart and promised to say good-bye later.

Once recovered from his initial shock, Travis Hartwick finally pulled himself together enough to mutter his congratulations. I couldn't help the satisfaction that rolled through me as he shoved his clubs in his bag so hard he might have bent them. He sulked the entire way to the clubhouse, insisting that golf had changed since cell phones were invented and he would never bring his phone to the golf course again.

We stopped at the side of the clubhouse near the parking lot and Travis Hartwick looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and fished out two fifty-dollar bills.