Page 49 of The Perfect Putt
“Oh yeah.” He grimaces. “It happened at the PGA Championship last month. I was doing great. Several strokes ahead of everyone, but then I hit a slice on hole four the last day of the tournament. After that, I struggled and had to fight to keep even second place. Zane overtook my score and then the trophy, and my position as number one in the world.”
“That must have been terrible.” If he was closer, I might place a hand on his arm to comfort him. It’s probably best that he’s not.
“It was, but it’s only made me more determined to win this next one and reclaim my title.”
“Do you think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself?”
He shrugs. “The pressure is there no matter what. I want to be number one, so I have to fight for it.” He sets up in front of the ball again. “All I have to do is play moment to moment. I can’t think too far ahead, or else I’ll freeze up.”
I stay silent as he prepares to hit. Something tells me his moment-by-moment philosophy applies to more than just golf. There’s good in that, I think, living moment to moment. But if you never think about the future, then you might spend your days going in circles without even realizing it. Miles has this aversion to commitment–whatever the reason may be–but maybe he wouldn’t be so against it if he let himself think about it for more than a second. If he took the time to reassess how he felt. I’m not sure how to get him to do that though.
He hits the ball and makes it onto the green. The smile that overtakes his face warms my heart. It’s clear that he loves this game, and I’m glad I came along to witness that love firsthand.
“Looks like you can still make par,” I say and the proud expression he wears in response makes my heart skip.
“Looks like it.” He puts his 7-iron into the bag, then slides into the seat next to me. “I’m glad you’re here, Red.” His smile is soft and sincere.
I return his smile. “Me too.”
We’re at the 18th hole. After telling Miles that I wasn’t bored like he thought, his game got considerably better. He hasn’t been perfect–according to him–but he also hasn’t hit it into the woods anymore. Now he’s about to putt for birdie, which I finally learned the definition of. If he has to make it in the hole in four to get par, but he makes it in three, that’s a birdie.
Apparently whoever invented golf likes bird names, because if you go two under par that’s an eagle. Three under par is an albatross or double eagle, and four under par is a condor. If you make a hole in one though, they abandon the bird names and call it an ace. Unless…
“Is an ace a bird?” I ask Miles as he’s lining up to putt.
“I don’t know.” He sounds exasperated, but in an amused sort of way that lets me know he’s not mad at my questions.
“It just seems weird to me that there are all these bird names and then ace. Why ace?”
“I didn’t invent the game, I just play it.”
“And you said a bogey isn’t a bird either?”
“As far as I know, no.”
I scrunch my brows together. “I can’t take this game seriously. The lowest score wins, there are bird names for half the terms but not others. It’s weird.”
He chuckles. “Come here, Red.”
I stiffen on the cart seat. “What?”
“Come here.” He gestures for me to walk over.
I listen to him, though I’m confused. Once I’m beside him, he holds out his club for me to grab. A putter, which is the only one I’ve been able to remember today.
“Take this and stand right there,” he says, then backs up and points at the spot he was just in.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re going to make this shot for me.”
I take the putter from him, shooting him a wary look. “You want me to make your last putt of the day?”
“I’m going to help, don’t worry.”
I look at the club. It’s somehow both heavier and lighter than I thought it would be. Never in my life did I think I’d be willingly holding one of these things.
“How much does this thing cost?” I ask, looking up at him.