Free Rift by Richard Cox Page B

town. Tom made a hole-in-one in a local fund-raising event and the next day found his picture in the paper.
    And when Barton Creek, one of the finest golf facilities in Texas, invited us to play in a qualifying tournament for their annual PGA event, Tom and I couldn’t wait. I was already dreaming about who my playing partner might be—Greg Norman, Nick Faldo, or maybe even Jack Nicklaus. I couldn’t believe it. I was twenty-two and about to stand on the tee with real professional golfers.
    What I did instead was learn a bitter lesson. See, there are a lot of talented people in the world. Not just in golf, but in every arena where talent can be measured. Maybe you’re the best football player on your high school team, but when you get to college you go straight to the bench. Or maybe you turn out to be the starting quarterback on that same college team but don’t get drafted by the NFL. It happens all the time, because when you round up all the people who are good at something, you realize just how ordinary you are.
    â€œI’m thinking of trying out for the U.S. Open,” Tom tells me now as he addresses the ball. We’re playing this morning at Sandy Canyon Golf Club, standing on the number two tee box. Par three. The sky is dark with clouds, and rain is expected by noon. This is why, even though we stayed up half the night drinking beer, Tom and I are roaming the course at six thirty AM .
    â€œThe U.S. Open? You’ve already tried three times. Haven’t you had enough?”
    He strikes the ball. It flies high, straight, and lands only a few feet behind the pin.
    â€œLook at that shot, Cameron. I play nearly every day now. I hit five hundred balls a week at the range.”
    â€œFive hundred is nothing. And even if you hit five
thousand
balls at the range, all perfect, it doesn’t matter if you can’t produce on the course.”
    â€œBut I do produce,” he says. “I shot sixty-four here last week.”
    â€œAgainst who? Your grandma?”
    He doesn’t say anything at first. Perhaps he remembers the disaster at Barton Creek when neither of us broke eighty. We played like fools.
    I step forward and prepare to tee off. The hole is 185 yards away, and any good golfer can hit the green nearly every time. The challenge is to land it close like Tom just did. Easy enough in a mundane setting like this, but add a little pressure—like grandstands, corporate tents, thousands of spectators—and suddenly golf becomes a whole new game. A game where Tiger Woods is king and at best you’re a jester.
    The thing with Tom is that he doesn’t want a regular job. It’s not enough that he makes seventy thousand dollars a year selling cars at the local Honda dealership. He wants the money to be glamorous. And I can respect that. What I can’t understand is why he has forgone a serious relationship and abandoned the idea of having a family to pursue his dream. I would do anything to have children, and he chooses not to.
    When I swing the club, I realize right away that it’s all wrong. The ball pulls left, drops into tall grass beside the green, and disappears.
    â€œTerrible shot,” I say and shake my head.
    â€œYou can get up and down from there,” Tom offers.
    We walk back to the cart and drive toward the green. Wind sweeps across my face. I close my eyes. Golf just doesn’t excite me the way it once did.
    â€œWhat’s the problem, Cam? You’ve been in the dumps since you got here. Is everything okay at home?”
    â€œFine, I guess.”
    â€œYou guess?”
    â€œWe’re doing as well as any couple after fifteen years of marriage.”
    â€œThen what is it? This is your celebratory golf game. You
transmitted
yesterday, man. You’re supposed to be having fun.”
    Instead of answering him, I grab my wedge and putter and head for my ball. How am I supposed to enjoy playing golf today when all I can think