Green Driving Range shirts dotted through the sea of expensive jackets and stiff collars like little beacons. DJ with his braids fresh and tight. Mya with beads in her hair and a loudmouth she didn’t know how to tuck in. Karter in a hoodie too big for him because he wanted to look like Zaire. Parents in lawn chairs, doing too much on purpose.
Tia stood with one hand on her belly, tears already in her eyes. Blain’s arm was wrapped around her shoulders, trying to keep her from falling apart. Lesha had tissue in her fist and a “Try me” expression for anybody who looked at her son sideways. True stood folded into himself, eyes sharp, jaw locked, managing the optics even from twenty yards back.
Ray had his old cap pulled down low like always, just too cool, even though inside his heart was bubbling with excitement.
Magnolia leaned into him, blanket around her shoulders, eyes foggy but warm then there was Meadow…no hat…noattempt at blending in. Her curls were wild around her face, lashes damp, Green Driving Range crewneck tucked into a green tennis skirt with clear platform heels, clapping her hands together like she needed the sound to keep her from coming undone.
She mouthed, “You got it,” and pressed her palm flat over her heart.
Zaire nodded and turned back to the green.
Whitmore putted first. It was a solid stroke. The ball kissed the edge of the cup, circled once, then slid in.
The crowd clapped.
“Pressure is on,” the commentator said as if the people didn’t know that. “Cooks needs this to win outright. Miss it, and we’re headed into a playoff.”
Zaire stepped up to his ball. Twelve feet. The break leaned just enough to the left to be disrespectful.
Mike crouched beside him. “You been puttin’ on hills your whole life. This ain’t nothin’ but them busted greens in South LA.”
Zaire grunted. “On God.”
He walked the line, then squatted, letting his eyes trace the path. He thought about that little girl back in Juniper Falls whose Mama told him she never believed her daughter would touch a golf club. He thought about the boy who wrote him from Crescent and said seeing somebody bang blue and carry a nine-iron made him want to live.
He thought about Meadow standing in the rain on the range with nothing but fear and grit in her eyes, asking God to hold what she couldn’t anymore.
He thought about the twenty-two million on the line.
He planted his feet, placed the putter behind the ball, and let everything else leave.
Low breath…steady hands…small swing.
The ball rolled while the whole world held its breath.
It curved…it leaned...it kissed the lip and dropped dead in the center.
The sound that erupted didn’t belong to golf. It was too loud, too joyful, too Black. It sounded like churches on the Southside…like block parties…like Black people finally seeing themselves on ground that used to feel forbidden.
Somebody yelled, “That’s my cousin!” even though it probably wasn’t.
The gallery shook with an energy that stabbed him in the chest. He dropped to his knees, too emotional to not give the world this side of him. Mike got on one knee with him. This what that feeling True spoke about. Having a team that looked like him…that felt the wins on a different scale because it wasn’t just for him…it was for all of them. Zaire had carried the first all-Black team to the finish line and won. Everyone in his circle was Black, even his sponsorships. It was all Black everything.
“Cooks wins the Sovereign Classic!” the commentator announced, forced into excitement. “He…he did it. Against all odds, he did it!”
Still no first name.
Zaire’s chest heaved, but not from getting up. His heart beat wild against his ribs as he lifted his fist and let out a low, contained yell. Not too much, but just enough.
Mike slapped his back. True’s face broke into the widest grin he’d ever worn. People rushed toward him, hands out, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward, with questions flying.
“How does it feel-”
“Does this redeem your image-”
“Was this for Juniper Falls-”
“What do you say to Chase Whitmore-”
