He pointed vaguely toward the back where he knew his people were somewhere behind the wall, probably crowded around a monitor.
“So yeah,” he finished, “I’m Black. I’m a Crip. I’m from Crescent Park. I’m a son. I’m a man who went up on that green and danced in a blue hat and didn’t shrink. I’m a champion. All of that can exist in one body. That’s what makes us magic.”
The moderator shifted, half eager to move on, half aware they’d just caught lightning. “We have time for one more question.”
The Black woman in row three lifted her hand again. The moderator hesitated, then nodded in her direction.
“What do you say,” she asked, eyes a little glossy but voice clear, “to the little Black boy watching this at home who lovesgolf, loves his neighborhood, loves his people…but feels like he has to choose between them to belong?”
Zaire sat with that for a moment, feeling the weight of it settle right between his ribs.
“I tell him,” he answered slowly, “they gon’ try to make you split yourself up so you easier to swallow. Don’t do it. Keep your whole self. Bring your hood to the green. Bring your grandma’s prayers to the tee box. Bring your daddy’s anger and your mama’s tears and your auntie’s jokes and your cousin’s mixtape and your block’s rhythm in your backswing. Learn the game, respect it and study it ‘til it live in your bones. But never let them convince you, you only worth somethin’ if you leave your people behind.”
He leaned in just a little, like he was talking straight to that boy and nobody else. “You not a visitor. You a storm. You a new season. You belong in every room your gift walks you into, even when they look at you like you don’t. And when you get there?” His mouth curved, soft and dangerous. “Say your whole name. Make ‘em say it too.”
Silence rolled through the room again. This time, nobody shifted. Nobody reached for the next question. They just…sat with it.
Zaire pushed his chair back. “That’s all I got,” he told them. “I gotta go hug my people.”
He stood, trophy in one hand, blue hat low over his eyes, and walked off that stage like he finally understood the size of the shadow he cast.
Out in the hall, before the doors could swing shut behind him, he heard an echo faintly through the walls…kids’ voices, high and wild, chanting in a rhythm the tour didn’t teach them.
“Zaire Cooks. Zaire Cooks. Zaire Cooks.”
He smiled to himself, heart full, knowing this was bigger than a win.
This was proof.
Black magic, on green grass, with the whole world watching.
Malik greeted him first with a big ass speaker. His brother in blue, a man from his hood who made it out too and kicked down doors that were never meant for them.
Wacced Out Murals blasted. Zaire smiled big.
“Yea, nigga going up your rank, know you a God even when they say you ain’t,” Malik rapped to him with his whole chest, the back of his hand tapping Zaire’s chest.
It was the epitome of Black boy joy. Zaire bobbed his head hard, his tears running down his face. “Fuck apologies, I wanna see y’all geeked up.”
Black faces and voices filled their hallways like a war cry, like their ancestors were happy with them.
Tia bawled her eyes out again. “This is beautiful, bitch,” she cried to Meadow who was equally as emotional.
“It’s Black as hell.”
Zaire and Malik were back crip walking because why the hell not. When his eyes landed on the love of his life, he pulled her into him. Meadow did her best to keep up as cameras flashed.
“This that real L.A. shit, baby,” Zaire teased Meadow.
They all knew this would be on replay for the next two weeks but none of them cared. This was for them, by them.
The celebration didn’t endon the green.
It carried over into the clubhouse, into that warm hush that comes after victory, when laughter feels rich, and people walk around with their shoulders loosened because they’ve witnessed something unforgettable. Families hugged, kids ran wild in theirbest church shoes, and reporters shouted questions that Zaire ignored with an effortless smile.
All he cared about was Meadow, standing near the back patio, wiping her cheeks every time she thought nobody was looking.
The sun had faded into a deep orange blush outside the glass doors, the world dipping into the soft quiet of early evening. The green stretched out kissing the horizon, still glistening from the earlier rain, the final cup sitting steady in the distance like it was waiting on one last story to be told.
