Zaire hid a smile and followed Ray out into the morning sun.
Ray’s bootscrunched through the grass as he led Zaire toward the shed that sat a little crooked on its foundation. The door squeaked when he yanked it open.
“Watch your head,” Ray grumbled, pushing aside an old rake. “This place been leaning since ’09.”
Zaire looked inside, brows lifted. “You keep all this shit?”
“Everything in here is history.” Ray reached behind an old mower and pulled out a dusty leather bag. “Here go the good ones.”
“Thegoodones?” Zaire coughed, seeing the rust on the zipper.
Ray smacked the bag making dust fly everywhere. “Don’t let the looks fool you. These clubs been used more times than a church tambourine.”
Zaire snorted. “You wild, cuh.”
The word fell out before he could catch it. That Crescent Park lingo stayed tucked under his tongue no matter how many country clubs he stepped into. It wasn’t something he could switch off. It lived in him.
Cuh had been running through his veins long before he ever said it out loud. He was probably floating through Lesha’s belly while his Pops walked around talkin’ slick, saying ‘cuh’ a thousand times a day. Zaire felt it every time it slipped out…that reminder of where he came from and who raised him. A little bit of home leaked into every conversation whether he meant to let it out or not.
Ray wasn’t tripping on the word. He was old but he’d lived a life that his elders would turn their noses up at. Dragging the bag, Ray tossed it at Zaire’s feet. “Go on now. Pick one.”
Zaire unzipped the bag. His brows raised as he pulled out a 7-iron so old it looked like it survived segregation. “Damn… you ain’t never thought about retiring these?”
“Why would I? They work.” Ray lined up a ball. “Here, let me show you.”
Zaire stepped back respectfully.
Ray’s worn arms swung with precision. It was clean and effortless like he’d done it a million times. The ball flew straight for what felt like forever before dropping onto the far patch of green.
Zaire blinked in astonishment, an impressed smile dancing on his face. “…Aight - bet.”
Ray wiped his hands on his shirt. “Go ‘head.”
Zaire grabbed the 7-iron, squaring up behind the ball, adjusting his stance out of habit. The grip felt weird. It was lighter and unbalanced, but he didn’t complain. He pulled back and swung.
CRACK.
The ball sailed into the sky before it arched like a rainbow and hit the ground. He watched it disappear into the daylight, until it was a small white dot he couldn’t track anymore.
Ray slapped him on the back. “See? You still got it.”
Zaire blew out a deep breath. “Some days it feels like I did…this shit is like playing a game of hide and seek and I can’t find it in the daytime with a flashlight.”
Something about it tugged at him…the quiet…the open field…the reminder that his talent used to show up for him before the world started looking for reasons to say he didn’t belong.
Truth was, Zaire missed feeling certain…missed that cocky ‘I know I’m my ancestors’ wildest dreams’feeling…missed the days when a swing was just a swing and not a statement.
Ray wasn’t about to let him get too deep inside himself. “Everybody got days like that.”
“Not like this,” Zaire muttered, staring at the ball on the ground. There was no tee, just a worn slab of concrete with grass begging to break through.
Ray passed him another club. “You think you the only Black man who ever doubted his own talent?”
Zaire’s jaw tightened.
But Ray kept talking. “Pressure hits us different. Stress hits us different. Losing hits us different. And success?” He pointed at Zaire. “Success hits us the hardest.”
Zaire leaned on the club. “I just…I don’t know, man. When I’m out there, it feels like I’m playing for everybody. Like if I mess up, I embarrass us all.”
