Chase Whitmore had been on his ass all day in that smug American White boy, country club kind of way. The type of arrogance that smiled in your face while making sure you remembered you didn’t belong.
“Hell of a swing, Cooks,” Chase grinned as they stepped off the green at the ten. “If you straighten that out, you might catch up.”
Swiping his tongue across his lips, Zaire didn’t feed into Chase, knowing he was only trying to get in his head and throwhim off more. Even with the cheeky smile on his face, Zaire knew nothing about Chase’s words was just friendly competition.
Chase was trying to remind him that his Black ass didn’t belong on the green.
The crowd gave Zaire a light clap. One they saved for the players they barely tolerated. It wasn’t the raucous cheers Chase got when he landed three birdies in a row.
Zaire’s face didn’t flinch, but something tightened in his chest.
The next hole, he hooked it left…again.
His caddy tried to offer him a towel, but Zaire waved him off. The sun was sitting low, catching the gold in his chain, the blue LA cap tilted just enough to shadow his eyes. The whispers got louder behind the gallery rope.
“He’s done.”
Chase waited for him near the flag on twelve. “You know, there’s always commentary work. Folks love your voice.”
Zaire didn’t bite.
Instead, he lined up for a long putt, one that would at least keep him within striking distance. His heart thudded with every bounce of the ball. It circled the cup, teased it, and stopped just inches short.
The crowd didn’t cheer or encourage him as he walked over to where his ball landed. Bending over, Zaire tapped the ball in, pissed at how he was clearly about to lose. This was a disaster, and he couldn’t pinpoint what had him so off today. He just wasn’t feeling it, but as a professional and as a Black man in a White dominated sport, he didn’t have that luxury. An off day for him was spun as him being washed up…his lucky streak coming to an end, as if luck was all that got him there.
Zaire had to shake all that off though and try to finish strong.
By the back nine, Chase was still messing with him.
“You ever think maybe the pressure’s just…too much?” Chase asked, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. “I mean, you’ve got tattoos, a hip hop background, a fanbase that doesn’t even watch golf unlessyou’rein it. Might be easier to just…bow out gracefully before you embarrass yourself more.”
Zaire’s temples pulsed from how hard he clenched his back teeth. He wanted to respond. He wanted to tell Chase’s pale ass all about himself and how on any given day he was the better player, but hecouldn’trespond. Not without giving them what they wanted - a meltdown, a moment to spin, another soundbite for their blogs.
He hated this shit. Loved the game, but the politics of it all was wearing him down.
Zaire thought about Crescent - of the busted netless rim he used to chip golf balls into…of old heads on the block betting five on a swing, screaming louder than any gallery…of his uncle handing him a rusted 9-iron with the words ‘Make ‘em watch you’scratched in the grip.
He carried a whole lot of pain on his shoulders. But that was what Crescent was— pain you carried for the rest of your life. But in many ways it was also joy. The joy of your community feeding into you even in their own trauma-filled way.
This wasn’t just a means to escape to him.
It wasn’t just a sport shoved into a little Black boy’s arms to occupy his time.
This wasn’t just golf.
This was him fighting to exist in a space never meant for him…and he was losing.
Still, he kept swinging and smiling when the cameras panned his way and kept his mouth closed every time Chase said something slick.
By the sixteenth hole, it was over. Zaire didn’t need the scoreboard to know it. The crowd had shifted. They cheered forChase now like he was royalty and whispered less when Zaire walked by.
Still, Zaire didn’t quit.
On the seventeenth hole, he gave the cleanest drive of his whole round—straight and far, a reminder that hecouldstill play…that he’d be back…that this loss wasn’t a full stop, just a comma in a long sentence.
The club landed back in his bag with a soft thud, but the sound carried all the weight in his chest. Zaire stared out over the green. His chest ached with that quiet, humiliating burn only athletes knew. The one that came when you gave it everything and it still wasn’t enough.
He ignored his caddy when he hummed ‘damn’under his breath.
