“Yes! I’m meeting Coach Cantu here. I’m his assistant.”
“Name?”
“Olivia Perkins.”
He runs his finger down the page and stops when he gets to my name.
“ID?”
Really? Who else would try to sneak in here to work?
I hand over my ID and he holds it up to a small camera on the wall of the guard station.
“Olivia Perkins. Here with John Cantu.”
He hands it back, then pushes a button just inside the small building and the gate across the driveway swings open.
I feel victorious.
The driveway winds through a wooded area, then opens onto the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. It’s breathtaking, honestly. And then the clubhouse comes into view.Majesticis the best word I can come up with. The main building is two stories of red brick with wraparound porches and floor-to-ceiling windows. Crape myrtles and big ferns and rosebushes fill the flower beds, and there’s a fountain front and center. All this to hit a small white ball into an equally small hole.
Coach Cantu is waiting for me on the sidewalk, holding a steaming cup of coffee.
I give him a small wave, but he looks down at his watch and I check Sophie’s phone. It’s 7:36.
“Sorry. Won’t happen again,” I say. Will he add these six minutes to the time I owe?
“Let’s get moving. We need to get everything set up.”
I follow him toward the clubhouse. “When do the players come?”
“Today is a practice day. Not every player will come out today, only the ones who want a full practice to mirror their first day’s play tomorrow. They’ll go through the course on the same schedule so there’s nothing left to the imagination when it really counts. For the out-of-towners, it’s important to run it all through at least once before the tournament begins. Especially a new course like this since most of these kids haven’t ever played here before.”
“So, you’re not here as a coach, then? Will it be weird?”
“I’m here for the club. But my players know they can ask me anything,” he says.
“Do you think there will be a lot of players practicing today?” I ask.
“If they want any chance of winning this thing, they’ll show up.”
Well, okay then.
Coach Cantu opens a door on the backside of the building, and I’m staring at huge metal bins full of golf balls, a tall stack of green trays, and a few pyramid-shape basket-looking things.
“Each spot at the range needs practice balls. Let me show you how it’s done.”
Coach grabs a regular bucket and fills it up with golf balls, setting it outside the door on a grassy area. Then he picks up one of the green square trays, putting it on the ground next to the bucket. He goes back inside the room once more and picks up the oddly pyramid-shape metal thingy. He sets it right on top of the green tray and it snaps into place. Then he pours balls from the bucket into the opening on top. Once it’s full, he very gently lifts the metal part off the tray, leaving behind a perfectly shaped pyramid of golf balls.
“Whoa,” I say. “That’s cool.”
Coach points toward the range. “There are twenty-five spots on the range for players to warm up. Each spot needs balls stacked exactly like this. Once a golfer finishes his warm-up, you’ll stack a new pyramid of balls for the next player.”
I’m nodding along as if these instructions make total sense. And then he’s gone, walking toward the front of the giant clubhouse.
So I guess I’m not here to take pics for their social media.
It’s logical to take the supplies to each spot before trying to make the pyramid because there’s no way to move it without everything collapsing, but I didn’t take into account how heavy a bucket of golf balls is. So now I’m sweating. Profusely. I get everything situated next to the first space, ready to lift the metal mold off. But then it snags on the side of the pyramid and balls scatter in every direction. I try to build it back up by hand but that’s an even bigger disaster. So I start over. Three tries until I get my first perfect pyramid.
