“Whatever you say. Should we go?” she asks, and I’m grateful she’s doing something to get us out of the house before I cancel our golf date.
I turnmy car into the parking lot of the Apricot Drive Golf Club. It was one of my favorite places to practice when I was in high school and a place my dad, James, and I would come to when Mom needed us out of the house. A handful of cars decorate the lot and I find us a spot toward the back.
“Ready?” I ask, and turn toward Angie.
The golf club is a bit away from the city and usually any car ride is uncomfortable with someone you’re still getting to know, or they try to backseat drive. But Angie and I talked, laughed, and sang almost the entire ride here. It’s notthat I’ve ever been around someone who was depressed, but my version of depression has been everything the media has fed me: perpetually sad and always crying are the two tales I’ve constantly heard. And it’s like the more time we spend together, the easier it is for her to finally open up and jump out of the cage she’s been in. I won’t minimize her or what she’s been through, but it makes me wonder how deep her depression goes and how soon she’ll let me in.
“To make a fool out of myself? Absolutely,” she jokes.
“Oh come on,” I begin, taking the key out of the ignition and unbuckling my seatbelt with Angie following suit. I pop the trunk before getting out and grab the bag with my gloves and clubs. I’ve already planned for us to rent a golf cart to make this more enjoyable. I meet Angie around the front of the car and hold my hand out for hers. She looks at me with an almost shy look before placing her slender hand in mine. “You’ll be great. I’ll be your teacher,” I finally tell her as we walk up to the club house.
“Well, you’re much cuter than any of my other teachers.”
“There’s that word again,” I mumble under my breath and a smile takes over at the sound of Angie’s laugh. I lead us to the check-in for our tee time and get a set of keys for the golf cart.
“You don’t like being called ‘cute’?”
“I prefer handsome, dashing, suave—those work better for me,” I respond as I place my golf bag in the holder and smile at her snort.
“We’re not walking?” Angie asks.
“Nah. Although, walking eighteen holes is one way to throw you in the deep end.” I round to the driver’s side and wait for Angie to get in.
“Did you say eighteen holes?”
“I guess I should have mentioned that. It’s a good thingyou like me,” I say with a smile and step on the gas, leading us swiftly to the first hole and laughing as Angie has to hold onto the railing to keep from sliding out.
I picked the last tee time for a reason as we pull up to the first hole right as one of the last groups in front of us is headed to the next. When I stop the cart, I hop out and head to the back to find a Driver for me, and luckily I still have my mom’s set in here and grab that for Angie.
“This should be a good fit for you. Try this out.”
Angie takes the club and holds it, looking adorable and utterly confused. “Feels good.”
“Smartypants.” I grab a tee and a couple of balls and head to the green. “I’ll go first and then help you. Does that sound good?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’ at the end.
I take a few practice swings, before lining up and hitting the ball. My finish feels good, given that I haven’t done this in a few years. But still good.
Light clapping sounds from behind me and I see Angie looking appreciatively at me and where I hit the ball.
“Thank you. Now get over here, Angel.” I place the tee back in the ground and place a ball on top. “Okay. First things first, is your grip. Let’s see how you’d hold it.”
Angie shows me how she would hold a golf club and the smile that surfaces on my face is one of awe.
“That’s good. I’m just gonna adjust your fingers so you’ll have more control.” I drop my golf club on the ground and move toward her to help fix the positioning and line her knuckles up. “Perfect. Now let me see your stance.”
Once again, Angie shows me how she would stand–which is too wide for golf, but perfect for baseball or softball.
“A smidge too wide. Close your stance so your feet are alittle wider than shoulder-width apart.” She moves her foot about an inch. “Here, like this.” I squat down by her foot and tap my fingers against her ankle.Bad idea, I say to myself as I find myself kneeling in front of her, but I’ve already committed and I want her to be able to hit the ball as far as she can. “Golf has a much shorter stance than baseball. Sometimes your stance will be shoulder width apart and sometimes a smidge wider. It just depends on the situation you’re in. Does that feel comfortable?” I ask and look up.
Angie is looking down at me and where my hand is before her eyes drag up to me. “Yeah. Feels good.”
“Perfect. It might feel weird for a bit, but by the end of our playing you’ll be a natural.”
Angie snorts. “Not as natural as you. Okay, what next?”
I stand back up and step a few feet back. “Let’s see your swing.”
