Page 16 of The Sweet Spot

Clearly, JB thinks so, too. He turns, surprised. “You just watched my swing.”

“Yeah.” I tip my chin. “But I want to see it up close.”

He swallows. “Um. Sure.”

I move behind him as he sets up again, watching the entire sequence, and sure enough, his hips barely move. The whole swing is powered from the shoulders down, and it's costing him everything below the waist.

When he brings the club down, I step forward and put my hands on his hips.

He startles. It’s literally a full-body flinch that nearly sends his club off into the turf.

“Sorry—” He straightens up and glances at me over his shoulder, wide-eyed. “It’s a reflex.”

I raise my hands immediately, annoyed at myself. I never touch people while helping them unless they’ve explicitly asked first. I don’t know what made me so comfortable with JB that I’d do it now.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“No. It’s not you.” He clears his throat, and his cheeks go a little red. “It’s just, I've had fans come up behind me on the field...” He trails off, and then, apparently deciding to commit to the over share rather than retreat from it, says. “My ass gets grabbed a lot.”

Why does he have to make everything weird?

“I was not grabbing your ass. My hands were on your hips.”

“I know that now.”

I hold his gaze for one more second, and then I raise my hands. “Can I?”

“Anytime. Getting a golf lesson from you is like winning the World Series and eating that nacho hot dog at the Knaves stadium on the same day.”

I place my hands back on his hips, noting the sheer width of him in comparison to me. He’s a unit, that’s for sure.

“Rotate,” I say.

He faces forward, grips the club, and when he shifts his weight through the swing, I can immediately feel what the problem is.

“You’re blocking yourself,” I say. “Right here.” I press my thumbs into the top of his hip bones, just slightly. “Your whole lower half is locked. You need to let your hips go first. Then your arms follow.”

“Try again.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

He tries again, and to his credit, it’s marginally better. There’s about half a second where the rotation actually starts from the right place before his upper body takes over.

“One more time,” I say, and take a step back to watch.

He nods, trying again.

And we’re right back to where we started.

“It’s your ass.” I take it in, impressed by it. In any other circumstance, I’d say it’s perfect. All those years of squatting have clearly helped build his muscles.

Unfortunately, they’re too developed for this.

He shimmies slightly before saying, “My ass?”

I stop, and inwardly curse.

I shouldn't have said that.