Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
I smiled to myself and grabbed my driver from my bag. Had the manipulation started yet? By Shan trying to become friends?
I put on my glove too.
“Alfie didn’t know the dial-up sound,” I admitted.
I’d never felt so old as I had the evening I’d played the clip. He’d looked so confused.
“Hurts, doesn’t it? Kellan and Finn don’t even remember a time before the internet.”
I wasn’t surprised. “This is why Generation X is the last good generation.”
“Hear, hear.” Then he frowned. “Except, we’re foolish enough to get married to the youngest millennials.”
I chuckled. Touché.
It became our turn, and I walked up first since he’d requested to go second. I teed up like I always did, and I swung the club twice before getting into position.
It was a par-4 at 320 yards, fairly straight fairway, good wind conditions, and I didn’t have the sun in my eyes. I should get close to the green from here.
I relaxed my stance and tightened my grip, and then I swung back and struck the ball well enough to earn myself a muttered “Goddamn” from Shan.
I squinted down the fairway, and the ball bounced once before rolling forward several yards. That oughta do it. I’d wedge that right up onto the green.
Shan and I switched places, and I put the club back and pulled out my scorecard pad and a pen. These days, I actually preferred tracking on an app, but mostly because I wanted to keep my tracking in one place, and when it rained, a paper card was useless.
“All right, feel free to say what I’m doing wrong,” he said.
“Will do.” I folded my arms over my chest and eyed his stance. Nothing wrong so far—never mind. He sliced the ball, causing it to land in the rough.
He sighed heavily and turned back to me. “As you can see, I’m a notorious slicer.”
Indeed. “Which begs the question—what do you excel at since your handicap is still decent?”
He lifted his cap as if it were a top hat. “World-class putter, if I may say so.”
Then maybe we could learn from each other. I could improve there.
I pointed to his club. “You have the timing wrong. You go slow on the backswing and then drop it too fast. You’re gonna wanna do the opposite. Let gravity do its thing. Try to swing back hard—” I demonstrated by getting into position and pretending I held a club. “Right here, just past the midpoint of the backswing, you ease up. The club carries enough weight to come down with the force you need.” I paused. “You could also adjust your grip. Many who struggle with slicing don’t hold the club tightly enough.”
He puffed out a breath and stuck his club back in his bag. “I should’ve had you next to me at the range instead. You’re telling me the opposite of what so many others are saying.”
“I’m telling you what I’ve observed from the pros on the Tour,” I chuckled. “Watch them. They never pull back slowly.”
“Good to know. If only golf weren’t so damn boring to watch.”
I laughed. “It really fucking is.”
We grabbed our carts and started our walk down the fairway, which took us away from nearby members and activity. In other words, I wanted to speak more freely too.
“Alfie promised me manipulation,” I said. “Has it begun?”
He laughed through his nose and side-eyed me. “Not yet. I warned him that I was going to be selfish first.”
“Selfish, how?”
“By actually making it about golf,” he chuckled. “No one in my family shares my interest in the sport, and I’m trying to get back to it with more regularity. I’m two years past a long hiatus, and it would be nice to meet up with someone close to my age for a round or two every week. Kellan offered, but I like my clubs too much.”
I grinned and slowed down as we reached his ball. “Plus, he doesn’t remember a time before the internet?”
He tapped his nose, then grabbed his 7 iron.
This time, he didn’t struggle. His ball landed close to where mine was, and our walk continued.
“I suppose I could begin now,” he mused.
“Just in time for you to fuck up my game.”
He laughed at that.
I smiled and got one of my wedges ready, and I had to admit I was enjoying myself. Shan was fun. More often than not, I played with work associates or friends I had in common with my family, and they were usually older and dreadfully boring. The other times, I just played alone.
The mobster was kind enough to let me take my shot first, and I watched my ball roll closer and closer to the pocket. The green slanted a little to the east right there, so I knew it was going to take another shot, but one under par wasn’t too shabby.