The sliver of sunlight makes the green-on-steroids of the fairways pop against the flat water of Emerald Lake. This morning, the lake looks more black than bejeweled, its surface slipcovered with reflections of the shaded evergreens on the opposite shore.
Nestled in a low channel between mountains, Grey Tusk naturally has a handful of lakes. Emerald is the biggest. It used to have a wetland at the east end; now it has a golf course.
Stellar wasn’t quite right when she said I hated golf; what I hate is that there’s a golf coursehere. In a town where space is so precious the community center has to split field time with the highschool, this course sprawls over thirty acres. In a place famous for mountains, people spent millions bulldozing a place to play flat sports. Tourists travel hours or even days to reach our unique ecosystem, just to play a game they could access anywhere.
Even when you’re a world-class resort destination, there’s no room to be different.
Béa rubs her hands together as we walk toward White Oaks. “It is the bum of dawn,” she mutters, her French Canadian accent twanging. “Golf. Who enjoys playing at this hour?”
“It’s ‘ass crack of dawn.’ And probably no one. It’s like waxing—the opposite of fun, and you talk about it more than you actually do it. But you still sort of feel like you have to, uh, keep up.”
“Ass crack. Thank you,” Béa says.
Around the corner of the snooty clubhouse—a modern, airy echo of the Village’s cedar beams and slate-gray roofs—Sharon’s chatting with a white-haired foursome. She looks crisp in pristine white golf shoes, a tailored polo, and a single glove. Her visor—white with a clear green shade—is one I’ve never seen worn unironically.
I’m envious for a hot second. Like Tobin, Sharon is 100 percent okay with herself, so nobody blinks at her choice of headgear. What’s it like, to jam whatever you want on your head and dare people to judge?
Spotting us, Sharon waves. “I know it’s early, but there are fewer assholes on the course first thing in the morning. We’ll get played through a few times. Don’t let it bother you.”
“Sure.” I nod like I understood anything other than “assholes.” My expeditions to the driving range didn’t come with vocabulary lessons.
Béa practices her swing, following through with an easy grace that leaves me gaping.
“Nice form. Did you say you’ve played before?” Sharon heftsa driver that’s almost as big as my head. It’s got its own name, inscribed in fancy golden lettering: “Heavy Betty.”
“Varsity softball.” Béa flashes a grin. “You swing one stick…”
“I haven’t swunganysticks,” I admit, as cheerfully as I can muster, which is not very. I didn’t know if there would be bathrooms on the course, so I only drank half a cup of coffee and my brain is smarting.
“It’s fine,” Sharon says, waving my fears away. “Golf isn’t about that.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nope,” she says, waving us forward. “You have to hit the ball. Straight, if possible. But the most important thing in golf is—pay attention—not caring.”
“The men at the museum talk only about golf. I think they care too much.” Béa does a fancy spinning trick with her club.
I try a twirl with mine, dropping it halfway through one tangled-up rotation. It hammers a divot into the perfect uniformity of the fairway.
I’ve been here five minutes, and already golf has made me its bitch.
The white-haired foursome glares as I attempt to reshape the lawn with my shoe. Their matching pink shirts look sweet, until you see the logo on the back that says “Senior Hitizens.” There’s a bloodthirsty drawing of a stick figure giving a golf club beatdown to another stick figure, whose legs bend in too many places.
“Have fun, if you can. But caring is a luxury you don’t have, especially if you’re bad.” Sharon shakes Betty at me. Béa preens.
“Even if you’re good,” Sharon says, rounding on Béa. “Youwillhave bad days out here. You don’t get angry. You don’t cry. You don’t forget to network. Winning, on the golf course, has nothing to do with the game.”
“Jesus, Sharon,” I blurt, brushing soil off the handle of my stick. “What is this,Fight Club?”
Sharon considers. “Close enough. Let’s go.”
I am terrible at golf. No, horrible. I hit three shots to every two of Béa’s and one of Sharon’s.
Sharon is a fountain of tips: searching for your ball in the weeds takes time and pisses people off; grab a new ball (from a bucket of cheap scavenged ones) and take the penalty. Don’t cheat, because some dick wad’s counting your shots, waiting for his chance to put you down in front of the boss. Whatever score you get, you love that score. You’re not embarrassed; you don’t apologize. You’re havingfun.
I think golf is about failing joyfully. It seems implausible that the score doesn’t matter, but then again, I also thought work was about work, when actually a lot of it is about who your friends are. In retrospect, I think Bethany and Jingjing got me into the pitch competition with their sneaky support. I make a mental note to ask them to critique my presentation before the big day.
By the fourth tee, I might be having fun. Béa’s hit a rough patch, so I’m only the worst by a kilometer, instead of a mile. I step past the pro tee, past the respectable tee, all the way to the kiddie tee on the edge of a steep drop-off.
