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Dignified
Mallory
Golf is a dignified sport. Precise. Contemplative. Restrained.Dignified.
I’m standing here on the eighteenth green, watching Holland Bradley line up his putt to win the Carolina Cup, and on the outside, I, too, am dignified. My crisp black polo shirt is tucked primly into my white skort. Not a wrinkle in sight. My copper hair is pulled into a spandex tight power ponytail. My mouth is set in a neutral line, my eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. One trickle of sweat makes a slow path down the back of my neck, but otherwise, I’m a verified vault. Everything is locked down. I’m basically a statue, no shred of emotion to be found. I learned years ago what happens when you let your emotions come into play, and let’s just say, there’s a good reason I keep my mask firmly in place.
On the inside, though? On the inside, my heart is hammering with the force of a drum line. My pulse is whirling with the velocity of a tornado. I am silently screaming into the void. My sunglasses hide the way my eyes dart from Holland to the hole and back to Holland again.
He’s got a nine-foot putt for the win. Nine measly feet. For most golfers, this distance would be in their comfort zone. Not a tap in, certainly, but a higher-percentage shot than most.
But Holland is not most golfers. He’s actually a better putter from ten-plus feet. The man seems to do well when the stakes are higher. Go figure.
But nine feet? Nine feet might be his Achilles heel.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from actually letting out a scream. Behavior like that from anyone standing in the gallery of the final hole on this idyllic course would be frowned upon, but especially from a professional like me. I’m Holland’s golf coach. I know the rules of the sport I’ve made my life. Even though I’ve got a crazed banshee jailed inside of me clamoring to be set free, I keep an even expression plastered on my face.
Holland takes a few practice putts, his club like an extra appendage, hinging in the center of his stance. He steps up to the ball and adjusts his shoulders ever so slightly, lining them up with where he intends to hit the ball, not with the hole where he wants the ball to end up. This is a skill we’ve worked on ad nauseum. He’s read the green. He knows his putt needs to start to the left before hitting a downslope and curving back in the direction of the hole. The angles and equations at play in our sport would make a mathematician dizzy.
I watch in slow motion as Holland blows out a breath, pauses to collect himself for a beat, and then takes his putt. Immediately after he makes contact, someone yells, “Get in the hole!” and the silence in the gallery is broken with a collective gasp and a smattering of cheers.
I go up onto my tiptoes and lean slightly to the side, my eyes locked on Holland’s ball as it catches a good line. It takes less than three seconds from the point of contact until the ball drops with the most satisfying plop into the hole.
The crowd erupts into a full-fledged celebration. Holland raises his hands over his head and heaves his putter into the air before he turns to his caddy, a guy named Steve who I adore, and embraces him in a firm hug.
Me? I keep the same dang neutral expression on my face. I show no emotion with victory, just like I would have shown no emotion if he would have missed and we would have had to go to a playoff hole with Andy Mason, the veteran playing alongside him in the final pairing all day.
Holland takes off his hat and shakes Andy’s hand and Andy’s caddy’s hand, and then he catches my eye. A grin slashes over his face, and his tan skin glows in the late Sunday afternoon sun. I offer him a single nod in acknowledgement. I’m pretty sure I catch him roll his syrup-colored eyes at my lack of enthusiasm before he puts his hat back on.
He would love for me to show more excitement. I know for a fact he’s made it his mission to try to get a rise out of me, one way or another. But I am a woman coaching a man in a male-dominated world. I don’t have the luxury of wearing my emotions on my sleeve. He can get his fill of admiration from the fans.
And he does. He turns from me to the gallery and pumps his arms up and down, encouraging a chorus of cheers. Holland lives for this sort of attention, this sort of acclaim.
I duck away from the eighteenth green and the celebration, dodging animated fans on my way to the clubhouse. I do a double-take when I nearly run into Anton Bates, reigning Super Bowl MVP and quarterback for the Green Bay River Foxes. He’s got a brunette on his arm, and they’re waving in Holland’s direction—friends of his, I think.
Of course Holland has famous friends. He’s famous now too. Thanks, in no small part, to me.
I slip my phone out of my back pocket. It’s on silent. Etiquette and all. But I know my family is watching.
A slew of recent messages light up my screen, all of them in the group text I have set up with my parents and my aunt Jo. I bite back a smile as I scroll through my dad’s play-by-play reactions of the last two holes, culminating with an effusive…
Dad
HE MADE IT. YESSSSSSSSSSSSS.
Mom
Quit shouting!!
Mom
Congrats on the win, Mal. Just saw you on TV!!
Aunt Jo
Looking fierce.
