Page 5 of Sweet Spot
I step away, and luckily, Mark follows. When the boys spot us, they stop warming up and move in our direction, clearly ready to get started. There’s so much excitement on their faces that I can’t help but feel a little more energized myself.
Mark and I stand in the center as they form a half circle around us.
“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to Lincoln Reeves. It’s a real honor to have him here today. He knows more about golf than all of us combined, so if he tells you something, take it as gospel.”
I bite back a laugh, knowing it probably cost Mark a little pride to give me that much credit. It isn’t as if he doesn’t mean it; I’m here because he wanted the best. But the relationship Mark and I had as kids included a lot more ribbing and jokes at one another’s expense than flowery compliments. Blame it on growing up together, competing against one another, and knowing all each other’s embarrassing childhood shit. Regardless, I appreciate him having my back with that asshole coach of the girls’ team and with his guys.
After thanking Mark and saying hello to the boys, I lead the group to one end of the driving range and go over some tips on technique specific to the driver, demonstrating as I talk. It isn’t overly complicated to understand, but putting it into practice is much more difficult.
When I’m done, I send them off to work on it, giving them about five minutes before I grab my camera and tripod. Going down the line, I film each of their swings from behind and the side, offer a few quick tips or corrections, and then move on. I don’t have time to completely analyze each swing, but I can pinpoint fundamental issues on the fly, so I do my best to give each of them helpful, individualized feedback.
I keep it lighthearted and fun, knowing they’ll perform better if they’re relaxed instead of worried about being perfect. Clinics are supposed to be inspiring, otherwise, what’s the point? I even find myself smiling and enjoying myself as I stand back and watch each kid take a couple of swings.
There’s always this moment as a coach or a lover of any sport where you’re holding your breath, hoping to be awed. I’d be lying if I said any of them succeed.
Smith Jacobson, Mark’s star athlete, has a decent swing, but it lacks power, and he’s missing confidence and tenacity. Every time he hits a bad shot, he takes five minutes setting up for the next, overthinking it and second-guessing himself. But, all in all, they’re a good group of kids, and with some work and experience, they’ll be all right.
“You’re good with them.” Mark nods toward his players. “If the site flops, I could use another good coach here.” He elbows me so I know he’s joking. “Love to have you back any time.”
We’re standing back twenty feet or so from the range. Time is up, but all the guys are still working, so I linger. I bet they’ve each hit close to two hundred balls. They have to be exhausted, but they’re pushing through on fumes and dreams.
“I’ll try to get the videos uploaded and sent to you tomorrow.”
“No rush. I appreciate it,” he says earnestly. “In a year or two, you’re going to have so much business you aren’t going to be able to keep up. Your grandfather would be proud.”
I soften at the mention of Pop. “Thanks, Mark. That’s a problem I’m looking forward to solving.”
Mark extends his hand, and we shake. “It was good to see you, Lincoln. Don’t be a stranger.”
By the time I pack up, Mark and his team have moved down the first hole. The late afternoon sun has started to descend, casting the sky in pink and orange. I stop and take it in, trying to remember the last time I hit a few balls for fun.
Another year, maybe two, and then I will be able to find a better balance. I’ve already found more success than I ever could have imagined when I’d had a moment of drunken brilliance to take the business my grandfather started forty years ago and expand it.
It’s taken longer, been harder, and required more sacrifice than expected, but it’s also brought a sense of pride and accomplishment that is beyond anything golf alone has ever given me.
I step back, scanning the horizon and soaking up this feeling so I can pocket it for a reminder the next time I’m going on two hours of sleep and want to give up.
A pure, hardthwacksnaps me from my daydream. I find and follow the ball as it sails beautifully high and straight down the line.
“Damn,” I mutter and start toward whoever hit it. I need to shake this kid’s hand and, more importantly, see if he can do it twice. Anyone can get lucky and hit a shot like that once, but great golf comes from consistency.
My pace slows as I get closer. Confusion sets in, not because I was wrong and a chick hit it but because this girl in particular looks nothing like I would have expected. For one, she’s small.
The average woman on the LPGA is only five foot four, but I don’t think this girl is even that tall. And she’s thin. Toned, but not overly muscular like I’d expect someone driving the ball that far. Otherwise, she looks the part in a black golf skirt and matching long-sleeved shirt.
I don’t know where she gets her power, but I’m intrigued. She’s setting up another ball, so I hang back and watch. Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait to see what she can do.
She lets out a long breath as if she’s trying to calm herself. Dark hair, which has a reddish tint under the remaining sunlight, hangs over her shoulders and falls in her eyes. She jabs at it twice with one hand, only to have it fall right back in her face.
Resting the grip of the club against her stomach to free her hands, she pulls the long mane back into a ponytail and secures it with a bright-pink scrunchie from her wrist. Her frustration is evident, but I don’t think her hair is the problem.
Finally, she’s ready, and I find myself holding my breath as she swings. She’s more powerful than most the guys I helped today, swinging in a way that makes me wonder who the hell she’s picturing as the ball.
I watch as she hits three more awe-worthy shots before I approach her. “Nice swing.”
“Thanks,” she says without looking back at me. She switches from a driver to a seven iron. This time, she doesn’t hit the ball square on, and it hooks to the left. Her jaw tenses, and instead of taking her time and a minute to compose herself, she goes right for the next ball with a similar result. It takes five shitty shots before she growls her frustration. “Damn it.”
“Can I offer you some advice?”
