There was a gouge in a groove he hadn’t seen before.
His nine iron.
Barnes yanked it from the bag and left it in the garage lest he get drunk and forget.
Wait.
Calabrese, his attorney, demanded he stay dry during the divorce proceedings.
He hadn’t golfed sober since he was 14.
Barnes came out of the pisser and felt a nail in his wrist.
Amanda.
Two days shy of sixteen, furious at the world in general, at him in particular.
“I can’t believe you’re going golfing when you and mom are getting divorced.”
He wanted to scream “she filed, not me.”
He said, “it’s for charity, I signed up months ago.”
“I fucking hate you,” Amanda said.
Channeling Han Solo, he said: “I know.”
Cordero honked, Barnes grabbed his bag and shuffled out to the car.
Cordero talked about breathing rhythms through the swing plane, how oxygen actually affected your balance and body mass.
Barnes just wanted a whiskey & lemonade and a hot dog.
At the turn, Barnes had the shakes.
Luckily Michaels was in his foursome and could bang the ball.
Barnes left three balls in the gorse in the shadows of some blue spruces and one up against the wall of a portajohn.
Cordero started talking about the breathing thing again.
There was a bar cart. Two girls in red bikinis with million-dollar smiles and $3500 dollar tits.
Barnes walked over.
He was trying to use Cordero’s Zen breathing advice to not order a whiskey.
The W was on his lips.
“Wa, water please,” he said, blushing.
“Water is underrated,” one of the girls said. Barnes’s hand trembled as he went to put a five in the tip jar.
“Good luck,” the girl said as Barnes turned to walk back to the tee box. He turned back. He wanted to believe the smile, at least, was real.
“Thanks.” He walked up to the tee box.
Par 3. Barnes would have pulled his nine iron, but it was on the floor of his garage.
“Don’t overthink it,” Cordero said.
Barnes thought Cordero was talking about the girl at the bar cart. He hoped Amanda didn’t ask for tits for her birthday.
Barned pulled his sand wedge and banged it. It was going right…maybe the wind would help…but who cares? The ball dropped short of the green and took a weird bounce.
“You’re rolling,” Michaels said.
Barnes was slipping the wedge back into the bag.
“You’re rolling,” Michaels said louder.
Barnes turned.
The ball took a sharp left at an undulation in the green and dropped in the hole.
His foursome and their opponents went nuts.
Past the pond beyond the green, up on a huge display stand in the shape of the corporate logo, was a Mercedes.
***
Barnes’s bar tab was $1729 before tip.
He used Cordero’s breathing technique to combat the anxiety that his debit card would be declined.
The rep from the Mercedes dealership talked about his sobriety, while Barnes sipped his water reluctantly.
Barnes, for the first time in months, hoped Amanda would be home when he got there.
She was.
“Happy early Birthday,” Barnes said, handing Amanda the envelope.
“What’s this?” Amanda snarled.
“It’s the paperwork to get your new Mercedes on Monday.”
“You can’t afford a Mercedes, Dad. This is dumb.”
“I won it.”
“Mom despises your gambling.”
“This wasn’t a wager, it was skill. Sort of.”
“You’re really getting me a Mercedes?” Amanda said, seemingly warming up to the idea.
“I got you a Mercedes. Done deal. I’ll sign for it, put it in my name, but it’s yours. Happy Birthday, Mandy. I know I’m a shitty dad, but I love you.”
“Is it electric?”
“No, it’s not electric. Regular, old-fashioned petroleum.”
“Daaaaad,” Amanda said, triggering Cordero’s breathing technique in Barnes. “I’m president of the fucking Climate Action Committee at school.”
“Well, now ya have a nice car to drive to the meetings in.”
Amanda threw the voucher on the floor.
“I hate you,” she screamed.
Barnes bent to pick up the voucher.
“I know.”
***
Unless you hate me.
It probably won’t help, but it’s a nice gesture.
***
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
Nice use of humor on a tough subject.
A fun loop of activity. (Punctuated by “I hate you.”) Nicely done.