Page 28 - Demo

Win the Game (continued from page 12)
certain things. When it comes to the house and Ka- trina, I need a lot of direction.” He reached for his can of beer and gulped loudly. “Dads. We’re spectators. We watch until the coach puts us in the game. Peyton puts me in the game when she needs me. Tells me the plays. And I wait, because when she calls me, she’s really saying, “Gil! Get in there. Win the game for me.” And so I do.’
“You sure?” “Sure, I’m sure.”
“I win the game, Kelly. And you can, too.” ~
They saw one of the men clasp a hand to his head and go to the ground. The other men turned their way and shook their fists in the air.
Kelly found his rhythm as the day progressed; he surprised himself with four pars on the front nine, and a chip-in birdie on the 11th. But Gil was mastery on the course, no matter where the ball landed. He knew which club to hit, he only ever took one prac- tice swing, and he oozed an easy confidence. On the 12th, Kelly watched as he lined up for a forty-foot uphill putt.
“Good lord,” said Kelly.
“Watch this, Kel. This bastard’s going in.” He tapped the ball firmly and talked to it, cajoling it, directing it as it sped towards the hole. “Get up, get up, get up!! Now, now, break, break!” And the ball got up and the ball broke and tipped neatly into the hole and Gil clenched his fist in silent triumph, having released his spirit upon it, having challenged and won.
“Go down there. Tell’em you’ve got glaucoma or something.”
Kelly high-fived the other man and watched as he danced back to the cart. There was something un- apologetic about Gil. His father Arnie had it, too. Take me, or leave me, they seemed to say, and the world took them.
“I’m so sorry about this,” said Kelly, offering his hand. “I’ve never hit that far before.”
“But I’m not that,” he thought. “I’m just not.”
Kelly got beers from their cart and handed one to the man. Early seventies, he thought. Like his father.
By the 18th, a short Par 4 down into the valley, Gil was wobbling on his feet and still playing something close to par golf. The big man stepped up on the tee. “Last hole, Kel. I’m gonna punish this fuckin’ ball.”
He heard something ring—it sounded like those old
Kelly surprised himself by pushing the other man aside. “No, I want to hit first.”
Gil shrugged and Kelly stepped up. An elderly four- some were fanning their clubs in the tall brown grass down on the fairway and he paused.
“Maybe I should wait. They look close.”
Gil spat out his cigarette and squinted out over the valley. “Don’t worry. They’re way out of range.”
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Kelly pulled the club back and swung; a sharp crack echoed in the still fall air.
Gil looked, then yelled. “Fore, you bastards! Fore!”
“Thank God it wasn’t me,” Gil said. “Peyton would murder me if I knocked off one of those old guys.”
“Thanks,” said Kelly. “What do we do?”
“But...” They sped down the gravel path into the val- ley; Gil skidded the cart at the bottom and Kelly tumbled out.
The man was sitting in his cart, rubbing his head.
“No harm done,” said the man, grinning. “I’ve had worse.” Gil already had the other men all laughing together. “Brewskis for everyone,” he called, and the other men hooted loudly.