Fairway Phenom (7 page)

“Name?”

“Edwards.”

“Four-forty,” the lady said. “If you’re late, you lose your time. There’s always people trying to get on the course. Busiest
one in the whole country.”

All the way home on the train, Luis was bragging — “Aw, man, I’m gonna get a hole in one! And wait till you see how far I
hit it!” — and on and on and on.

Malik really wanted to get Luis into golf, so he didn’t say anything. But he knew a storm was brewing. The first bad shot
Luis hit, there was bound to be trouble.

“What
is
that thing?” Malik held up the camouflage-patterned, padded fabric shaped like a large, elongated triangle.

“I told you, it’s my dad’s fishing-rod bag,” Luis said. “Now gimme some of your clubs to put in it.”

Malik took out the driver, the 5 wood, 3 iron, 7 iron, sand wedge, and the putter. “Here you go,” he said. He knew Luis would
complain if he didn’t give him enough clubs. Besides, Malik figured Luis might as well lug the driver and putter around, carrying
all that extra weight!

As they stood to the side of the first tee, next in line to play, Luis could not stand still. “Man, it’s already four-forty,
and we’re just chillin’ here!” he complained, hopping from one foot to the other. “It’s gonna be dark before we’re halfway
done!”

“I told you that yesterday,” Malik reminded him. “Didn’t I say we should wait till next week?”

“You didn’t tell me we had to wait around like this. Why don’t these guys hurry up?”

“There are slow people playing in front of them. You can’t just hit the ball right at them — somebody could get hurt.”

Luis had a lot to learn about golf. Malik was more than happy to teach him, showing off all he knew. But he was afraid Luis
wouldn’t want to hear it from another kid. Luis was used to being the big cheese, the coolest kid on the block. Nobody told
him what to do —
ever.

Finally, it was their turn, and they stepped up to the tee. “Me first!” Luis said, taking out the driver and putting a tee
into the ground.

Malik stepped back to watch. Good thing they were playing just the two of them. Malik wondered why that was. Hadn’t the lady
said there was a waiting list, even at this late hour?

Luis took a mighty swing, and actually hit the ball hard. But his body had been pointing in the wrong direction, and the ball
flew off to the right, toward the ninth fairway.

“Fore!” Malik yelled.

“Why you shouting like that?” Luis asked. “That shot was good!”

“Just warning the people to duck.” Malik took the driver and stepped up to hit his shot. “Keep an eye on your ball. Sometimes
people might pick it up.”

Malik’s shot was straight down the middle — one of his best shots ever. “Yes!” he hissed, shaking the club back and forth.

Silently steaming that Malik had outhit him, Luis walked off after his ball.

“Careful!” Malik called after him. “Stay out of the way of their shots!” But Luis didn’t turn around. He just kept walking.

Since Malik’s ball had gone farther, he walked up the fairway until he was parallel to Luis’s ball, and waited for him to
hit.

Luis’s back was to Malik. He took a swing but nothing happened. He took
another
swing. Nothing again — except a big divot that went flying into the air. Then Luis swung a third time, and the ball took off.
It hooked through the thin line of trees and onto the first fairway, not far from the green. “Nice shot!” Malik called. Luis
waved and put his club back in the fishing-rod bag.

Malik’s turn to hit. He was about fifty yards from the green. From the way he’d hit the other day, Malik figured he needed
a pitching wedge. But it wasn’t in his bag, and Luis was already walking toward the
green. Sighing in frustration, Malik took out the next best thing — his sand wedge — and hit it. But he had to swing extra
hard to make up for the shorter club, which threw him off, so his shot landed well short of the green. Dang! Why had he given
Luis his pitching wedge? Next time, he’d make Luis come over and give him the right club.

Luis’s ball was not quite on the green, but he took out the putter anyway. Malik knew you weren’t supposed to use a putter
if you weren’t on the green, but he didn’t say anything. He could see that Luis was already ticked off about missing the ball
twice in a row.

Luis’s putt wound up about ten feet from the hole. He putted again — without waiting for Malik to shoot, which he was supposed
to do, but oh, well — and his ball just missed. Then Luis tapped it into the hole. “Five,” he said.

Malik was about to hit his shot, but then he stopped, straightening up. “What? You had more than a five, man!”

“Did not.”

“Yes, you did. You hit three shots over on that other fairway.”

“Those were practice swings, yo.”

“You didn’t take practice swings any other time,” Malik pointed out.

“I did
that
time,” Luis said, not backing off.

“Fine,” Malik said, shaking his head. “Five. Can I hit now?” He took his shot, but he wasn’t really concentrating. The ball
sailed way too far, right over the green and into the high grass — called “the rough,” because it was rough to hit out of.

Malik hacked at the ball, missing it completely. “That was a practice swing,” he told Luis.

“Yeah, right!” Luis said.

Malik took another swing, and this time hit the ball perfectly. It looped into the air, hit the ground only four feet from
the hole, and stopped cold. Saying nothing, Malik took the putter out of Luis’s hand and putted the ball right into the cup.

“Five,” he said.

“You got a six, yo!” Luis said. “That was a shot — you were trying to hit it.”

“You got a seven, then,” Malik shot back.

“Five!”

“Fine. Two fives, and that’s that!” Malik put down two fives on his scorecard — with asterisks next to
them. On the bottom of the card, he drew another asterisk, with six and seven next to it — their real scores.

From now on, he was going to watch Luis like a hawk. He knew his friend wanted to beat him in the worst way. Well, if he was
going to do it, he’d have to do it honestly.

No way Malik was going to let Luis get away with cheating — unless, of course, he let Malik cheat, too.

Luis had a bad second hole, and an even worse third hole. Malik must have felt sorry for him, because he didn’t play too well,
either. Better than Luis, though, for sure.

By the fourth hole, Luis was showing his frustration openly. Dribbling his drive just a few feet in front of the tee, he slammed
the driver into the ground.

“Hey!” Malik said. “Easy with that club — one of my woods is already half broken from that kind of treatment.” He didn’t know
that was why, but thought it was a good guess.

“I hate these clubs!” Luis complained. “I gotta get me some real clubs, man.”

“It’s not the clubs,” Malik said. “If you want, I could show you —”

“I don’t need you to give me lessons,” Luis said hotly. “Just hit the ball, okay? Then I’m gonna take a do-over.”

“A do-over?” Malik repeated, rolling his eyes. “Okay, whatever.”

If Luis was going to play it that way, fine — so would he. From then on, whenever one of them missed badly, they dropped another
ball and hit it, not counting the extra stroke. Malik knew this made score-keeping ridiculous. But Luis kept telling him his
score after every hole, expecting Malik to write it down like it really counted.

When they finished the ninth hole and stopped for a drink in the clubhouse, Luis said, “Add it up, yo. Who’s winning?”

“We’re not playing for real,” Malik pointed out, but Luis wasn’t listening.

“Just tell me the score,” he said.

“Okay. I’ve got a forty-five, and you have a forty-seven.”

“Hey, I’m beating you, man!”

“No, Luis — lower is better, remember?”

“Oh. But it’s only two strokes, yo. And it’s my first time — I’m gonna win by the time we finish.”

“If we finish,” Malik said. “We’d better get back out there.”

“I’m on it,” Luis said, tossing his soda can and grabbing his bag. “Let’s go.”

Malik finished his bottle of water and followed Luis over to the tenth tee. The sky was getting darker, but it wasn’t because
of the time. Clouds were rolling in fast. Maybe, Malik thought, that was why there hadn’t been a waiting line at the first
tee — maybe everyone else had heard the weather forecast and stayed away.

“From now on, we play for real, okay?” Malik proposed. “No do-overs. That first nine was just for practice.”

“Okay, deal,” Luis said. “But I’m keeping score.”

“No way.”

“You don’t like it, we can both keep score.”

“Cool.” Malik breathed a sigh of relief. This time, there would be no cheating — they’d each be on guard against the other
— and it would be a real match between them. Malik had had enough of Luis’s bullying. He, Malik, was the more experienced
golfer, and he was going to beat Luis fair and square — no matter what.

He hit a tremendous drive, right down the center of the fairway, then stepped off the tee without a word.

Luis took a deep breath, swung, and hit his best shot of the day. It landed right by Malik’s ball, then bounced another twenty
yards. Luis turned to Malik with a smirk of pride on his face. He, too, said nothing. The match was on.

Responding to the challenge, both boys played their best golf of the day. Malik had to admit that Luis was a fast learner.
Oh, sure, his swing was too long and too fast, but he was a good natural athlete, and that made up for a lot. With some lessons,
Malik thought, he really could be great.

Man, what he himself wouldn’t have given for half a dozen lessons from Thurman — or Al Sheinman at the driving range. Maybe
Al would let him help out around the range in exchange for some lessons.…

They were tied after the fifteenth hole, when the first clap of thunder sounded.

“Now what do we do?” Malik said. They were as far from the clubhouse as they could be. It would take them a good ten minutes
to walk back — maybe five if they ran full speed.

“We play faster,” Luis said. “The thunder’s still far away. Just hit.”

Malik had his doubts. He had seen a news story on TV once about a golfer hit by lightning. The guy was in a coma for a week
before he pulled through. The story said golfers were “at risk,” because of the metal in their clubs, and that they weren’t
supposed to hide under a tree, but stop immediately and head for the clubhouse.

“I think we’d better quit,” Malik said, hearing another distant rumble of thunder.

“You quit, I win,” Luis said.

Malik bit his lip. Luis would tell
everyone
that he’d beaten Malik his first time out on the course. He’d say Malik was a quitter and a chicken.

Malik stepped up to the tee and hit his drive. It duck-hooked off to the left and down a rocky slope. Luis tried to hide his
smile of satisfaction as he took the driver out of Malik’s hands.

Luis’s drive was right down the middle of the fairway. Malik swallowed hard. If Luis beat him on this hole, the sixteenth,
he’d have only two holes to make a comeback. And if the thunder got any closer, he might not even get the chance!

His only hope was to tie Luis on this hole. That way, if the storm came, it would be Luis who chickened out and said, “Let’s
quit now.” The match would end in a tie. That would be okay with Malik. He didn’t need to win — just to not get beaten.

He walked down the fairway, then cut to the left to find his ball. Luis could see Malik from the center of the fairway, but
he couldn’t see Malik’s ball, which was halfway down the slope, lodged behind a rock.

There was no way Malik could hit it. If he dropped the ball back onto the fairway, he’d have to take a penalty stroke, and
Luis would win the hole!

Thunder rumbled, closer now. It was do or die. Malik heard the little voice of temptation in his head.
Go ahead, drop another ball,
it said.
Drop it onto the grass where you have a clear shot to the green, but where Luis can’t see you do it.

Malik felt in his pocket for his spare ball. There it was. A sudden twinge of guilt hit him, and he almost stopped himself.
But when he heard Luis yell, “Come on!” he took out the ball and dropped it on an open patch of grass. Then he pulled out
his nine iron and hit a perfect shot!

The ball landed on the green, not far from the
hole. “Hey!” Luis shouted in obvious dismay. “Good shot, yo!”

“Thanks,” Malik said, his voice humble. He sure hoped Luis wouldn’t notice the guilt that had to be written all over his face.

Luis’s second shot fell short of the green, and he whacked the ground with his club again. Malik didn’t stop him. Luis had
a right to be mad — if he knew what had
really
just happened, he’d be furious.

Malik dropped his second putt for a par — four. Luis got a five. The thunder drew closer and closer. “Come on, man, let’s
quit now!” Malik urged.

“You quit, I win,” Luis repeated, stalking off the green and over to the seventeenth tee.

Malik followed, watching the darkening sky and wondering if they were both going to get fried.