by Liz Fichera
I didn’t answer.
*
Instead of numbness the following week at school, I felt embarrassment. I didn’t need a cell phone or bionic ears to know that the Saturday night fight was all anyone was talking about.
In the cafeteria, I’d overheard that cell-phone photos of Sam and Ryan were being texted around everywhere. Someone had said something stupid and cruel on Facebook about Sam. About me. Even about Kelly, the nicest person I’d ever known. I did my best to tune it out but was only mildly successful. Like before, I clung to golf, the only thing in my life I could control.
The following Thursday after lunch, the Lone Butte golf team boarded a bus to the Glendale Golf Club. I sat alone in the first row, my usual spot, facing the window.
Coach Lannon, mercifully, did not insist that Ryan sit beside me.
Ryan hadn’t tried to talk to me since Saturday night, and that was fine with me. If things had been weird before between us, they were in-a-parallel-universe weirder now. At least he was leaving me alone, which, I supposed, was better for everybody.
That didn’t mean that I wasn’t completely aware that Ryan was sitting two rows behind me next to Zack Fisher with his iPod jammed in his ears. The volume was so loud that I could hear electric guitar blaring from Ryan’s earbuds two rows up. On Monday, he’d had a welt on his cheekbone from Sam’s punch, but now it was just a pale purple bruise, like a birthmark. He kept some of it hidden behind his sunglasses. Sam had a similar one on his left cheek, so I supposed they were even.
Once everyone boarded, the driver pulled out of the parking lot and Coach Lannon started to bark out pairings and tidbits about the Glendale Golf Club course that he had scribbled on his clipboard.
“Don’t forget there’s water on sixteen.”
“Watch out for the tricky sand trap in front of the third hole—it’s right in front of the green.”
“Stay strong.”
“Stay hydrated.”
“Keep your heads down.”
“Be the ball.”
I listened to all of his cautionary words and watched his lips move, but the only thing that mattered was this: “Fred, you’ll be paired with Ryan again. You two had the lowest scores last week.” In golfspeak, low was good.
I nodded at the coach, but I didn’t turn to acknowledge Ryan. Following that breaking news, you could’ve cut the silence inside the bus with a chain saw.
Focus, Fred, I reminded myself a half hour later when the bus pulled up alongside the bag drop at the Glendale Golf Club.
Focus. You’ve got to focus.
I was the first person off the bus right behind Coach Lannon. I was also the first to grab my bag before walking to the first tee. Midway down the cart path, two men and one woman began asking me all sorts of nosy questions. They’d blocked the path with their bodies, so I had to stop.
“How does it feel to be the only girl on an all-boys’ team?” asked the red-haired woman. She clutched a small notepad with a pen poised above it.
“Where’d you learn how to play, Fred?” asked the younger man. He was kind of good-looking in a shiny way, and I thought I recognized him from one of the local TV stations. Weirdly, he looked smaller in real life. He thrust a tape recorder the size of a pen underneath my chin.
“Planning any new strategies this week?” the older man asked. I recognized him from the first tournament, Notebook Guy with the gray sideburns. He’d called me “the girl with the golden arm” in the newspaper. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said about my swing—not including Ryan, of course.
My eyes jumped to each of them, unblinking, just as Coach Lannon caught up behind me.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Can you save the questions for after we play?”
The threesome nodded reluctantly.
The coach stayed with me till we reached the tee box. “Don’t mind those sports reporters, Fred. I’ll keep an eye out for them. They’re only doing their job.”
I nodded. “But why aren’t they asking anyone else questions?”
“They will. For now you’re the novelty.”
“Because I’m a girl?” Or an Indian girl?
Coach Lannon smiled and pushed his sunglasses above his forehead like he wanted to make sure I saw the meaning in his eyes. He leaned closer. “Because you’re good.”
I swallowed, considering this.
“Put it out of your mind, Fred, and just play golf.” His voice turned softer. “Have fun out there, okay?”
“Okay, Coach.” But I didn’t plan to have fun. I planned to be the best. I planned to win.
The coach turned back down the path toward the bus and the other players.
I stood alone at the edge of the first tee box and began to fidget with my hands. But as soon as I gazed across the fairway, I completely forgot all about the reporters, Ryan and everything else.
There were twice as many spectators on the fairway as last week and most of them were staring at me, including Kelly, Yolanda, Sam and Peter. Even Vernon Parker was with them. Being a freshman, he had to have ditched school to be here. They all waved when I spotted them. Just seeing them turned my throat raw with an unexpected lump.
Kelly had told me yesterday during lunch that they were thinking of attending the tournament today but I’d thought they were only being nice. That would be like them. Because why would a bunch of Rez kids want to drive forty miles to watch a golf tournament, especially when golf was about as popular on the Rez as ice hockey? “We’re planning to come if my dad can get my truck working by then,” Kelly had told me. “We’re proud of you. Everybody’s proud. Don’t forget that, Fred. My little sister even asked my dad for golf clubs! Said she wants to play like you.”
There were a few other people from the Rez, including the most recognizable one: George Trueblood.
George Trueblood was sort of a legend on the Rez but mostly in his own mind. He didn’t claim to be Gila; he claimed to belong to all of the Tribes. He called himself a Pipatsje. He hung out most days at the Gila Community Center, didn’t work much, but he didn’t give anyone trouble either. He believed that he was an Indian Chief, and no one would ever tell him he wasn’t. The elders let him lead parades, sit in the inner circle during community meetings, tell old legends and stories at the Rez school, and allowed him honorary positions that I was guessing he probably didn’t otherwise deserve. Everyone loved George Trueblood. He’d even stayed in our trailer a few times when the desert nights grew too cold to sleep outdoors.
But the golf course was hardly the Rez. No one would understand George Trueblood like we did.
I cringed inwardly at his clothes and felt guilty in the next instant for my embarrassment. He was dressed in a buckskin jacket with fringe along both arms even though it still felt like August. A green-and-blue beaded band wrapped around his shiny forehead. His marble-black hair stretched down to the small of his black in a single tight braid. The strands were sprinkled with gray. On the Rez, I didn’t give George Trueblood and his strange ways a second thought. Off the Rez, he stood out even more than I did.
“Here’s a new sleeve,” Coach Lannon said, walking back toward the tee. He handed me a box with three white golf balls.
“Thanks.” My eyes swept over the crowd that had formed around the first hole. Every time I blinked, the crowd swelled. This week, Principal Graser was in the crowd, standing out in his blue suit. He and Coach Lannon exchanged a wave.
I threaded my golf bag higher across my shoulder, letting its weight balance as much as steady me. Then I squeezed the golf glove peeking out of my back pocket for luck.
Coach Lannon removed his visor and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “There’s one other thing,” he said.
I turned to him, waiting, expecting more news on golf pairings or something.
“The starter is telling me that the tall man over there insists on saying an Indian blessing before the tournament starts.”
“His
name is George Trueblood,” I corrected him.
The coach paused. “Okay,” he said. “Mr. Trueblood. But what d’you think? Would you like him to do it? Your call.”
I swallowed, considering this, as my eyes drifted back to the crowd. They landed on my friends from the Rez. Normally our prayers and blessings were considered sacred and not shared outside the tribe, but I wondered if we should make an exception today. “Yes,” I said, surprising myself. “Let him.”
Coach Lannon glanced down at me and smiled. “Well, okay, then. You got it.”
“A blessing can’t hurt,” I added, lifting my chin.
The coach tilted his head. “Can’t argue with that.” Then he turned to the starter and yelled, “Okay, Ron.” He swirled his forefinger in the air.
Ron, the starter, wore a black-and-white-striped golf shirt. He motioned to George Trueblood.
I caught Kelly staring at me, trying to get my attention. She stood next to George Trueblood. Her shoulders shrugged apologetically, but I smiled back and shook away her apology with my head. A few minutes isn’t going to hurt anybody, I tried to tell her.
George Trueblood stepped onto the fairway, one worn moccasin at a time. From a distance, his shoes looked like brown socks. He walked straight and held his chin high. When he raised his arm, the crowd turned silent. The fringe from his jacket fluttered downward like a dozen arrows. If his deep voice hadn’t commanded everyone’s attention, the sharp edges to his weathered face would have. Even the doves and the cactus wrens turned silent in the trees that lined the fairway—at least I imagined that they did.
“What’s he saying?” someone whispered behind me.
“Hell if I know,” another voice answered.
“He sounds like he’s grunting,” laughed another.
More chuckling.
Coach Lannon turned his head and glared. “Show some respect, boys.”
I swallowed back an angry breath as I struggled to concentrate on George Trueblood’s words. I’d probably heard them a dozen times. Even though I didn’t understand everything, I certainly got his meaning.
“What’s he saying?” The coach whispered beside me, his arms crossed over his chest.
I hesitated. But the coach nudged me again.
So I translated,
May the warm winds of Heaven blow softly on your house;
May the Great Spirit bless all who gather here.
May your moccasins make happy tracks in many snows;
And may the Rainbow always touch your shoulder.1
My eyes never left George Trueblood as he spoke. When he lowered his long arms, Coach Lannon turned to me and whispered, “Is he done?”
I nodded without looking at him and watched as people began to fidget along the fairway. A few even clapped, but clapping wasn’t necessary.
George Trueblood turned to me. His expression smiled at me, even though his lips never moved.
I nodded at him, grateful.
“Finally,” someone muttered behind me.
“Jeez, let’s get started,” said another.
The coach turned toward the voices and sighed with exasperation, shaking his head. Then he turned to me. “You and Ryan are up, Fred. Good luck.”
The starter blew his whistle. Twice. The sound pierced the sky, and the people standing closest to him had to cover their ears.
I strode to the top of the tee box, my expression frozen. I was determined to win this tournament. And I’d already played the first hole in my mind: I’d reach the green in two strokes.
I didn’t even notice Ryan standing behind me till he spoke. “Fred,” he said. “Do you—”
His voice sliced through my concentration. “Please don’t talk to me, Ryan.” I plucked my driver from my bag. “Let’s just play golf.”
Ryan lifted his palms and backed away a step. “I was just going to ask you if you wanted to go first,” he said evenly.
“Oh,” I replied in a small voice. But then I said, “I’d rather flip for it,” finally looking back at him. It was the first time that we’d looked directly at each other since Saturday night. My eyes quickly swept across his face, long enough to notice his bloodshot eyes, the bruise on his cheek. Even his golf shirt was wrinkled.
Ryan won the coin toss, calling tails.
We were paired with two other players from Glendale High. They kept staring at me like I was some sort of freak. The golf-girl freak.
I walked the course alone, but the vast majority of spectators followed my foursome from hole to hole. Ryan didn’t attempt to talk to me again. The only person who checked on me was Coach Lannon as he flew across the path on his golf cart tracking the team. My Rez friends didn’t say anything, just gave an encouraging nod and smile here and there. That was all I needed.
By the ninth hole, I’d managed to par six of the holes and birdie two. I probably would have birdied three if I hadn’t caught the eye of Seth Winter and Gwyneth Riordan on the opposite side of the putting green, directly in my line of sight.
On purpose?
You never knew with Seth Winter.
Gwyneth blue Ryan a kiss as he waited on the green behind me, and I felt my stomach lurch as I tried to line up my putt. I three-putted and cursed myself for losing my concentration. It would not happen again.
By the tenth hole, on a short par four, I got my first eagle of the day, and the crowd erupted in approval. “Fred Oday is in the lead,” I heard people murmur as I walked the cart path to the eleventh hole. Even Ryan muttered, “Nice hole.” I said nothing back, refusing to look at him. Instead, I searched the crowd for familiar faces—Kelly, Yolanda, George Trueblood, even Sam. When I found them, I smiled, and they waved their arms overhead, energizing me.
I birdied the eleventh hole and parred the twelfth and the thirteenth. For the next four holes, I blocked out all voices around me, even the few friendly ones. The world moved in graceful slow motion, and the colors blended together again at the edges, muted and wispy, as I found my rhythm. My only focus was the golf ball and landing it inside the hole with as few strokes as possible. My swing was the only thing I could control; it was the only thing that made sense. I loved it when I found my zone, and I was definitely inside its warm and calming embrace in this tournament.
After I sank my final putt on the eighteenth hole, Coach Lannon’s voice was the first sound to break my trance. I blinked, and the world started to spin faster again. The colors turned sharper and more vibrant. I heard clapping, floating in my direction in waves. It was almost like I’d returned to my body from some far-off place.
“You’ve won, Fred. Again!” Coach Lannon roared. “And we’re gonna win our fifth tournament, thanks to you. Can you say state championship?” He patted my back, harder this time, and I stumbled forward with only my right foot to keep me from crashing to the ground.
I forced a tight smile, mostly from the shock of the back slap, as the coach led me by my elbow to the white tent at the edge of the parking lot where each player was required to return a signed scorecard to the tournament officials. The three reporters with their notepads and tape recorders trailed a few steps behind us, closer than before. Ryan followed somewhere alongside me.
Just as we were about to enter the tent, the starter stopped us.
“Hold on, there,” he said, pulling on the coach’s left shoulder.
“What’s up, Ron?” Coach Lannon said.
The starter cleared his throat, scratched the side of his head and then said, “There’s been some talk among the players, Larry…” He avoided eye contact with me.
“Talk?” Coach Lannon’s hand dropped from my back as he turned to face him. His chin lifted. “What kind of talk?”
The starter cleared his throat again. “Someone got a look at the girl’s bag.” He nodded at me, as if there would have been a question about which girl.
Coach Lannon chuckled. “Yeah? So it’s a little loud, I’ll grant you that. So what?”
The starter’s head tilted. “It’s not t
he outside, Larry. It’s what’s inside. Each player can only carry fourteen clubs. You know that. It’s PGA regulation. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.”
Coach Lannon blinked, slowly, like someone was waking him from his own private trance, too. Then he turned to my bag. It still hung over my shoulder. “Let me see your bag, Fred.” His fingers fluttered at me.
I let the strap slip off my shoulder. It landed on the pavement in front of me with a heavy thunk.
The coach and the starter placed their hands on either side of it. “One, two, three…” Coach Lannon began counting. “Four, five, six,” he said.
“Seven, eight, nine.” The starter counted, too, tapping the tops of each club with his pen.
“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” They both paused.
My breathing stopped.
“Fifteen,” they said in unison. Coach Lannon’s eyes bulged like someone had just squeezed his neck.
“Wait a minute,” I said, pushing the clubs around. My eyes locked on to all of them at once. I knew my clubs like I knew my own name. Each one was mismatched, a little rusty around the shafts, and scratched and pitted where they should be shiny and smooth. All except one.
In the middle, wedged between my irons, I pulled out a two-iron. It was long—too long for my height, shiny and barely used.
And I’d never seen it before.
“This isn’t mine.” I turned it in my hands. I knew the rules about the limits on clubs. And I knew you had to finish a tournament with the clubs you started with. I wasn’t looking for an unfair advantage.
*
A crowd began to gather around us.
The starter tilted his head to the side, finally acknowledging my existence. “But it was in your bag,” he said to me.
“You heard her, Ron,” Coach Lannon said. “I believe her. It’s not her club.”
The starter sighed, pointed to the club. “But it was in her bag,” he said again, as if the coach had a hearing problem. “I saw it with my own eyes. There’s no denying it.”
