The Water Fight Professional

by Angela Ruth Strong

  * * *

  Chance had on argyle socks.

  I trudged over to him in my flip flops, already dreading the day.

  Warm Springs Golf Course was on our edge of town next to Table Rock—a plateau with a cross on it that we hike up to every Easter. Older men putted around in golf carts. Little, little kids circled a large green with a hole in the middle. “Hi, ball,” they said in unison. “Goodbye, ball.” They swung.

  I hoped to be half as good. I plopped down at a table on the patio under a striped umbrella. “Don’t tell me we are going to have to talk to our golf balls. ‘Hi, ball, what’s your name?’ Maybe I could draw a happy face on mine and pretend it’s talking back.”

  Chance frowned. “That’s just the Juniors class. We get to practice at the driving range, then play a game.” Chance could probably teach the camp.

  “Nice socks.”

  “Thanks,” he said, as if I were giving him a compliment.

  “All right, guys.” A skinny man approached us, rubbing his hands together. “Are you excited?”

  I was pretty sure he was excited enough for all of us.

  He pointed to a bin of golf clubs. “Find a driver in your size, then follow me.”

  Chance had his own clubs, so I trailed after some other boys to the bin. I grabbed the first one by the fat part and swung it around like a sword. “En garde.”

  The others pretended not to see me.

  What boring heads.

  Chance stepped in front of me and pulled out another club. “This one is your size, Joey.”

  “Thanks, Zabransky,” I muttered as we joined the boring heads at the driving range.

  Mr. Enthusiasm demonstrated the proper swing technique then had us give it a whirl.

  I was the only one who actually whirled.

  “Joey, Joey, Joey.”

  “What, what, what?”

  The guy stepped behind me and adjusted my grip. He pushed my shoulders down and had me swing the club like the pendulum on a clock for a moment. “Can you keep this arm straight and bend the other one at the same time?”

  “I can pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time.”

  “Great.” He acted excited for me, but left to help someone else as if I were hopeless.

  “Just great.” I took a deep breath and tried it again. I missed the ball.

  Chance coached me from the next tee. “Keep your head down, Joey.”

  Head down. Arm straight. Other arm bent. I pulled the club back like a baseball bat.

  Whoosh—crack. The ball shot off to one side.

  I grinned over my shoulder at Chance. Maybe I could do this after all.

  Chance’s club sliced through the air. Ping. His ball soared like one of my water balloons, landed out beyond anyone else’s shot, and rolled even farther.

  Mr. Enthusiasm was all over Chance then. “Beautiful. That was amazing. Can you do it again?”

  Chance did it again and again and again until we finally got to head out on the course.

  I flexed my fingers and rolled my head from side to side. I pulled my shoulders back and began to jog.

  “Joey, where’s the fire?” Mr. Enthusiasm laughed at his own joke.

  I didn’t see why it was funny. “Let’s go.” I would have expected my eager instructor to race me to the tee.

  “Golf is a game to be enjoyed.” He demonstrated his definition of enjoyment by walking even slower.

  I blinked and shook my head. Golf was a game for snails.

  Chance patted me on the back. “Take your time. Do it right.”

  Take your time? That’s what time outs were invented for. Where was the adrenalin rush? The energy? What a waste of a sunny day.

  For the first half of the course, I felt as if I were Chance’s caddy. I hit a few balls. And I knocked the boring heads’ balls into the rough when nobody was looking. Then I just stared up at the trees and imagined how I might climb them if I were going to ambush the golfers with a sneak water gun attack. Now that would be an enjoyable game.

  “Joey,” Chance called.

  I jolted back to reality.

  Chance and I were the only ones left on the green.

  “Where did everyone else go?” Dare I hope the torture was over?

  Chance pointed across a cement pathway. “They’re on the next hole. I came back to find you. Come on.” Chance trotted away.

  “Oh, no, Chance. You can’t run. ‘Golf is a game to be enjoyed.’” I mimicked our instructor.

  Chance’s mouth dropped open as if he was shocked. “Aren’t you having a good time?”

  I sighed. “This sport is so slow. We need a golf cart or something.”

  “We get to ride in a golf cart on the last day … Joey? Joey!”

  I’d already taken off toward the parking lot for golf carts by the clubhouse. The course curved its way back around so the hole we just finished was next to where we had started.

  Chance easily kept up with me. “Joey, you can’t take a golf cart.”

  “Do they leave the keys in these things?” I climbed behind the wheel. I bet I’d make a great race car driver someday.

  “I hope not,” Chance said, but he looked kind of curious.

  The key was sitting on the dash, an open invitation to me to use it.

  “Wouldn’t you love to ride in one of these?” I tempted him, jingling the key in front of him. “I’ll drive. There’s no other way we can catch up with our group, and we don’t want them to worry about us.” I exaggerated a little, but hey, it was for the benefit of my team. Do to others as you would have them do to you, right?

  Chance hesitated, but smiled. “I guess if you’re driving, then I can’t really get in trouble.”

  “What could they do?” I looked around to make sure we were alone. “Kick me off the course?”

  “They could.”

  “Perfect.” I turned the key in the ignition. My stomach fluttered as the engine sputtered to life. I tested the accelerator pedal.

  We jerked a few feet. It was much easier than a paddle boat.

  “Woohoo,” I hollered.

  Chance laughed.

  I gripped my fingers around the steering wheel and stepped down hard on the accelerator.

  We shot forward. Chance grabbed onto the side of the vehicle for safety.

  “That’s right. Hang on,” I yelled as the golf cart swerved side to side down the path. I drove better than Parker the Postman.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Chance shouted at me.

  We rounded a corner at what might be considered illegal speed. Wind pushed against my hair and chilled my sweaty forehead. I was as free as a bird—or maybe a birdie, since we were playing golf.

  “We have to stop.” Chance must have had a sudden attack of conscience, though sometimes I felt he cared more about what people thought than what God thought.

  “No way.” If God wanted me to stop, He would have to send a talking donkey.

  Chance pointed past my face. “Our instructor wants us to stop.”

  I turned my head to see Mr. Enthusiasm looking more like Mr. Unenthusiastic. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he waved his arms as he ran after us. Not quite a talking donkey, but I guess it would have to do.

  I planned to slow down, really I did. But once I faced forward, I discovered that we’d run out of pathway. There was no chance for me to hit the brakes.

  The little vehicle careened into the grass. Chance and I vibrated along the turf for a moment, but not for long. We hit a slight incline and sailed into a sand trap as if the cart thought it were one of my golf balls.