Ell Donsaii 12: Impact!

by Laurence E. Dahners

  Mary laughed, “Jane Doe, not ‘Jin Doh!’ She wanted to be listed anonymously in our appointment books. I swear Milo, you need to have your hearing checked!”

  Milo rolled his eyes at her and turned to walk over to the young lady in question. “Ms. Doe?”

  She turned and smiled, “Hi, are you Milo?”

  Ell Donsaii! For a moment Milo couldn’t speak, then, “Um, yes ma’am Ms. Donsaii. You’re wanting golf lessons?”

  She shrugged, “Yeah, but first I need clubs. Can you advise me on that?”

  Feeling somewhat befuddled, Milo tried to discuss choices with her, but she just took whatever he suggested as if she had no idea. He did try to suggest they order some clubs for her, however she asked him to just pick the best clubs for her that they had in stock.

  As they walked down to the driving range, he asked, “Have you ever played?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head, “No, but I’m pretty good at sports. I’ll probably pick it up fairly quickly.”

  To himself, Milo allowed that she was more than “pretty good” at sports. He’d classify her as excellent at gymnastics and sprinting. However, he’d known a lot of athletes who were very, very good at their own sports, yet found golf to be exceedingly frustrating. “Okay,” he said trying to keep the doubt out of his voice as he got out a five iron and handed it to her. “Have you ever gripped a club?”

  “Nope. But I knew that there were some funny ways to grip golf clubs so I had my AI look them up for me on the way here.” She took the club and gripped it with a standard overlap grip. “Is this one okay?”

  Milo adjusted her thumb a little bit, then said “Sure.” Taking a grip on one of her other clubs himself, he demonstrated the swing, speaking the whole time to point out strategies for keeping the head still and the swing smooth. “This entire swing evolution is aimed at one goal, to bring the club back to the ball with its face perpendicular to the direction of travel and have it strike the ball with its ‘sweet spot.’” He lifted the clubhead and showed her the markings indicating its sweet spot.

  He looked up just as she began a swing of her own. It was smooth, graceful, and elegant. Obviously, she’d been bullshitting him. Certainly she’d played before, but he didn’t call her on it. “That was a very nice swing for a beginner.”

  “Thanks, I watched a few vids of professionals swinging on the drive over here.”

  Milo made a few suggestions and had her take another swing.

  The second swing was gorgeous, though she swung the club whistlingly fast. He chewed his lip a moment, thinking he should tell her to slow down but the swing had looked perfect. Instead, he said, “Let’s try it with a ball.” He pulled out a tee and teed a ball up on it. He thought it was good for beginners to get a few nice shots off of tees before they started trying to hit balls off the turf. “Okay, line your club up behind the ball here. Release your grip and make sure the club face is pointing right at that hundred yard sign down there.”

  She let go of the grip and adjusted the club a few degrees, “Like this?”

  He stepped behind her aim point and said, “Yeah, looks good. Now, the most important thing you’re trying to do is to bring the club head back to strike the ball right on the sweet spot we talked about.” He pulled out a four iron and used it to show her where the sweet spot was located on the clubface. “Hitting that spot is pretty hard for beginners. A lot of them completely miss the ball, so if it happens to you, don’t let it get you down.” He stood waiting for her to swing.

  She glanced up at him, “Do you want me to go ahead and hit it?”

  “Oh… sure.”

  She glanced down the range one more time and then swung. Her swing was excessively fast again, but her stroke still looked perfect. Unfortunately, the ball broke. He’d seen balls break before in the wintertime, usually into two or three pieces, but this one must have had a manufacturing flaw because it kind of shattered, breaking into five or six fragments.

  “Whoops,” she said, “shouldn’t I have hit it so hard?”

  “Naw, these range balls are crap. And it being February, even though this is a pretty nice day, the ball was a little cold and brittle. Let me just tee you up another one.”

  He put out another ball and stepped back. She lined it up just like he’d showed her and took another swing.

  He had the impression that she swung more softly this time, as if she really did worry that she had broken the ball by hitting it too hard. He was about to say something to her—reassure her that it had nothing to do with how hard she’d hit the first one, but his eyes tracked the ball she’d just hit. It was aimed perfectly, exactly over the hundred yard sign he’d told her to aim for.

  Way, way over.

  About 100 yards over. In fact, it landed about 20 yards past the 200 yard line and rolled on from there. He’d personally never seen anyone hit a five iron that far though he knew some pros and big men could.

  Could she have swung too hard?

  “So then,” Milo said to his wife Denise, “she hit a few more perfect five iron’s, then asked if she should hit her way through the bag so she would know what distance each club would go!”

  Denise usually found Milo’s work stories pretty boring, but found the description of his encounter with Donsaii captivating. “So, shouldn’t she want to know how far each club goes?”

  “Well, yeah, but most people have been playing a while before they start working too hard on figuring that out.”

  “I thought you said that she must have been lying about being a newcomer?”

  Milo shrugged, “She hits the ball too well to be a beginner. But, she really doesn’t seem to know much about golf! I don’t know what to think. Each swing she takes looks just like the one before it, and the ball goes to almost exactly the same spot if she uses the same club. It’s eerie.” He shook his head wonderingly, “Each shot even sounds the same, as if she hits them exactly with the same velocity and right on the sweet spot every time. I had to tell her how to fade or draw, otherwise they go perfectly straight!”

  Denise frowned, “How far does she hit a driver?”

  “Who knows? We didn’t get around to hitting a driver today. She’s hired me to play an entire round of golf with her next week. When I left her today she was going to the putting green to ‘try putting.’”

  ***

  Milo walked down to the driving range where he was supposed to meet Donsaii. A large crowd had gathered around one end of the driving range and at first he wondered why. Then he saw a familiar strawberry blond head and realized they were star-struck celebrity gawkers.

  Then Milo got close enough to see what she was doing. She had a driver in her hands. She teed up a ball and addressed it, aiming right down the center of the range toward the big “300 yards” sign on the fence where the woods started.

  A hush fell over the crowd, like they would have quieted for a professional at a tournament.

  Her swing was picture perfect, though once again Milo thought she was swinging a little fast. He would have told most of his pupils to slow down.

  Instead of a “clink” sound like most amateurs made hitting a big metal wood, her driver sounded like a firecracker had gone off.

  The ball took off like a rocket.

  Somehow Milo wasn’t surprised to see it shooting right down the range directly at the 300 yard sign. No fade, no draw, just straight as a ruler!

  There was a gasp from the crowd, then a sigh of admiration.

  Moments later, the ball hit the 300 yard sign—on the fly.

  The crowd burst into applause.

  “So,” Milo said to Denise over their dinner, “as we’re walking to the first tee box, Donsaii turns to me and says, ‘Why does the driving range end at 300 yards? Is that all the acreage they had?”

  Denise grinned at him, “So what did you tell her?”

  Milo snorted, “I told her hardly anyone hits it that far!” He rolled his eyes, “And then she clapped her hand to her mouth and tried
to look all embarrassed like she didn’t know it.”

  “So now you’re thinking she isn’t really a beginner?”

  He snorted again, “Of course not! Though I really can’t fathom why she keeps trying to pretend she knows nothing about the game.”

  “What did she shoot?”

  “Well, she started out like a house afire, but then reality took hold like it does for most of us and she finished up with a seventy-eight.”

  Denise looked up at Milo. He was staring distractedly off into the distance. “What are you thinking?”

  Milo turned to stare at his wife. “She played off the men’s tees Denise. She just teed off where I teed off, I’m not sure she knew that there were women’s tees. The first hole, Denise? Drive, perfectly down the center. The goddamned ball went 380 yards! Birdie. The second hole? You know, it’s a 370 yard par four? She drove the green and putted in a ten footer for an eagle! She birdied the next hole too!”

  Denise laughed, “Well you’re certainly right. She’s not a beginner! But if she can play that well you’d think we would have heard about it by now.” She shrugged, “Well, if she’s really inconsistent maybe not. She fell apart after the first three holes?”

  Milo looked a little glazed. “After the third hole, we had to wait a while for the foursome ahead of us and she asked me to ‘explain the scorecard.’”

  Exasperatedly Denise said, “Explain the scorecard! She’s four under par after three holes, and she’s asking you to explain the scorecard!”

  “Yeah. And I got the impression that she was actually surprised to realize she was under par. From then on, she only got pars or bogeys.” He shook his head, “Her shots still looked perfect, still ruler straight, still exactly the same distance. Except, I’ll swear, it looked like she lined up to miss!” Milo looked up into his wife’s eyes, “I think she wanted to play badly. I swear she intentionally put balls right into sand traps. She got her one double bogey out of her first sand trap where I had the impression she was very surprised by the way the ball played out of it.” He shook his head, “I can’t believe I’m saying this really, but I think…” His voice dropped in timbre, “I think she actually could be the best golfer in the world, just like she’s the best gymnast and the best sprinter.” He paused.

  After a moment he said, “And… and she might actually be a beginner…?”

  ***

  Marcus Turner’s AI said, “You have a call from Dr. Shannon Kinrais.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Dr. Kinrais is an assistant professor in the Department of Mathematics here at UNC. He joined the faculty six years ago, but took a two-year leave of absence, so only has four years in grade. He is most noted for having published a paper as a grad student with Ell Donsaii on…”

  Turner interrupted the AI. Even over in microbiology, he’d heard about the Math grad student who’d published with Donsaii. “Put him on… Hello Dr. Kinrais, how can I help you?”

  “Well, I have a precocious son who is very interested in microbiology. He has a lot of questions that I can’t answer, so I’m looking for a real expert like you who might be willing to have a chat with him.”

  “And how did you come to the conclusion that I would be the right person to talk to him?”

  Kinrais paused, then sounded a little embarrassed when he said, “Actually I didn’t. Zage said he read two of your papers on gut flora. He’s quite excited that you're right here at the same university as I teach at.”

  “Um, how old is your son?” Turner thought to himself that Kinrais must have started his family early if he had a son old enough to be not only interested in microbiology, but even be reading papers. Turner didn’t really like kids though, and the last thing he wanted to do was get involved in something like mentoring a child. He supposed though, that for another faculty member he could at least talk to the kid for ten minutes and then have one of his grad students show him around the lab. He pictured giving the kid a culture plate and letting him culture his finger.

  “Three and a half.”

  A period of silence ensued while Turner tried to come to grips with the fact that Kinrais had just had the balls to ask him to talk to a three-year-old! He desperately wanted to just say “no,” or “I can’t believe you have the gall!” No matter how rude it seemed to refuse this request, he did not want to waste an hour of his life on a toddler!

  Kinrais saved him from having to either be rude or commit himself to babysitting Kinrais’ kid by saying, “Or maybe, one of your grad students would be willing to talk to him for a while? We’d be happy to make it worth a grad student’s time.”

  Turner felt like a drowning man who’d been thrown a life preserver. He knew Jenkins actually worked as a babysitter some nights for extra cash. Being a girl, she probably even liked kids. “Sure, Vanessa Jenkins would probably be happy to show your boy around. Can I tell her how much you’d be willing to pay?”

  ***

  John Simon followed his President into the clubhouse. Stockton strode through the building and out onto a little balcony that overlooked the first hole. The big woman stood with a wide stance, hands on her hips surveying the course they were about to play. John looked out over the course a moment himself, then eyed Stockton out of the corner of his eye. Her eyes were narrowed and Simon would have sworn she was trying to stare down an adversary.

  An amazing swarm of Secret Service agents cleared the area and a group of the agents started down the first fairway, some of them actually playing golf. Once the Secret Service people were out on the course, Stockton grunted and started down the stairs toward the first tee. Simon followed, turning to look around him as he wondered where Donsaii was. She had said she would meet them at the course. Ah, he thought to himself, seeing her on the putting green.

  As Stockton walked toward the tee, Donsaii picked up her ball and walked out to the tee box as well, “Good morning President Stockton.”

  Simon stared at her. It was a beautiful but cool April morning and Donsaii wore loose black athletic pants with slender red side stripes and a matching light weight red jacket. There’s nothing special about her clothing, but my goodness she looks good, he thought to himself.

  Stockton turned to gaze at Donsaii for a moment, then said, “Good morning to you too. It looks like a great day for golf.” Stockton hesitated, then said in a low voice, “I’d like to get a few things out of the way so they aren’t hanging over us to ruin our game.” She paused, took a breath, and said “I do still believe that you should turn the interstellar technology over to your government, but I’m not going to try to force it anymore. I appreciate the fact that you saved my life and have nothing but admiration for your ethics in not requesting a quid pro quo. Finally,” Stockton grinned at the young woman, “I’m gonna enjoy writing in my memoirs about how I kicked the world’s greatest athlete’s ass at golf.”

  Simon’s eyebrows went up at this quiet admission from the President that Donsaii had been involved in her rescue. He’d heard rumors, but thought that was all they were.

  For her part, Donsaii simply smiled and said, “Yes ma’am.”

  The President turned to Simon and said, “Let’s get this party started.” She indicated the tee box with her eyes.

  Simon teed up on the 410 yard, par four first hole. It had a slight dogleg to the left which was a problem for Simon’s chronic fade or slice. He lined up a little bit to the left and was pleased when the slight fade of his shot put it right in the middle of the fairway down near the turn. Elton Brand, a professional golfer who was the fourth member of their foursome teed up next and boomed out a 285 yard drive with a slight draw that gently curved around the dogleg.

  Donsaii was standing on the tee box with her driver in one hand and a ball and tee in the other. She uncertainly eyed the President, looking, Simon thought, as if she expected the president to tee up. Donsaii actually looked startled when Stockton strode off the front of the tee box and down toward the ladies tee. After a moment, Donsaii started after
Stockton, but Simon would have sworn that Donsaii had expected Stockton to play from the men’s tee box.

  At the ladies tee, Stockton teed up a ball and boomed it out there. The President was a big woman and Simon thought she hit the ball more like a man than like a lady. She had to have hit it 250 yards, leaving her a relatively easy 100 yard shot to the green.

  Donsaii teed up a ball and addressed it.

  She didn’t take a practice swing, but her actual swing was beautiful.

  The resulting drive was simply astonishing.

  It faded around the little dogleg just like Brand’s, landed exactly in the center of the fairway and rolled up to stop about 20 yards in front of the green.

  Simon looked down at his scorecard. The yardage from the ladies tee was 350 yards. That had to have been a 330 yard drive!

  Stockton gaped after Donsaii’s drive for a moment, then turned to stare at the young woman. After a moment she barked a laugh, “I suppose you’re going to kick my ass, huh?”

  “Oh, no ma’am,” Donsaii said, a twinkle in her eye.

  Donsaii did not, in fact, beat the President at golf. She birdied that first hole, but from then on missed greens, hit sand traps, missed putts, and otherwise played just badly enough so that Stockton won by a single stroke.

  Nonetheless, Simon had the very distinct impression, that, had she wanted to, Donsaii could have played from the championship tees and easily have beaten Brand.

  She certainly hit the ball a lot farther than the pro did.

  ***

  While her class busily worked on their drawings, Francine Miller studied that new Kinrais kid. He’d joined their preschool class late in the year. A spot opened when Paul Johnson moved away and he’d filled it. The kid was overweight, well—obese. But that wasn’t all that uncommon nowadays, so being heavy didn’t set him apart all that much. He wasn’t wearing a HUD headband which was a little bit unusual. He had in the new HUD contacts and most parents didn’t want their three-year-old preschoolers wearing them, but really, there weren’t any reports of the contacts causing problems, so there probably wasn’t anything wrong with a child using them.