Chapter 5: The Yellow Rose of Texas

Reggie left me in the parking lot, so I ran by the bank to make my deposit and then headed for the Golf Club.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be off today?” Melinda asked when I walked in the shop.

“Yeah, I’m off. I just wanted to find out who I had to ask about hitting some balls on the practice range” I told her.

“Well, as an employee, it’s frowned on; but as a student, it’s okay. So if you have your student ID card, you can do it. In fact, I think students get a discount,” she said.

“Thanks!” I said as I turned to leave.

“Daniel...” she called out. “You might want to change out of your work shirt.”

“Shit!” I mouthed under my breath. I hadn’t meant to wear it today. So I walked next door to the pro shop and bought a golf shirt that was not a work shirt, and two bags of range balls then headed for the range.

The range wasn’t very crowded for a Thursday afternoon, just a scattering of players warming up before they played their rounds. I walked to the furthest tee away from everyone else and dropped my bag. Then I began my stretching routine.

Before the lightning strike last year, I used to go to the driving range almost every day. Since then, I had only practiced the few days before playing in the Korn Ferry Event in the Bahamas last December. But as I stood on the practice tee it all came back to me.

I realized I was nervous. Not so much because it had been over three months since I had hit a golf ball, but whether I would still be able to hit like I had in December. Because, in December, I had hit it so well, I believed I could have won the tournament if I put my mind to it. And I was concerned that it might have been a fluke.

But I automatically dropped into my old warm-up routine and soon found myself in the zone as I parked my first shot with the driver out over 350 yards.

“Hot Damn!” I thought to myself as I continued to hit long shots. There was even one that rolled past the fence, which I knew was over 400 yards away.

Next, I worked on my draw. The more I hit, the more excited I got. My coach used to say I had a natural draw, except sometimes when I drew it too far left. But today, I was hitting my draw with uncanny accuracy.

My fade shot with my driver had always been my weakness, making me less confident when facing a long dogleg right. But with the distance and placement I was getting this afternoon, I knew that it was no longer a weakness.

After hitting a few more shots with the driver, I was anxious to try my irons, so I skipped the rest of my woods and started with my 7 iron. After my first shot hit the 200 yard sign, I had to stop and mentally recalculate my hitting strategy. Before being struck by lightning, I normally hit my 7 iron about 140 to 145 yards. I knew that most pros averaged around 180 with their 7 irons. Now, I seemed to be hitting my 7 iron out to 200 yards. Unreal!

Then I tried placing some shots, but I kept over-hitting my landing mark. Finally, I backed down my swing, but I didn’t seem to have the same control.

“Oh, well! I guess that’s why we practice!” I thought to myself.

I had finished off both bags of balls when I looked up and saw a group of guys at the other end of the tee boxes. It didn’t take much to figure out that this must be the University of Texas Golf team. I picked up my bag and started to walk around them to get to the parking lot.

“Are you a student here?” a man separated himself from the group and asked as he approached me.

“Not yet. I’ll start this summer,” I replied. I figured he was going to fuss about me being on the range.

“So you’re a freshman?” he asked.

I told him I would be.

“How far were you hitting,” he asked me.

“Which club?” I asked back.

“Driver?”

“The good ones were going about 350,” I told him. I didn’t mention the one that had rolled to the fence. But I saw his eyebrow raise slightly as his eyes narrowed.

“Ya’ll play somewhere before?” he asked. By now I had figured out that he was a coach. Only coaches and cowboys spoke in that clipped Texas drawl.

“Not really,” I replied. I DID NOT want to have him calling my high school coach and asking about a Daniel Williams and I was not going to give him my real name, so I could not bring up playing in high school or on the Korn Ferry Tour.

“What’s your handicap?” he asked.

“Last time I heard, it was a ten,” I replied, making it up. Before the lightning struck, I had a seventeen handicap. I hadn’t checked since the Bahamas thing. I knew that with a handicap of ten, you generally shoot somewhere around 82. Shooing in the low 80s is better than average but certainly not good enough to be considered a college player.

I watched as he scrunched his forehead while he considered my reply. Then he extended his hand. “Name’s Coach Watson,” he told me. “I work with the golf team.”

“Daniel Williams,” I replied. “I just started working for Steve over at the Maintenance Shop. I hope to start UT this summer.”

“Where’d you go to school,” he asked.

“I started high school in Georgia, but ended up finishing in Europe. In France.”

“So you never played organized golf?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m good enough,” I replied, evading his question without really lying.

“I see...” he said as he studied me up and down. “Are you in a hurry?”

“Well ... not too much,” I replied.

“Would you mind stepping up here and hitting a few for me?” he asked.

“Uh ... I guess,” I said.

He led me to a tee box just past where the team was practicing and tossed a bag of balls on the ground. “Let’s see your 7 iron,” he said.

I promptly put two balls out past the 200 yard marker.

“5 iron,” he said curtly.

I sent three balls out about 250 yards.

“Let me see that!” he said gruffly holding out his hand for my 5 iron.

He hefted it and then looked it over closely. “You alter this club?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” I told him.

He handed it back to me and then walked over to the nearest team member and spoke just a minute. Then he came walking back with a custom TaylorMade 5 iron.

“You mind hitting a couple with this?” he asked, handing me the borrowed iron. I noticed that one of the other coaches had made his way over, but didn’t say anything. I took the proffered 5 iron and put the ball out about 240 yards but pulled it slightly.

“Sorry,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. Then I straightened out the next shot for about 265 yards.

“Son, can you hit that green over there?” he asked, pointing to a practice green back down where I had been hitting before. I figured it was close to 210-215 yards so I asked if I could use my seven iron. He just nodded. By this time, the guy who’s club I used and some of the others had gathered around. Nobody said anything.

I pulled my 7 iron out and then quickly put two balls on the tiny practice green.

“Let’s see you rip a few,” the second guy said. He still hadn’t introduced himself.

So I pulled out my driver and fished out a Pro-V1 from my bag. It was left over from the tournament back in December. I knew that it should get me a little more distance than these banged up range balls.

Nobody said a word while I teed up my ball and came set. Then taking a breath to relax, I tattooed that sucker all the way to the protective netting. From this end of the practice tees it was slightly under 400 yards.

“Can you do that again?” the still unidentified older man asked.

“Probably not,” I replied. “That was my last good ball. These range balls won’t quite go that far.”