Chapter 3

The next day we practiced again on the course where, two days hence, the four consecutive days of qualifying would begin. Seventy-two holes. "This course isn't that tough," Tess said as we walked (not for the first time) the long fairway of the par-5 eighth hole.

"I'd be happier if it was longer," I agreed. "It would suit your game better."

"Gonna have to grind."

"Yes. Nothing spectacular. Just four days of churning out rounds."

"I can grind," Tess said.

"Sure you can."

"Two under par, for each of four rounds. That ought to do it."

"Sure that would do it, Tess, but grinders don't set goals like that, for individual rounds."

"What are you talking about?" She seemed a little upset with me for contradicting her.

"Par is 72 here. Supposing, first day out in the qualifying tournament, you shoot par."

"I can do better than par on this rinky-dink course," she said.

"Yes -- you can -- but it doesn't mean you always will... And it's not a 'rinky-dink' course. The LPGA wouldn't hold final qualifying rounds on a rinky-dink course."

"OK, OK, it's Augusta National -- almost... But I can do better than par, here."

"You can, and you will. But maybe not all four days. That's what I'm saying."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it that you're in your 'Will The Cheerleader' mode. You're keeping me from getting too high -- from setting up expectations for myself that might be crushed by the hard weight of reality."

"Crushed by the hard weight of reality?... Where did that come from?"

"ESPN, probably. I don't know. It just seemed to fit the mood you were trying to create. 'Don't get your hopes up too high, Tess!... What if you fuck up the first day, Tess? Shoot a 75. Then what?'"

"C'mon, Tess. You know I have faith in you. The point is, I know you could shoot a 75 on Day One of the tournament and you could recover. But if you're thinking in terms of four consecutive days of two-unders, you wouldn't be prepared for even temporary failure."

"And I think, Will Everett, that you majored in History at UNC, and that what you know about psychology would fit comfortably in the jock strap you wore, back in Junior High School."

"The jock strap... Jesus, where do you get this stuff?"

"From Roy -- my brother Roy, not my Dad. When we were both still in school, years ago. He had this dinky little jock strap he wore. I saw it when I was helping my mother with the laundry. I asked what it was for and she explained it pretty explicitly. But all I could think of was, it looked like a wren's nest, y'know? I mean, I wasn't very developed, yet, but I don't think I could have gotten one of my breasts in that little pouch, there."

"Well -- your breasts would be a challenge, for any container..."

"Will, c'mon! I was, like, twelve! The Girls, as you know them now, were still in the distant future."

"Not all that distant," I said. "I imagine you attracted some attention, even in, say, seventh grade!"

"Yeah, yeah... Anyway, I'm looking at this jock strap and later on, I teased my brother about it. I told him how dinky it looked. I already knew how boys were about their... things."

"Their 'things?' What is this, junior high? Can you say 'penis?'"

Tess giggled. "I guess when I tell a story, I revert to the vocabulary of the period," she said. "Anyway, I teased him, and he stormed off into his room. He returned a couple of minutes later, holding one of his jock straps, and showed me the label. 'Look at this, ' Roy says to me, showing me the little label.

"Well, I looked, and the label said 'Large.' And Roy is all proud and pleased with himself, there, waiting for my reaction. And, I admit, I really was kinda surprised, you know? I mean, it was elastic and all, and I knew it could stretch out, and stuff, but... 'Large?'"

I laughed at her. "So you were impressed with your brother's 'large' jock strap," I said. "That just refers to the waist size."

Tess laughed, too. "Yeah, I found that out, later on. I still don't know for sure whether Roy knew, or whether he was just defending his honor with whatever means were at hand."

"I think every boy goes through that," I told her. "I remember making the same mistake -- thinking that when I went up from Medium to Large, it meant I must be pretty well-hung."

"You are pretty well-hung."

"We both know, Tess, that I'm just barely adequate."

"Oh, you're 'way better than just adequate, Honey-Poo!"

Well, I would have been happy to have walked along there, soaking up additional suggestive compliments from Tess, until nightfall, but by that time we'd arrived at her ball location, and Tess was back to being all business again.

She had another 140 yards to the green and she studied the terrain with rapt attention. "These Florida courses are so fucking flat!" she complained, for maybe the fourth time that round. "But when they build a golf course, they go nuts, shaping the greens. I gotta go to the right, here, even though the pin's way to the left."

"Try aiming for the flag, but hitting long, deliberately," I suggested. Tess was right, the green she was aiming at was big and inviting, but it was contoured like an excavation site. It was just another way to make a flatlands golf course challenging. The back of the green, however, was tilted severely, and a shot into it -- without much backspin -- could be expected to drift back toward the cup.

"Worth a try," Tess agreed, and she switched clubs and dialed up her 140-yard approach shot into a 155-yarder.

The ball landed behind the cup on a nice line, without excessive backspin. After just sitting there for a moment, it slowly rolled back toward the cup until it stopped, seven feet away.