07⎜The Green

The five other individuals who I was accompanied by were were all staring intently at me, except for Henry and Ari. Henry looked as though he was being paid about ten dollars an hour, forty dollars per bag, so couldn't care less about the world around him. Ari, on the other hand, wasn't gazing directly at me like everyone else—minus Henry—but more at the green expanse before us. All that could be seen was green, green, more green, and the occasional flag or sandpit. The contrast of the green with the bright blue of the sky was a nice one, and definitely served as a nice sight for the dull sport we were currently subjected to playing. The only thing wrong at the immediate moment was the temperature of the air.

           When we had first arrived at the golf club (and not a literal "club" used in golfing, but an association that possessed a location where people went to golf and socialize), it had been moderate out. It was hot, but I wasn't sweating. Currently, with the mix of the increased heat and the slight physical activity, I was at the point where I felt as though if I hadn't lathered on multiple layers of deodorant in the morning, perspiration would be leaking through everywhere on my shirt. A gross mental image even for me, but it was true.

           "Just hit the ball already!" Scott whined from a few feet behind, displaying his repeated desire to speed up the process in any way possible. He wasn't exactly a golf "enthusiast," but apparently wanted to "hang out with Ari, Kay, and Eric" ("not" Houston, and he had made that point clear), so made an exception.

           As requested, I finally swung my arms, allowing them to collapse in rigid lines down, the club moving with them until it hit the small white ball with more craters than the moon, and followed through over my shoulder. My feet had found themselves in the proper stance of one firmly planted with the other bent at the knee and only the ball of my foot touching the ground. I didn't look as good as Tiger Woods, but after viewing the orb soar overhead at a fairly far height, I had a hunch that I wasn't terrible. Also, the applause by one Kay Rodgers that followed my swing affirmed the theory that I hadn't completely sucked.

           "Woo!" the southern girl cheered, her arm wrapped around that of her counterpart. "That was just wonderful, Eric!"

           "It wasn't that good," Scott mumbled with a roll of his eyes.

           "Scott, please shut your mouth, and if you have negative thoughts, keep them to yourself," Kay stated firmly as a rule that was meant for him in particular, but then added and amended it to, "oh, and that goes for you too, Ari."

           "Are you implying that I'm 'negative'?" her best friend questioned, dark coiled hair slightly lifting with the wind.

           "She sure ain't implyin' that you're positive," Houston snorted, having more of a backstory to Ari's personality than I.

           "Regardless," Kay began, putting a single finger up to her boyfriend's lips as a way to express the message that was "shut up" in the politest way possible, "Eric, you were just wonderful!"

           "Uh, thanks," I said with a nod in her direction. She grinned back, something about her smile seeming even brighter than the midday sun that now shone.

           "Can we please just move on now?" Scott groaned in annoyance, hitching his golf bag over his shoulder himself, and striding over to the golf cart. He dumped the cylindrical bag into the back of the vehicle, and then hopped into the driver's seat with a gleeful expression as he pressed on the gas, causing the cart to move forward about a foot. "C'mon, or I'm leaving you all here!"

           Not bothering to argue with the wrath that was Scott, everyone then quickly relocated back onto the golf cart. Henry took Houston's clubs, and I took mine, putting them in the appropriate space. Ari sat in the front next to Scott, the couple was in the middle row, and then there was Henry and I—the odd ones out. We were in the back, both completely silent.

           "So, Ari," Houston began, raising his voice so that it could be heard over the hum of the cart, "have you ever played golf before?"

           "Putt-putt," Ari mumbled, though loud enough so that it was audible to even me in the way back. "My dad used to take my brother and me mini-golfing when we were younger. There was this place near our house that each hole had a different dinosaur at it. Tom's favorite dinosaur was the T-Rex," she paused, her tone reminiscent but retaining some odd form of severity and grimness. "He would always win when we played, and would never cut me slack, even though I was his little sister. Even for an eight year old, he was pretty competitive."

           Instead of saying something like, "Yeah, that loser sure is one competitive guy," or, "I love dinosaurs," or even, "That's nice," Houston didn't say anything after that. No one did. It struck me as more than odd that not even Kay had something to say after that, but I didn't mention it. Speaking would set me apart from the group, and that was something for which I never wished. Maybe it was how Ari told the story—with that rainy voice of hers and so much solemnity that one would think she was giving a eulogy. There was just something about the childhood anecdote that I couldn't comprehend. Thankfully for me, Henry was there, and though he probably hadn't been listening and didn't care, I knew that he, too, didn't understand.

           When Scott parked the golf cart near where our balls had landed (surprisingly, all three of them were in about a three yard radius of one another), we all got out, retrieving our clubs. Kay stayed in the shade of the cart, claiming that though the sun was "just wonderful," they weren't exactly "on the best of terms at the moment." Essentially, it was too hot out for her. And so, she remained seated, protected by a manmade awning, as she sipped away at her sweet tea. The rest of us, however, were prepared to golf, and golf hard.

           Houston was first to take a swing at his ball, and did so with so much intent and fluidity that it appeared as though the sport was invented for him. The small sphere flew in an arched direction, and landed moderately close to the flagged hole in the distance. Scott was next to go, and wasn't quite as supple as Houston had been. When he hit his club, it appeared as though he just wanted to get it over with. It was a sloppy swing, and probably would've made Tiger cringe with aversion, but it was still enough to propel his ball near to where Houston's had landed. Then it was my turn.

           With a nervous gulp, I approached my ball, my shoulders aligned just as I had been taught. I quickly glanced over to the three pairs of eyes that were now watching me. Kay and Henry had struck up a conversation about a particular brand name for which they both shared a love, so they weren't really watching, as they somewhat had been the previous time. Currently, Houston, Scott, and Ari were the ones observing me. Ari wasn't spacing out, getting lost in the green, but rather staring at my club, waiting for me to make a move—along with Scott and Houston, too.

           Like it was my only task in life at which to excel, I lifted the club so that it rose above my head, and then brought it down in one effortless motion, striking the ball in the process. Like the previous two, it went close to the marked hole, and earned me a nod of approval from one Houston Walker. Words were said, and everyone then went through the procedure of getting back onto the golf cart (the seating arrangements remained the same), and driving to the next stop—namely, the endpoint.

           When we got to the hole, the same order we had designated at the beginning was repeated: Houston, then Scott, and then me. At the start, Kay had refused to play, mentioning something about how it was undignified for her to golf in a skirt, and that she didn't want to get her clothes dirty. Scott had then claimed that the only reason she didn't want to golf was because she couldn't. After a few argumentative words were said between the two, they shut up, the focus shifting over to Ari on whether or not she would play. She also declined, though didn't give a reason. And so, it was just the three of us.

           After going through the rotation, we had finally finished a hole. Houston had ultimately won, I in second, and Scott the loser. Unsurprisingly, Scott wasn't too thrilled with his ending title, so said that he wanted to take a break from the golfing. Everyone agreed, needing a pause from not only the activity, but also the heat. It was sweltering out. I was beginning to sweat, and my only consolation of hope was the fickle breeze that would pick up every so often at varying points.

           "It so hot out, y'all!" Kay exclaimed from her perch under the protection of the golf cart.

           "Really, Kay? You don't say!" Scott retorted sarcastically, earning him a glare from the blonde girl.

           "Scott, I really don't like you right now," Kay stated.

           Before Scott had time to respond or Houston could step in, ending the verbal brawl, Ari decided to make a declaration that zoomed all the attention on her for a moment. "I think that I'm going to walk back," she said thoughtfully, her eyes fixed on the green ahead.

           "Great! You take that with you, too!" Kay said, her head jerking in the direction of Scott.

           "Houston," Scott whined childishly, "you're girlfriend is being mean to me again!"

           Houston looked from Kay to Scott, exhaling a long sigh as he thought about how to pursue the issue. He shook his head, internally electing a verdict. "Scott, Eric, and Ari can walk back, and Kay, Henry, and I will drive back. We'll meet y'all in the front lobby area, and then try to find some more of the guys from the frat or a bucket of ice to dunk our heads into."

           "Why would we dunk our heads into a bucket of ice—wouldn't that be kinda cold?" Kay questioned. I wasn't sure if she was being serious, or merely joking about how Houston had posed the idea of cooling down. Strangely, I had a hunch that she wasn't kidding.

           "Before I say something that I'm going to regret, let's go!" Scott said, beginning the long trek that awaited us. He had made it about ten feet before everyone else eventually gave in, doing just as he had. Houston hopped on the golf cart in the driver's seat, Kay didn't move, and Henry awkwardly went to the back, not saying anything at all. Ari and I then began our journey side-by-side, also not passing a word between us. Scott was ahead of us, but not by much.

           I wasn't entirely certain what I had done to deserve the task of walking alongside Ari instead of talking brand names and sports with Kay, Houston, and Henry, but whatever it was, I was only feeling marginally regretful. The downside to walking was the weather. It was brutal out—in every meaning of the term. Sure, there were probably a few hundred places on earth that were worse, but at the moment, all I knew was that this particular green in California was beyond hot—it was burning. Now, the upside to walking was Ari. She was quiet and there was this sense of calm that came with her that comforted with me. Scott was pretty neutral on the scale of good and bad, so he wasn't really factored into the pros and cons. It was just the heat against Ari.

           "So, Ari," Scott called from a ways ahead of us, shattering the silence with his booming voice, "how's your dad's coaching?"

           "Teaching," the girl beside me corrected just loudly enough so that Scott could hear. Though her voice possessed many of the same qualities as rain, one of them didn't happen to be wetness. I was still perspiring, even as she spoke.

           "Yeah, yeah, that too," Scott brushed off what she had said, only wanting the answer to his initial inquiry. He halted where he was, waiting a minute so that we could catch up to him and he didn't have to strain his ears in order to adequately listen to what Ari was saying. Once we had caught up to him, he stood next to me, so that I was sandwiched between the two as we walked.

           "Good," Ari said, her volume level decreasing considerably now that Scott was closer.

           I was utterly confused, and didn't under to what Scott had been referring. Basically, I had deducted that he somehow knew Ari's dad who was a coach and teacher of some sort—most likely of the school variety. Noticing my misperception, Scott briefly explained while Ari just walked. "Her dad teaches...something," Scott said to me, not relaying as much information as would generally be considered useful.

           "History," Ari filled in blankly.

           "Right! Her dad teaches history, and is one of the best football coaches in, like, the state," he went on to say.

           "Your dad's a football coach?" I questioned the girl herself for confirmation.

           "Yeah," she said plainly with almost no emotions visible.

           "Cool," I mumbled, not needing to say anything else. If I had said something like, "You never told me that!" her response probably would've been, "You never asked." And considering I had known the girl a little over a week, her not telling me a relatively significant aspect of her life wasn't all that surprising. Currently, though, I wasn't really sure why Scott was bringing up her father's occupation.

           "Eric plays football," Scott expressed, informing me of his "why"—or motivation. For some reason, he wanted Ari and I to bond over a connection that was broken on both ends. I had given up football for good after graduating high school, and Ari's only direct connection to the sport was through her dad. My dad did business. I didn't go around talking to businessmen about a profession I knew little about, so it made no sense for Ari to do so, either.

           "I know," the girl said evenly.

           "Actually, I played," I told Scott, adding the past tense suffix so that the statement held more truth. I was done being a mere football player, and with all the stereotypes that surrounded them.

           "Why did you stop?" Ari abruptly questioned, seeming slightly out of character for her.

           "I was done allowing a sport to define me," I said simply, meaning it. When I had stopped playing football, it had been a conscious decision. It wasn't the type of thing that I slowly grew out of like a favorite food or the ideology that girls had cooties—no, it was a large decision that I had made myself, despite the disapproval earned from my parents.

           After graduation, when I had told them that I was done with football for good, my dad had originally thought that I was joking. He thought that football was all I had, and it was the only thing in my life that held any form of structure and regularity. After coming out to them about my issue involving drugs, I had already put them through a lot, so telling them that I was quitting football couldn't have been easy. My mom was fine with the change, but my dad was still trying to process how his "perfect" son had broken up with his "perfect" girlfriend (he liked Liz), developed an addition to marijuana, and was now giving up the one sport at which he happened to shine.

           My dad had always been a great dad. He was the type of guy that showed up to every one of my sports games, coached a fair amount of them, and was always the guy who would be told to shut up for cheering too loudly over his son's touchdown. I was his only son (and child), so he was probably just trying to be the best dad he could be, and for the most part, he did that. He worked too much for his own good—always being away on business, and rarely ever home for more than a few weeks. Overall, he was a pretty good guy—an all-American patriot with a slight New York accent and high morals. I had grown up with a good amount of pressure from him, but that wasn't anything that I couldn't handle, considering the type of pressure that everyone put on me. Ultimately, though, it wasn't the pressure from my dad or even the so-called "society" that had caused me to turn to drugs—it was myself. I was to blame for all I had done, because in the end, I had put the most pressure on myself.

           When I made the choice to quit football, it was for me. It wasn't for anybody else or to prove a point of some kind. I was done being the idealized athlete who was the sole ruler of popularity at my high school. Though it sounded absolutely absurd looking back on it now, when I was in high school, people looked up to me like I was flawless and legitimately perfect. I was the type of guy that the concept of popularity in movies and books looked to for guidance and inspiration. Thankfully, I hadn't been a complete jerk, and was a relatively nice guy, most of the time. Bullying wasn't my thing, and I found it ridiculous that in such an educated society something so atrocious still went on. I had a brain that somehow got me into Stanford, in combination with my position of quarterback. But none of that mattered now. I was done being that person who was fake, lied, and put up a front and disguise like no other. And so, the only sensible thing I could think of at the time was deserting football. So I did.

           I was originally supposed to play football at Stanford. The plan had been all set up. I would go to Stanford and continue my life as the perfect son who happened to be a quarterback. Then, I told my parents about the drugs, and about a month later, football. Stanford wasn't really thrilled about me not playing, but it didn't affect my grades, so I was still eligible to go—as I ended up doing. Over the summer, I got some help, and explored how life could be without football (and drugs). I liked it. A lot.

           Throughout my whole journey, my mom had been the most supporting. She understood that no one could force me to play football, and that I needed some time to think it over. Sure, she had been pissed about the drugs, but any sane parent would be. During my recovery, she was beyond helpful, and didn't act like I was some alien, as my dad had. He looked at me as a disappointment, while my mom just considered me a normal and confused teenager. She had never thought of me as perfect, meaning that her standards of me were never unreachable—unlike my dad. He actually thought that I was the boy who I was pretending to be. In the end, I hadn't really disappointed him, but rather lied to him. I lied about who I was, and football helped me do it.

           I had no real issue with the sport itself. In fact, I loved it. From the way everyone in the bleachers went crazy after a good play, to the rewarding breathlessness that accompanied running with too much adrenalin pumping through the veins that I so often yearned for, I loved every aspect of the sport. The sense of community, the fans, the hard work, the trophies, the coaches, the empty fields late at night after a game, the touchdowns—everything. Football was one of my favorite things in life, whether I was willing to admit it or not, which was why it was so hard to leave it. I wasn't really leaving for the physical aspect of the sport, though, but more the "everything else."

           When I used to tell people that I was a quarterback, this chilling emotion would pass through their eyes. They would immediately judge me, thinking that I was some popular guy who was either a jerk or the nicest person on earth. I was done permitting such a simple thing as a sport to outline who I was. There was more to me than football, and I quit because I wanted to prove just that.

           "It's a good reason to stop," Ari said quietly in an attentive tone, making me think that maybe she actually understood—though I then shook the thought, for it was impossible. No one could truly understand.

           "Are you sure you didn't, like, tear your shoulder at a party or something? It would make a much more believable story," Scott injected his opinion on my life.

           "His story is pretty believable to me," Ari almost whispered, only she was too loud to qualify as a real whisperer.

           I looked out at the green before me that seemed utterly endless. All my eyes could see was green grass designated for golfing. There was nothing else—only the green. It was a nice sight, though a little dull, even with its vibrant shade. All I saw were hills and expanses upon expanses of green. I turned my head slightly to Scott as we continued walking, finally responding to him in a way I knew I had done to others in the past, by electing his second option, which wasn't really an opinion at all, but a means of haphazardly finishing his sentence. Nonetheless, I went with it, earning a sigh from Scott, but a smile from Ari: "Or something."