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A Champion in Pursuit

By: Will B.

            The scent of the freshly cut grass filled the air, and the birds were singing a pleasant song in the distance. When I approached the practice tee, I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline creep up my spine. I had taken the 20 minute trip to the golf course at least fifty times this year. As I glanced over to the scoreboard, the big, blue font read “2005 Junior Club Championship.” This was the tournament that I had overflowing confidence to win.

 I tightly slid on my golf glove and began swinging my golf club to get loose, because I felt as stiff as a board. The first five golf balls I hit landed within ten feet from the pin on the practice green from 79 yards away. That definitely boosted my confidence up another level knowing that the ball was flying perfectly. After that, my swing felt as if I were a robot that couldn’t mess up one single shot. Next, I had to go to the practice putting green to see how fast the greens were rolling. Once again I felt that my stroke was a fluid strike of the ball, rolling in three-fourths of the putts I attempted. Finally, I was ready to approach the first tee of the course. My competitors and I were playing the tougher of the two courses, “The Wildcat.” “This is the 11:20 a.m. tee time,” the starter called loudly. “The competitors are Will Bishop, Ben Fister, and Chandler Morgan.” Ben hit a blistering tee shot right down the middle of the fairway. I was next and hit the golf ball perfectly down the fairway. Chandler was not so fortunate, as he hit it the long grass on the right side.

                   Going into the second round of the tournament, I had a 13 stroke lead, by shooting a 74, while Ben shot a lousy 87.

                   When I woke up the next morning, I slipped on my “lucky” black and red hoping it would help me play to the best of my ability. Not wanting to hope poorly for Ben Fister since I would like it to be close, I wished he would also play well. Hurriedly, I hopped in the car, rushing to get to the golf course at least one hour early so I could make sure I was hitting the ball the way I needed to hit it. As I arrived, I glanced over to see that retired golf pro, Gay Brewer, was pulling into the parking lot. I scurried over to his Cadillac and asked him how he was doing.

 “I’m doing absolutely perfect,” he replied firmly.

 “Well I’m about to head over to the practice tee and warm up,” I said.

“Alright, good luck partner,” he said humbly.

                   The warm-up was unbelievable, almost better than the day before. I was striking the ball with such confidence that I knew I could win this tournament. It felt good to be relaxed, but I just wanted it to stay that way. Soon after had warmed up, it came time to head to the first tee. The starter once again announced our names. “Will, you will be first to play,” he said encouragingly. Obviously the practice paid off, hitting the ball nearly 230 yards down the center of the fairway. But as usual I was followed by 2 incredible shots from Ben and Chandler. I had sort of a shaky start, but held it together to shoot a 38 on the front nine, while Ben shot a “mouth-dropping” 34. As we started the back nine, Ben blazed a tee shot. I too, hit a beautiful drive, but it wasn’t enough to pass Ben’s.

                   As I approached the 17^th tee box, I pulled out an eight iron, hoping to get the 5 over par round back down a shot. My tee shot landed on the green, but a measly 25 feet away from the pin. As Ben stuck within 15 feet, my hands began to sweat. Although we both made par, I only had a four shot lead. We walked gracefully to the 18^th tee box looking down the fairway. Once again, we scorched drives as if we were machines. The walk down the fairway was quite nerve racking, as I thought about all the bad things that could go wrong. I finally reached my golf ball and checked to see how far away I was. I pulled out a pitching wedge hoping I would knock it close. It landed around 15 feet away which pleased me. Ben’s was 10 feet past mine, but right on the same line. This meant that I would get an idea of which way the putt would break. As Ben stroked the putt, I noticed that it turned a little bit to the left. His putt was literally hanging on the edge as he was down on his knees, praying for the ball to fall in. I rapidly stood behind my golf ball and read the putt. I was thinking to myself, aim about a foot right of the cup since it was going to break left. I firmly hit my putt and watched the ball roll towards the hole. It crept in the right edge of the cup , and I pumped my fist up in the air knowing I had won the tournament. My parents clapped for me as I walked toward the clubhouse.