Page 3 of Unexpected Shot
Because the season is a month away, and I don’t know if I’m ready.
Scratch that. I know I’m not. Fucking rotator cuff surgery.
The pain in my shoulder, and the tears that caused it, couldn’t have come at a worse time. Two years ago, I was at the top of the standings on the women’s professional tour. The year before, I led the tour in most statistical categories and finished at the top in the money earnings. I had the longest driving average, and was in the top fifteen in greens hit and lowest putts. Not many golfers have a long game and a short one, but because of the years of hard work I’ve put in, I’ve been able to have it all.
Then it happened.
It started just with some soreness in my shoulder. Nothing crazy. Not anything a little ice and an extra day’s rest couldn’t fix.
Then it got worse. The pain was more constant. With every swing, I felt like my arm was going to fall off. I sat out of more tournaments that year than I played in, so much so that I had to get an injury exemption to have my tour card for the following year.
I thought I could play through the pain. Turns out, I needed shoulder surgery that would sideline me for four-to-six months.
The surgery went fine. Great even. The pain in my shoulder was gone and I finally felt like myself again. Until the day my surgeon and physical therapist gave me the worst news a golfer could hear.
It seems the tears were more extensive than they thought. And while they were able to repair my shoulder so I could still play, if I kept swinging the club like I was doing before, I was going to be under the knife again within five years. It likely wouldn’t happen overnight, there would be no catastrophic collapse on the course, but my current swing and my shoulder weren’t meant to stand the test of time.
I was devastated. There I was, thirty-five years old, my career at its pinnacle. And I had to change everything I knew about how I played the game.
Because I would continue playing the game. Retirement wasn’t an option. I might have a degree in business, but I’venever planned on using it. It was golf or bust for me then, and it’s golf or bust now.
After weighing my options—getting my shit together or getting my shit together—I started rehabbing. Changing parts of my swing. Sure, my shoulder felt fine, they’d fixed me up real good physically. But mentally? I was a wreck.
I felt like I was holding a club for the first time, alternating between different grips and swings to try and aid my shoulder. Some worked, but I hit the ball half the distance I used to. Most failed spectacularly.
The worst part was my drive. My average when I got hurt was two-hundred and ninety yards. A few times I hit it three hundred, which used to be unheard of in women’s golf. It was the part of my game that made me, me. And all of a sudden, it was gone.
I was scared. Panicked. And to add insult to injury, Bubba—my caddy and swing coach—was retiring. My professional life was imploding before my eyes.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the implosion wasn’t limited to my professional life. Nope, my personal life was about to take a massive hit, too.
Three weeks post surgery, the man I’d been dating for more than a year broke up with me. Out of nowhere. At a Chili’s. And because I was still on pain medication, I thought I heard him wrong when he said his wife had found out about us.
Yup. Unbeknownst to be, the man had a whole-ass wife and family.
I was the other woman. Part of a cheating situation. The thing that to me is the worst thing another person can do.
And he ruined one of my favorite restaurants.
Asshole.
I’ve been angry many times in my life. The day I realized my mom wasn’t coming back, deciding she wanted to start a new family with another man in Montana. The day Beau stole my future. When Gabi told me her ex cheated on her, bringing me toNashville to move her out and take a nine iron to his car windows.
But what I felt when my ex dropped that news in my lap was more than anger, it was helplessness. And it’s a feeling I never want to experience again.
I decided I was going to get my golf game back if it was the last thing I did. I didn’t need a man in my personal life—I had batteries for that. But for me to feel like who I truly was? To reclaim my identity and purpose? That was only going to happen if I was back on top of the women’s tour standings.
I needed someone to help me develop a new swing. Someone unconventional. Someone who would do everything he could to let me swing with power, but also save my shoulder.
I already knew of one guy, but I was really hoping that out of all the people I asked—my retiring coach, other players, pros I trusted—one of them would come up with someone different.
Just my luck, they didn’t. They all only had one name.
Chadwick Ashcroft. Based in Nashville, Tennessee.
My high school boyfriend.
The one who was there to witness the worst day of my life.
