Page 24 of Unexpected Shot
I do as he says, thinking back to this swing and what felt bad about it. The problem is, I didn’t feel different. Well, it felt different from my normal swing I’ve used for my entire life. But not different from the other times I hit with Chad’s very unconventional method. Everything was fine until I hooked it to high heaven. If this was a fluke during my practice session, I wouldn’t be stressing. Bad shots happen all the time, even during a tournament. But what I just did is par for the course—pun not intended—when it comes to my new golf swing.
Unpredictable. Short. Shitty.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask out loud, but I don’t expect Chad to have an answer.
Well, actually, I do. I’m paying him a shit ton of money to either know the answer or find it out, so I can get back to playing.
“Nothing is wrong with you,” he says, trying to keep a positive note to his voice, but failing miserably. “We just have to get you consistent.”
Well, then figure it the fuck out so I can play next week.
Keeping that thought to myself, barely, I fall onto a nearby bench at the driving range we’re practicing on. I need a break. I need to clear my head.
I need to get my fucking swing back, and for Chad to quit lying to me.
I don’t know why this isn’t taking. I personally talked to players who’ve worked with Chad, all of whom praised his technique. Out of the box? Sure. But effective. The more and more I’m struggling with this, the more and more I wonder if this is a me problem.
Except, it can’t be. I can’t fail at this. I’ve worked too hard for a simple surgery to take me out of the game.
I never had swing coaches growing up. Being raised by a single dad on a fixed income, money was always tight. My clubs were always hand-me-downs. I taught myself everything. I watched other players and saw what worked and didn’t. I sat in front of the television for hours watching the pros, listening to endless commentary on approaches, swings, and clubs. Occasionally, I’d add in unasked-for advice from Beau and Chad.
When I turned pro and started working with Bubba, my former coach, I promised myself I’d never take a swing coach for granted. It was a privilege to work with one. I always wanted to make my game better, and just like it was when I signed up with Bubba, working with Chad was a way to do it.
Except after months of working with him, I’m beginning to wonder if this particular swing coach is helping or hurting me. Some days, I can’t tell which. And that’s a big problem.
Each day I train with him, I hope he’s going to come in and share an epiphany he had in his sleep. That he figured out a new way to help me. That he had a dream, and in it was the magic bullet to protect my shoulder while also hitting the ball just as far as I did before.
I mean, that’s what I was told would happen when I talked to people about Chad. And the only reason I pulled the trigger on this. Because, given our history, I really didn’t want to work with him. The only person I would’ve wanted to work with less was Beau.
Separating myself from who Chad is and who he was hasn’t been easy, either. Sometimes when I come in to practice, I see a put together, adult version of my high school ex-boyfriend.Commanding his lessons. Talking to other members like the tour pro he’s become.
But then there are days—and usually it’s because he’s wearing a backwards ball cap like he’s still sixteen—that I can’t help but think he’s just an aged-up version of his teenage self. The boy who was my first kiss—in the woods at our local golf course, because he told me he lost a ball, but he really just wanted to kiss me. Thank God he wasn’t all my firsts. If I were taking lessons now from the man I lost my virginity to? Well, that would be awkward in ten thousand ways.
It’s already bad enough that he knows secrets about me. But I have to forget about all of that. Because Chad is the only one who can fix me. He has to. I have no other options.
“Let’s try and change your stance,” Chad suggests. “You’re focusing so much on your hand and body placements to compensate for the shoulder, you’re not using your lower body.”
I look up to him, and do a double take before I remember that it’s Chad sitting in front of me. Sometimes, at certain angles, I swear he and Beau could be twins. They have the same jaw line. The same dark brown hair. And Chad recently grew out his beard, which makes him even more of a lookalike.
When we were kids, they used to try and convince people they were brothers. That their last names were different because they had different fathers. They pulled it off a few times before Beau’s mother found out.
He was grounded for a week.
Best week of my eleven-year-old life.
Now that they’re adults, they don’t look as much alike. But on days like today, when Chad has leaned into the beard look, and is wearing a hat that covers up a hairline receding faster than a racecar, they could still pull the brother thing.
Chad loves to play into it, especially when he guest stars on aBack Nineepisode and the comments are flooded with thirsty bitches saying things like “both,” or memes asking if they’d take them to Paris. You know, to see the Eiffel Tower. As a threesome.
Blah. Gross.
Not that I watch. Or read the comments. Much. Because I don’t. Much.
“Come on. Try it. You know I’m right.”
He’s not. Not in the least bit.
Except I can’t say that. For starters, there are other members around, and I don’t want to cause a scene—I do that enough just by being a member here. But also, Chad is my only chance of making this work. Even if he’s getting on my last nerve.
