“Well, you haven’t even heard my idea!”
“Look man, sorry, I’m just not interested.”
Miffed, he says, “You’re missing out, man. I just needed a little money, not much, and it’s not like you don’t have enough. I was gonna let you in on something special. You’d double your investment in three months, tops.”
I stop and square my shoulders at him, “Bobby, I’ll be straight with you, and hopefully you can appreciate this. People ask me for money ten times a day, offering all kinds of investments and opportunities to me. And what nobody seems to understand is, I have enough.” I turn and walk away, and this time, he has the sense to stay back. I exhale sharply and wonder if it’ll be like this for the rest of my life.
I step into the locker room and see my dad changing into his old brown golf shoes, his locker open next to him. “Ryker! Good to see you, son!” He stands up and gives me a big hug.
“It’s good to see you, too, Dad.”
“Are you ready to get your ass kicked?” he says and laughs. “I’ve been taking lessons from the pro. Remember that problem I had last year, three-putting on every hole?” He stands up straighter and has a cocky gleam in his eye. “I haven’t had a three-putt in a week!”
“Dream on, Dad,” I say, as I spin the dial to the combination lock and open my locker. I get out my golf shoes. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m in better shape than ever from doing my Spartan races, and I’m cranking it from the tee box almost 250 yards.”
He whistles in response, “Well, son, that’s impressive, but haven’t I taught you? It’s the short game that matters.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, and we head outside. We get into a golf cart, and the bag boy loads our clubs onto the back. While Dad drives us up to the first tee, I pull on my royal blue golf glove, cracked with age, and stretch out my fingers, enjoying the snug fit.
We’re waiting for a group in front of us to tee off, when Dad turns to me and says, “So what have you been up to this past week?”
“Not much,” I say, leaning back in the passenger seat. “Working out, falling for a woman. You know, the usual.”
He turns to me. “What? You? Falling for a woman? I don’t believe it.”
“Yeah, in fact, I want to talk to you about it.” I reach my hands up and interlock my fingers behind my head. “I think I found my juice, Dad.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He cackles and pats me on the leg before sliding out of the golf cart. “I can’t wait to hear about her,” he says as he gets his driver from his golf club bag.
The group ahead of us is now on the green, and we’re ready to tee off. Dad hits his ball straight down the fairway, though it only goes about 150 yards. He shrugs and says, “I’ll take it.” He steps off the tee box and says to me, “You might want two balls, in case you want a mulligan.”
“I think one will do, Dad.” I grab my Callaway driver and step up to the tee box. I bend down and put my tee in the ground, setting my ball on it. I stand up and take a deep breath, addressing the ball. No need for a practice swing. I’m focused. My eye on the ball, I swing the club back and power my forward swing through my hips, smashing the ball straight down the fairway. It lands just short of the green.
“Looks like I’ve set myself up for a birdie. Not bad.” We get into the golf cart and drive to my dad’s shot, and I tease, “Hey, should we make our wager now? Or are you afraid to?”
A hearty guffaw comes out of him as he gets his five iron. “Oh no, son, nice try. You’re not getting off that easy. Just because you think your big muscles will make you a winner today, I’ll show you otherwise. Like I said, it’s all about the short game.”
When I was fifteen years old, my dad and I played a game of golf at the beginning of my summer break. He made me a deal. If I got straight A’s in school the next year, he’d buy me a car for my sixteenth birthday. And if I didn’t, I’d have to work at his law firm the following summer. I got the straight A’s, and the car. The following summer, he made me another wager. And it’s been our tradition every year since. Only now, we wager something based on who wins the game. Over all these years, I’ve managed to never work a day in his law firm, despite getting a law degree.
“Game on, old man. So what will it be this year?”
“Well, I’m eager to hear about your juice,” he says. “I think it’s great you might’ve found someone. But first things first… our wager. I have a big intellectual property case that I could use your help on. All high-tech patents, right up your alley. Really interesting stuff.”
He walks over to his ball and stands behind it. Facing the green, he aims his club by holding it straight out in front of him, as if pointing it like a giant laser pointer will help him hit his ball onto the green. Then he brings his club back down, and he walks to the side of the ball to address it. At this rate, our 18 holes will take all day.
Just before he’s about to swing, he looks up at me and says, “If I win, then you have to work for me for two months this summer. Full-time, regular work. But you’ll love
