“What is that you did with your back leg?”
“You mean the toe-thing?” I nodded. “Yeah, that’s a thing my coach could never beat out of me. Just wouldn’t leave, you know. Totally wrong form. Terrible for balance. Too much weight here.” She touched my left hip. “Not centered. Blah, blah. But, he finally gave that one up after the fifth year when I won the Pan American sixteen and unders.”
I whistled my admiration. A man strode up beside me. He clapped sharply.
“Break time’s over, Isabelle.” He glanced at his watch, which appeared to be a Rolex, or a knock off. Like the girl, he dressed flashy and had oddly hairy arms. He had a Coke in his hand, as if he needed more caffeine. “I told you fifteen minutes. It’s been twenty. Why must I always come looking for you?”
She started to answer, but he cut her off with a dismissive wave. She looked over her shoulder and gave me a sad smile before following him. Isabelle. Was she a woman or a girl? The math said early twenties, but the way that man spoke to her made it seem like she was a teenager. Sweeping my attention around the grounds, I noticed that at least five or six other people also drank Coke.
Harold put his arm around my shoulder. We broke away from the rest of the group.
“You sly devil,” he purred. “I think Isabelle likes you.”
“What’s her story?” I asked as we headed for a table with a punchbowl atop a white tablecloth.
Harold scooped out two plastic cups worth of fruit punch, pieces of grape, pineapple, and mango floating in it. He raised his cup toward the girl and her coach.
“The golden hope. They are trying to prepare for the 2020 Olympics. She’s a shoe-in to compete for the Virgins, but still has a ways to go before we can safely call her the favorite. I was her coach at one point.”
“But ... ”
His expression grew remote as he watched her shoot arrow after arrow into a distant target. Was that love or lust I saw in his face? Harold had to be thirty years her senior. I was at least ten to fifteen, assuming she was early twenties.
His gaze broke. He went back for another scoop of punch. “But, nothing, man. I took her to the title, then he wanted her back. He wants the glory if she wins the real deal, you know, vicarious living. Those who can’t do, coach their nieces.”
“She’s his niece?”
He pursed his lips, which were a bright red from the punch. “And the cash behind her run. My mother wouldn’t finance some other rich guy’s daughter, although I asked her to. Practically begged. Some sense of duty mama has about that. Thinks they’re trying to take advantage of us. So, she had to agree to work with Uncle Douchy over there. Asshole has no panache. Brute force is all he knows.”
I waited, thinking Harold would elaborate, but he again stared vacantly in Isabelle’s direction.
“Where’s that guy get his financing?” I asked
Harold patted his pocket. “’Scuse me for a minute, I gotta burn the lizard.” He downed his punch and dumped the cup.
I continued to watch Isabelle. As fast as she could shoot the arrows, he handed her another. He timed her shots, using an analogue stop-watch. Perhaps her release or the time she had to nock and release. Were these things timed in competition?
After several minutes of continuous shooting, she put the bow in a stand and chugged water. He gestured and spoke to her in a rough manner, like he was commanding a dog who wouldn’t behave. Her soft features remained impassive, but her eyes were attentive. With a curt nod, he gestured for her to continue. He raised the stopwatch. I raised my phone. As soon as he hit the button, I hit my button. This time I watched him and waited. When he hit the button again, I stopped the timer on my phone. Exactly one minute. She paused. He restarted the watch and timed again. He was timing how many shots she could release every minute.
At one point, Isabelle glanced over when her uncle bent to pick up an arrow he’d fumbled. The stolen look was as fast as her shooting. She had a bit of playfulness in her. Uncle Douchy was all business.
The next set of shots took longer. Although I didn’t time it, it seemed to take at least twice as long. I decided to time the next set. Sure enough, three minutes. This went on until they did a ten-minute set of shots. She aimed at three different targets. She was most accurate to the target directly in front. Next best was the right. To the left, her shots were sub-par by her standards.
The longer I watched, the more impressed I became, not only by her skill, but by her endurance. My shoulders were getting sympathy aches as I tried to imitate her stance and raised elbow technique. Even without holding an actual bow, my arms got extremely tired after only a minute or two.
She said something to her coach after almost an hour of continuous shooting. He nodded reluctantly, and she headed to the bathroom. Her uncle took the bow and began to apply something that resembled thick lip balm on the string.
When she came out, I “bumped” into her.
“Hey there, stranger,” she said. “You need some more tutoring?” Nice smile, but colored by sadness.
“I was watching you train over there with your coach.”
“Uncle, coach, flaming lunatic. Take your pick. He drives me like a Ferrari.”
“That bad?”
“Naw, not that bad. Without him, I’d probably still be in the pack.” She pointed over at the group huddled around the shorter distance targets.
“What about Harold?”
Twisting her head sideways, she flashed a twinkly smile. “What’s that boy sayin’ ‘bout me and him? Nothing tawdry, I hope.”
She violated my personal space. I backed away.
“No,” I said quickly.
