Prompt Rides - 21. Master Golfer

I’m a Sun Devil. For those of you who are not sports fan, the Sun Devils are the athletic teams who represent Arizona State University. But I’m not just a jock who decided to go to school in Tempe, adopting the team moniker when I began playing there. I left the hospital in my mother’s arms, wrapped in a maroon and gold baby blanket, the day after I was born. You could say ASU is at the core of my being.

My name’s Rogan Keaton. I’m a senior at ASU, a marketing major, and a member of the golf team. Mom died in a car accident when I was two, dad and I have been alone for the past twenty years―he never remarried. Actually, dad rarely dated at all, his best friend was a constant companion though. The two of them would include me in their weekend outings from the age I can remember. Both of them are professors at the University, I practically grew up on campus, their long summer vacations we spent traveling together.

Maybe saying I grew up on the school’s Kirsten Golf Course would be more accurate. Avid golfers both of them, I was riding in their cart as soon as I was able to sit up. When I began walking, I’d roam around the links, with a small plastic bag in my hands, looking for lost balls. I watched them play, learned about which club to use for different shots, and eventually served as their caddy.

Dad loves to tell the story of me wearing diapers, dragging an old nine iron behind me, while running around our back yard. He claims I showed great joy in chasing a little white ball around, screaming I was going to be a goffer. Ha! A goffer I became sure enough. Putting came first, then I learned how to ride a bicycle, and throw a football. I was too young to work, but the course pro would have me go for this or go for that, all the time. I think I became his pet project when he started giving me pointers and then lessons, without charging dad a cent. I always carried my plastic bag, just in case I came across any stray balls.

All that time on the green paid off. My overall game was pretty darn good; my putting was out of this world. If I showed up at the course, and the putting green was busy, men and women would step aside to watch me practice. I’d pull out my plastic bag, drop a couple of balls, and putt away. At some point, people started asking for advice, which I happily provided. Dad didn’t have to worry much about me, if I wasn’t next to him, I could be found at the golf course.

At ten, golfers around Phoenix knew my name. I was playing with, and beating, almost every adult who stepped onto Kirsten. Someone mentioned me to a reporter, and the local newspaper ran a blurb about me in their sports section. At eleven, SI Kids interviewed me and ran three pages about my game. You know how much those magazines love to write about the next prodigy. Being raised by a single parent gave them a nice human interest angle. At twelve I competed in my first U.S. Junior Amateur Championship, and was on the cover. At thirteen I won it, and now it was Sports Illustrated itself writing about the youngest winner ever of the tournament.

At fourteen, the all mighty dollar came calling. Nike, adidas, Reebok, Under Armour, and a few other wanted to sign me up as one of the athletes in their stable. It meant money up the wazoo. Golf was still thought of as a sport for rich, white guys; the chance to have a teen endorse their product, was seen as heaven sent. I could bring a whole new generation into the game. A generation paying good money to dress like me, buy the same clubs I carried around, and use my balls. Dad could quit working, we would be able to afford newer and better, anything and everything. The old man said thanks, but no, thanks. Family and friends thought he’d lost his mind. How could he turn away the goose?

He explained it to me during lunch at our favorite burger joint ,while sipping a Sunkist. He told me playing golf would be a great way to make a living, but it could abruptly end any day. It could be in my fifties, or it could just as easily be in my twenties; I needed a fallback position just in case. He recounted conversations with my mom about attending my college graduation. About how much it would have meant to her, for me to have that diploma. He offered me a deal.

He promised his complete support, if I’d remain an amateur until I graduated from ASU―there was never a question as to what college I’d attend. I’d play for my high school team, and then for the university, which meant maintaining a good grade point average. Even though most of the time golf is an individual sport, being part of a team would bring me benefits and pleasures I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I accepted, we shook hands on the deal, and we both kept our end of the bargain. Smart fucker my dad; he got me to study using my love of golf as an incentive.

High School was when I hit my biggest growth spurt. Taller and stronger, my tee shots became gargantuan. I had my first eagle, my first hole-in-one, and my first piece of ass. The first two landed me on the front page of the Arizona Republic’s sports section; the third one got me grounded for a month. I’ve never been able to lie to my father, if he asked, I told. I hadn’t used the condoms he’d bought me―my bad.

That wasn’t the last time I dipped the wick, girls seemed to like my looks. I was taller than average, didn’t have a ripped body, but I was still a star athlete. My smile was captivating, imperfect teeth and all, while my scruffy face showed I was all man. When hair started to sprout on my chest, shirts with buttons left undone, became de rigueur. So fucking sue me, I’m vain.

Jocks didn’t know how to deal with me. I was one of them, yet I wasn’t. Golf wasn’t a real sport, but hell, I was so good even they had to pay attention. Not only was I not ripped, I was somewhat soft around the middle. I heard the word cuddly used now and then. It was widely known the females considered me to be smoking, so the men had to make room for me in the BMOC club. Two or three very macho, testosterone laden ones, even propositioned me. High school was a blast.

Scholarship athletes at any major university, are mostly considered demigods by students, faculty and administrators. There are plenty of rules in place, by the NCAA and the individual schools, to regulate the process; to try and balance out academics versus athletics. But some of the best football and baseball players, could barely spell the university’s name when they were accepted, and were not much better upon graduation. Those are the two big sports, the only ones which really matter to Board of Trustees. The ones which make alumni open up their pockets, and fill the institution’s coffers.

Golf? What’s that? It’s not even considered a sport by many. Even in southern schools, where year-round play is possible, golf is almost an afterthought. At Arizona State University, the same held true until the beginning of my sophomore year. That August I won my first U.S. Amateur Championship. Golf started to creep into campus conversations, girls were ready to lose their panties whenever I looked their way, and guys hung around me as if I was their best friend. They were probably just waiting in the wings for any females I discarded.

A year later, after my second win, golf was being openly discussed by everyone on campus. The camera crews which followed me around for a while, attended most of the matches I played in, and interviewed some of my fellow students, may have had something to do with it.

By my senior year, people knew of my lucky plastic bag, in which I carried my balls. The silly jokes about my little idiosyncrasy, were repeated ad infinitum in the locker room, and during late night bull sessions in the dorms. According to Dad, they were part of the repertoire of many, in the cocktail party circuit. Pops also claimed to be bruised from all the congratulatory back slaps he received. He was proud of me. I heard about his bragging from his best friend and other faculty members.

I tied Tiger by winning the Championship three times in a row. Each of those years I received an automatic invitation to play in the Masters. I made the cut my first two years, but faltered near the end. The reality of where I was, what I was doing, and who I was doing it with, ruined my concentration. Each time I left Augusta disappointed, while dad appeared overjoyed with my play. We stuck around the southeast, went to play different courses in Florida, each time ending up at one, where clothing was absent. Playing golf nekkid, somehow improved my spirits. By the time we were back in Arizona, I was ready to start banging away again, trying to get better.

But this was my year, even the azaleas seemed to say so. Coming from the Desert Southwest, the profusion of blooms, was at first a shock. Not anymore, this was my year, the tournament’s signature flowers were my silent cheering crowd. The bright pink blooms I’ve come to love kept me smiling for seventy-two holes. I’d be graduating in a few weeks, joining the pro tour afterwards, and I planned on making a splash in the pool of players. Woods and Spieth were both younger than I was when they won, but I was cool with that. I’d get my own record soon enough. Just wait until a few years from now, after I’ve won six more, and surpass Nicklaus.

But all of it is secondary to the here and now. I was smiling for the cameras, hugging my proud father, with a plastic bag still in my pocket. What began when I was a small child, then planned out over a hamburger and an orange soda, had brought me to Augusta. Today, I earned the right to wear a green jacket.