Chapter 2
Zaire’s head wasn’t in the game all the way. He’d let the comments of the naysayers get to him. His swing was off so much that every time he swung his club, he cringed on the inside.
Golf was a quiet sport. It was different from the loud sounds of Crescent where he’d learned to swing on the old basketball court because Black kids didn’t deserve the green.
And even with nothing but the wind whistling against his ear, he could still hear the crowd heckling him - could hear their doubt and elation at how bad he was playing. But still, he tried.
He didn’t quit, though. He would rather fail than throw in the towel and give them even more to talk about.
Zaire didn’t crash out when someone whispered, “washed up” loud enough for him to hear.
He didn’t show them they’d wore him thin, with their condescending words and their noses turned up, every time he stepped out dripped in jewels with his tats adorning his body and using swirly words that they swore they couldn’t understand.
They didn’t respect his Blackness or how his presence in their tournament made their TV viewership skyrocket. They hated how his people rooted for him…hated how they dapped him up when he ran into them while hanging out.
Zaire was everything the league didn’t deserve and everything they never thought they’d see.
He wasn’t the first Black man to claim wins, but he was the first one to be authentically him.
He repped his set by wearing blue and spoke the words only his people could feel.
So, yeah, he was having a bad day but would still try his hardest to come back.
At the end of the day, eighteen million was on the line.
Zaire lined up at the tee box again, gripping his club tight enough to ground himself but loose enough not to show his frustration.
The Sovereign Cup wasn’t just another tournament.
It was the tournament - prestige…history…
old money…a place where they smiled at you on camera and whispered slurs in the locker room.
“Fuck,” Zaire whispered between gritted teeth.
His swing was off.
He could feel it in his wrists.
His stance was perfect and his grip was solid, but the follow-through just wasn’t landing like it should. The shit wasn’t connecting the way it usually did when he was locked in. And truth be told, he wasn’t locked into nothing but his own damn head.
He tried not to look at the scoreboard, but he already knew what it said.
Down four strokes…four.
That wasn’t just a bad game.
Chase Whitmore had been on his ass all day in that smug American White boy, country club kind of way. The type of arrogance that smiled in your face while making sure you remembered you didn’t belong.
“Hell of a swing, Cooks,” Chase grinned as they stepped off the green at the ten. “If you straighten that out, you might catch up.”
Swiping his tongue across his lips, Zaire didn’t feed into Chase, knowing he was only trying to get in his head and throw him off more. Even with the cheeky smile on his face, Zaire knew nothing about Chase’s words was just friendly competition.
Chase was trying to remind him that his Black ass didn’t belong on the green.
The crowd gave Zaire a light clap. One they saved for the players they barely tolerated. It wasn’t the raucous cheers Chase got when he landed three birdies in a row.
Zaire’s face didn’t flinch, but something tightened in his chest.
The next hole, he hooked it left…again.
His caddy tried to offer him a towel, but Zaire waved him off. The sun was sitting low, catching the gold in his chain, the blue LA cap tilted just enough to shadow his eyes. The whispers got louder behind the gallery rope.
“He’s done.”
Chase waited for him near the flag on twelve. “You know, there’s always commentary work. Folks love your voice.”
Zaire didn’t bite.
Instead, he lined up for a long putt, one that would at least keep him within striking distance. His heart thudded with every bounce of the ball. It circled the cup, teased it, and stopped just inches short.
The crowd didn’t cheer or encourage him as he walked over to where his ball landed.
Bending over, Zaire tapped the ball in, pissed at how he was clearly about to lose.
This was a disaster, and he couldn’t pinpoint what had him so off today.
He just wasn’t feeling it, but as a professional and as a Black man in a White dominated sport, he didn’t have that luxury.
An off day for him was spun as him being washed up…
his lucky streak coming to an end, as if luck was all that got him there.
Zaire had to shake all that off though and try to finish strong.
By the back nine, Chase was still messing with him.
“You ever think maybe the pressure’s just…too much?” Chase asked, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. “I mean, you’ve got tattoos, a hip hop background, a fanbase that doesn’t even watch golf unless you’re in it. Might be easier to just…bow out gracefully before you embarrass yourself more.”
Zaire’s temples pulsed from how hard he clenched his back teeth.
He wanted to respond. He wanted to tell Chase’s pale ass all about himself and how on any given day he was the better player, but he couldn’t respond.
Not without giving them what they wanted - a meltdown, a moment to spin, another soundbite for their blogs.
He hated this shit. Loved the game, but the politics of it all was wearing him down.
Zaire thought about Crescent - of the busted netless rim he used to chip golf balls into…of old heads on the block betting five on a swing, screaming louder than any gallery…of his uncle handing him a rusted 9-iron with the words ‘Make ‘em watch you’ scratched in the grip.
He carried a whole lot of pain on his shoulders. But that was what Crescent was— pain you carried for the rest of your life. But in many ways it was also joy. The joy of your community feeding into you even in their own trauma-filled way.
This wasn’t just a means to escape to him.
It wasn’t just a sport shoved into a little Black boy’s arms to occupy his time.
This wasn’t just golf.
This was him fighting to exist in a space never meant for him…and he was losing.
Still, he kept swinging and smiling when the cameras panned his way and kept his mouth closed every time Chase said something slick.
By the sixteenth hole, it was over. Zaire didn’t need the scoreboard to know it. The crowd had shifted. They cheered for Chase now like he was royalty and whispered less when Zaire walked by.
Still, Zaire didn’t quit.
On the seventeenth hole, he gave the cleanest drive of his whole round—straight and far, a reminder that he could still play…that he’d be back…that this loss wasn’t a full stop, just a comma in a long sentence.
The club landed back in his bag with a soft thud, but the sound carried all the weight in his chest. Zaire stared out over the green. His chest ached with that quiet, humiliating burn only athletes knew. The one that came when you gave it everything and it still wasn’t enough.
He ignored his caddy when he hummed ‘damn’ under his breath.
His gloves felt heavier now. Every movement was deliberate—breathing, blinking, pretending not to hear the laughter a few yards over. Chase was shaking hands with fans, cameras flashing like fireworks around him.
Zaire’s pulse thumped in his ears.
He’d fought too hard to be here. Every early morning on cracked concrete ranges, every borrowed club, every side-eye in locker rooms that smelled like old money and new arrogance—he carried all that with him.
Every shot, every swing, every breath was a statement.
And losing meant more than just a bad round. It meant giving them proof. It meant letting them whisper that he didn’t belong. It meant that a boy from Crescent Park was only ever good enough until he wasn’t.
He clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the next hole like it was still his to win. The cameras caught him smiling again, but this time it wasn’t for show. It was armor. It was defiance.
Because if they were gonna doubt him, he’d make sure they did it while watching him stand tall.
Even in loss, he wouldn’t fold…not here…not where everything he’d ever worked for was still on the line.
“Just go in there, answer the questions, then we’re out,” Ertan, Zaire’s agent nudged him, giving the best peptalk he could muster.
Ertan knew how much this loss meant to Zaire. He understood the disappointment and regret that sat inside Zaire too. But, the sport was a job and after a game— win or lose - you had to show up for the after-game press. It was non-negotiable.
“I know, nigga.” Zaire rolled his neck to loosen some of the tension that sat there.
Zaire walked into the press room with his hat low. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t have it in him today. The room smelled like cameras and cheap cologne. Reporters leaned forward the moment he stepped up, voices stacking over one another.
He took the mic, looking around, before nodding once to get the show on the road.
“Cooks, rough day out there,” one of the reporters started. “You’ve had a great season so far, but it seems your performance’s been…inconsistent lately. What do you think happened today?”
Zaire adjusted the mic. “Man, I just ain’t play my best game. Ball wasn’t falling the way I wanted. Happens to everybody. Nothing to focus too much on.”
A few reporters chuckled under their breath. Zaire squared his shoulders, he really hated this part. Hated feeling like he was in a glass for them to gawk at and tap the window, ignoring the sign that clearly said, don’t tap the window.
Another hand shot up. “Do you think your lifestyle off the course—your image, your… background…has become a distraction?”
He looked at her. She was smiling that polite, condescending kind of smile.
“My background?” he repeated.
“Yes, the chains, the tattoos, the slang…You’re very different from what golf’s used to seeing. Do you think that affects your focus or the way you’re received in this sport?”