6. Shelby
SHELBY
“There we go. Just like that.”
Just like that, my ass.
I squint as I watch my ball go barely two hundred yards. And to the left. Way to the left.
“Just like that?” I repeat, frustrated with myself, and Chad. “That was the shittiest one I’ve hit today.”
“It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t shitty, either,” Chad says, though I can tell he’s trying to put lipstick on the pig. “There were improvements.”
I take a step back, drop my club, grab my bottle of water, and suck down the hydration. If I don’t, I’m going to go on a swearing rant that will get me fined by the country club.
Again.
At this point, I might as well start a tab for my infractions.
“Your rhythm was good,” Chad says, clearly oblivious to the fact that I’m about to throw my club farther than where my ball landed. “We still need to work on the follow through. That’s where you’re not getting it.”
I want to say I’m not getting it because he has my hands in such a fucked up position, there’s no way someone who isn’t triple-jointed can follow through. But I don’t. He’s my swing coach, and I need to trust the process.
Except, as the days go by, and the improvement isn’t happening, I’m trusting it less and less.
“I don’t know how to get it,” I admit. “It’s not natural, Chad. Nothing about this grip or swing is natural.”
For a split second, I watch his face harden as I question his methods. But just as quickly, he goes back to a supportive coach. “It’s not natural because you’re not used to it. You’ve had better shots with that approach. Think back to what was different about this one and why it went so bad.”
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 a Back Nine episode 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.
As I get my stance set up, I’m struck by how much adult Chad is just a more douchey version of high school Chad.
He’s pompous. Arrogant. Will tell anyone who will listen about all of the athletes he’s worked with.
I’ve heard him drop Beau’s name around the country club on numerous occasions.
I wonder if he gets off on the attention it brings him.
But none of that can matter. I can hate him as a person, but if he’s the one who can fix me, then I’ll deal with all the other bullshit.
“Fine,” I say with a groan. “But only a few more swings. I have to play in thirty minutes.”
I bend over, placing my tee into the ground and setting my ball up at the perfect height. Closing my eyes as I stand back up, I focus on all the things I need to do to hopefully, finally, make the contact I know I can.
Breathe…adjust my weight…adjust the stance…hinge slightly…slow back swing…engage…let it rip.
I do everything I can. And everything feels perfect. Until it doesn’t.
As soon as I come down on the ball, my weight feels off. Yes, it’s a new stance, and in golf, the slightest adjustment in that area can throw off a multitude of things in your swing. But I’m too far into it to stop now, so I let my driver make contact with the ball.
I don’t need to look too far to see what I already know. That it barely traveled a hundred yards.
“Fuck!” I scream, earning me disapproving looks from the other guests I’m sharing the driving range with. “What the fuck was that!”
“Sorry, everyone,” Chad says, waving and apologizing to the members as he takes me by the arm and pulls me away from the range. “Shelby, I know fuck is your favorite word in the English language, but you have to watch yourself.”
I rip away from his hold before slamming my driver back into the bag. I don’t even bother putting the head cover back on. “Don’t tell me how to react. If anything, you should be just as mad. Every single one of your suggestions has made me worse off.”
Chad steps into me, his eyes hard as he looks down at me.
“This is one of your problems, you’re too stubborn and you have a mental block with this proven system.
I’m doing my job. It’s not my fault you’re not getting it.
Do you know how many clients I’ve worked with?
How many proven successes I’ve had? Dozens!
And the only thing they had in common was me.
So what does that tell you, Shelby? Maybe this isn’t working because of you.
As for the language? You can’t fly off the handle after one bad shot. ”