Golf 5Title: Bethpage Black
Author: Nathan McAlone
Category: Fiction

I was worried about my heart. It had been running approximately twenty beats-per-minute above usual and I was losing sleep because of this. I was afraid that in the middle of the night I would suddenly awake from a nebulously erotic dream, have a massive heart attack, and die alone in my bed at the age of twenty-four. My doctor told me there was nothing wrong with me, that it was probably just anxiety. However, she hadn’t been in my good graces since we argued about the merits of codeine versus ginger root. She also had long dreadlocks that I didn’t believe were quite sterile enough for a doctor’s office. All in all, I didn’t really take my doctor’s opinion into consideration.
     I was working at The Active Pearl, a boutique sports website that specialized in only elitist sports like golf, polo, and tennis. I took the job as quickly as I could snatch up my diploma in journalism from UCLA. It had seemed like a fun place to start a career at the time. Truth be told, the site turned out to be more about the rich, athletic, country club lifestyle associated with certain sports than it was about the games themselves. I had the claustrophobic feeling that I was the only one in the office who really cared at all about tennis, which was my beat.
     “Have you ever actually played tennis?” I asked my coworker Brad when he handed me a particularly dreadful article to edit on the differences between Venus and Serena Williams.
     “Have you?” he shot back and sat looking smug. I was too disgusted to tell him I was the number-two player on my team in college and that my dad had taught me to play tennis when I was just three years old. Don’t get angry, I told myself. It’s bad for your heart. I was working for the site on a part-time basis and spinning my wheels as much as possible to stop the job from becoming permanent.
     One Thursday in June, Greg, my boss’ boss, asked for volunteers to go out and cover the U.S. Open at Bethpage Black. Greg always had to bully people into covering large sporting events because most of the office considered them too crowded. Bethpage Black was only a short Long Island Rail ride away from the city and there was going to be playable rain! so it wouldn’t be that crowded. Greg included this as a plus. I thought watching golf would be a nice, relaxing day out of the city. Greg used to say, “golf is the gentlest game, which is why gentlemen are the ones who play it.” He hadn’t said this phrase since a stray ball hit him at Augusta, but I think in his heart he still believed it. He was just nervous that the office would burst into a grand chortle session at a reminder of the personal apology he received from Phil Mickelson, Greg’s newest idol. Whatever the truth was about golf being a gentle game, I decided to cover the Open with Greg on the pretext that it would be good for my heart.
     Greg was an overweight forty-three, with two mortgages, two ex-wives, and two children (from the same mother). All of these unhealthy responsibilities were located in Long Island. Golf was what kept him going and the U.S. Open at Bethpage Black was the one time, every five years or so, that he could go to Long Island for fun. I thought it was something I needed to experience in person. Greg was delighted.
     “Splendid,” he beamed, “just splendid. Big tennis star like you. Covering the Open. Well I’ll show you a thing or two about golf. Yes.” I hoped I could give him the slip early to avoid his enthusiastic commentary and find him again when he was too drunk to give me a play-by-play. This eventual reunion would be made more difficult by the fact that no cell phones were allowed at Bethpage Black, but I figured this in itself gave me a good enough excuse for losing Greg for an indeterminate amount of time.
     Unfortunately for me, Cindy was also going to accompany us, and I thought giving her the slip would be a bit more difficult. Cindy was a rail-thin redhead who wrote code for the website. She was the brain behind all the bare bones functionality that brought the men and women of leisure together in sport. In Cindy’s thirty to forty years of life, I would have guessed that she had attended less than ten professional sporting events. I had no idea why she had volunteered to help at the Open and I had even less of an idea why Greg had let her. By the rules of the office, Greg could pick anyone he wanted to help him cover the event, and Cindy seemed like an illogical choice, for obvious reasons. She wasn’t even a writer.
     I pondered this mystery on the fifty-six-minute train ride from Penn Station to Farmingdale, where complimentary shuttle buses would take us to the course. My best guess was that Cindy had heard the rumors about the open bar, something that had factored prominently into my decision, and had browbeat Greg into letting her come. It was no secret in the office that Cindy was a borderline alcoholic.
     The whole ride, Greg babbled on excitedly about Tiger making a big comeback after that scare with his knee or his ankle and Cindy nodded in agreement. I stared out the window and watched Long Island go by. It really was a depressing place, especially with the light rain, which was just as Greg had predicted. I decided there was too much brick everywhere, far too much brick, and concluded that I could only ever stand the inherent depression of the suburbs if it was sunny all the time like in South Pasadena, where I grew up.
     “Eric, who’s your favorite golfer?” Greg asked, snapping me out of my musings.
     “Sergio,” I said.
     “Good man. Good man. Cindy?”
     “I don’t know. I don’t really have one,” Cindy replied.
     “Why are you coming to the Open if you don’t even have a favorite golfer?” I asked, annoyed.
     “Come on now, Eric,” Greg cut in. “She likes them all, don’t you Cindy? Don’t worry. We’ll get you a favorite by the end of the day. Won’t we Eric? My favorite is the lefty. Mickelson. Such guts. Such finesse.”
     By the time we got to the Farmingdale station, Greg was practically jumping up and down in excitement. Though it was barely seventy degrees, he was already showing signs of sweating through his generic, high-end golf shirt. He was still talking animatedly with Cindy and I began to suspect his reason for letting her come to the Open could perhaps have been a romantic one, or a sexual one at the very least. During the crowded ten-minute bus ride from the train station to the course, Greg and Cindy bumped into each other much more frequently than the other passengers, especially if we went around any bends in the road. By the time we reached the course, it was beyond suspicion that both of them were in the sparking phase of a mutually desired liaison. It seemed I might have the day to myself after all. It would be just me, among hundreds of anonymous golf aficionados, enjoying some world-class swing form and some much-needed rest.
     As soon as we entered the course, Greg and Cindy made a beeline for the Champion’s Pavilion. Cindy had forgotten to leave her phone at home and had it forcibly removed by the security guards at the entrance. This gave Greg the perfect opportunity for some playful teasing about Cindy’s forgetfulness, which he continued across the muddy, straw-dirt path that led to the Pavilion. I remained a respectful few paces behind them, already itching to take off in my own direction.
     “You’ll love this tent,” Greg assured Cindy. “Top of the line. First class all the way. Everything a girl could want.” The Champion’s Pavilion was an enormous white tent that housed the free buffet and open bar for those fortunate enough to be holding special tickets. Inside, it was completely air-conditioned, even in the rain, which I thought would help Greg’s budding pit stains.
     Looking around, I felt that I was the skinniest person in the tent, besides Cindy of course, and that the pair of us had to be at least three pounds-per-inch lighter than anyone else with a VIP ticket. This seemed strange to me, since the image our website always promoted was one of a fit, middle-aged man who was, despite his age, still close to his peak fitness level. I had always believed without question not that we were honest in our promotion, but that a certain caliber of gentleman had the cash to buy himself a nice body well into middle age. From the looks of the men and women all around us digging into the Spicy Italian Sausage Links and Three-Wood Chicken Fingers, this wasn’t always the case.
     The open bar was in the middle of the Pavilion and was squared off so there were four possible surfaces to order from. This not only maximized the amount of alcohol consumption that could occur during the course of the day, but also allowed me to get as far as possible away from the lovebirds while ordering. Greg was trying to impress Cindy by dictating the recipe for an obscure drink while making wild accompanying hand gestures.
     As I tried to casually retreat away from the bar area with my Negro Modelo, the highest-end of the three beers being served, I must have accidentally jostled a stray chair because upon making my full turn around, I was confronted with the picture of a young woman tumbling to the ground in front of me. Luckily I am surprisingly quick, as my high school coach used to say, a talent that has been useful on the tennis court and in the streets of New York City. I threw out my arms and managed to catch her while engaged in a sort of half-roll that brought me onto the carpet and her right on top of me. I am proud to say that neither of us was hurt in the process and I managed to maintain my beer in an upright position that prevented all but minimal to moderate spillage from occurring. If I had been holding a glass instead of a bottle, both of us probably would have been covered in Mexican beer. As we rose to our feet, I was embarrassed to hear a small round of applause coming from the spot where Greg and Cindy were almost intertwined on the bar. I smiled awkwardly at them and gave a mock bow before turning back to introduce myself to the girl I had just either tripped or saved, depending on your preference.
     “It’s so nice to find someone with some gallantry in New York,” she burst out before I could begin my introduction. Apparently, I was more of a savior than a tripper. I looked at her clearly for the first time. She had beautiful blonde hair that fell in waves down her back and the lightest blue eyes I’d ever seen, almost white. She smiled at me and extended her hand. I guessed she was about eighteen or nineteen.
     “I’m Jill,” she said. I hated her teeth. They were terribly straight and reminded me of how a kindergartener would depict a skeleton’s. Her lips were likewise uninviting, thin and wind-cracked, not at all kissable. Perhaps it was really her lips that made her teeth look so awfully bizarre. After all, what is a skeleton but an ordinary girl, perhaps even a beautiful one, with no lips to frame her smile? Yes, I’m sure now, it was her lips that bothered me, not her teeth.
     “I’m Eric, pleased to meet you,” I replied. And I was being sincere. There was something alluring about her if you ignored her lips. She had a certain falseness in her manner that attracted me. The way she told me I was gallant had not rung true at all. She was intentionally exaggerating, as if she was buttering me up for something. I could tell she was a saleswoman at heart. I was a mark and there was something magnetic in knowing that. The offhand fantasies I began to conjure up about us were embarrassingly masculine.
     “So where are you from, Eric?” she asked. “Did you fly in for the golf or was that chivalry a product of the state of New York?” More exaggeration and flattery. I told her that I was from Southern California originally, but that I had come to New York after college to cover sports and had never left. She asked me if I had any plans to move back home and I told her I did not, at least not anytime soon. She said this was sad and that she couldn’t imagine permanently living anywhere besides her home state: Utah.
     Utah. Every single warning bell in my head went off. She was in her late teens, with a saleswoman vibe, from Utah. Ding. Ding. Ding.
     “You’re a missionary,” I exclaimed incredulously.
     “How did you know?” she managed to giggle, clearly caught off guard.
     “I support gay marriage,” I blurted out. This missionary business was bringing back all the shame I felt when my home county of Los Angeles had bought the dropped-in Mormon propaganda and been responsible for the Prop. 8 fiasco that banned gay marriage.
     “That’s okay,” she began. 
     “I drink, I smoke, I take the Lord’s name in vain, I lie frequently, I have sex before marriage as much as I can, please don’t try to sell me, I’m not interested.” Even as the words left my mouth, I thought they sounded a bit too harsh. “I’m sorry,” I started, but now it was her turn to cut me off.
     “Why do you New Yorkers always think everything is about buying and selling? I stand outside the Mormon Temple on Fifty-seventh and Broadway every day just trying to talk to people, just trying to bring some happiness into peoples’ lives, and you people look at me like I’m the latest rat that jumped out of a trash can in front of you. I’m not asking you to give me money. I’m not asking for anything. I’m trying to give you something. It’s your ignorance and prejudice that prevents you from seeing that, not mine.” It was an earnest speech and despite the considerable distaste I had for the corporate religiosity of the Church of Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints, I regretted my earlier rudeness.
     “Look Jill, I just don’t really like the concept of converting people or being converted. It rubs me the wrong way, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It was uncalled for. Do you accept my apology?” It was lame, I’ll admit, but I really wasn’t in the mood to try very hard to win back the favor of a missionary.
     “Well, now that you’ve blown my cover as a missionary you’ll have to address me by my formal title, Sister Bloom, but other than that, I’d say I could forgive you if you’d be willing to explain to me how golf works.”
     We both laughed. I asked her why she was at the Open if she didn’t even know the rules of golf. She said golf had always fascinated her in abstract, and that there was a free ticket floating around the Temple so she’d decided to see what it was like. I told her that golf was probably one of the least complicated sports in history.
     “All you have to do is keep hitting the ball with a club until it goes in the hole. Then you move on to the next hole.” She laughed at this and admitted she’d guessed as much, but thought there must be more to the game that she didn’t understand. I told her that was pretty much it, but to not tell Greg, whom I pointed out was sitting on the other side of the Pavilion with his hand on Cindy’s leg and seemingly no desire to actually watch any golf in person until he was sure he had won her affections. He was however, still watching one of the many television sets scattered around the Pavilion out of the corner of his eye.
     Jill (who I refused to call Sister Bloom) and I decided to trudge out of the Champion’s Pavilion and through the mud about twenty yards to the eighteenth hole, where I thought we could catch Tiger finishing up his first half round of play (he’d started the day at the tenth hole). The rain had cleared up enough for the crowds to have reluctantly lowered their collective golf umbrellas and deal with the drizzle themselves.
     “So are your parents Mormon?” I asked her, apropos of nothing. She laughed.
     “It’s okay,” she said when I attempted to apologize for being rude again. “In New York, I’m used to being treated like a foreign curiosity on display. At least you didn’t ask me how I sleep at night. I’ve gotten that a few times. But to answer your question: yes my parents are Mormon and yes that’s probably the reason I am and no I don’t agree with every fine point of the doctrine but no that does not mean that I’m going to give up on the church. It brings people together. You can’t understand living in New York City. This is the worst place for me. I don’t know why they sent me here. Does that about cover it all?”
     “You’ve practiced that speech,” I said.
     “Maybe a little.”
     “So you don’t get to choose where you go?” I asked.
     “No, the Church chooses for you. Then you’re gone for two years and paired with a missionary of the same sex that you may or may not like, who you have to be with twenty-four hours a day. It’s very confining, to say the least, but I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
     “It’s okay,” I replied. “So where is your partner then, or whatever you call her? Shouldn’t she be with you now if you guys have to stay together at all times?”
     “Technically, yes. Her name is Sister Wadsworth. We like each other, but sometimes it just gets to be too much. We decided we’d let each other have the day off while we’re here and blame the lack of cell phones for being alone if anyone we know sees us.”
     I smiled at how similar our plans were. Jill’s disingenuous aura seemed to have almost entirely disappeared. She looked more relaxed. However, I was still not willing to rule out the possibility that this was just another trick in her evangelist’s arsenal. Our conversation was cut off by a barrage of shh’s in various tones and I realized that Tiger must have been about to tee off. Jill and I crowded against the rope barrier and watched the tiny white ball soar through the air. It wasn’t a great drive and Tiger proceeded to miss an easy putt and bogey the hole. Jill thought it was exciting anyway.
     We decided to make our way over to the grandstand by the seventh hole, where we’d have a potential view of three different holes at once, and hopefully find seats that were not still wet from the rain. When we got there and began to casually watch the action move through the course below us, I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
     “But seriously, gay marriage? Why not? Why is it so bad? Why did your church spend millions of dollars to stop it? It just doesn’t make any sense to me.” She laughed. It was the same easy laugh she’d had when I’d pointed out Greg and Cindy, inches away from a full-blown make out session in the Pavilion. I didn’t find it charming now. I found it infuriating. This was a serious issue that had a profound effect on the life of one of my closest childhood friends back home and she was laughing like it was a harmless doctrinal dispute between two obscure clerics.
     “I know you want a fight, Eric,” she said, “but I’m not going to give you one.” She was right. I did want a fight. I wanted her to show her true religious fanatic colors instead of tiptoeing around the radical issues. I wanted to prove that my prejudices against her had a basis in fact. I wanted her to stop being so damned normal for a second and become a creature of intolerance.
     “So what are you saying?” I pressed on. “You support gay marriage then?”
     “No, of course not,” she laughed again. “But,” she added conspiratorially, “I think my church might have been a little overzealous with that whole situation. Let Babylon be Babylon, I always say.”
     “You don’t sound much like a missionary,” I replied.
     “I guess I’m not. New York has jaded me. I wish I could go door to door to in small towns like my brother did on his mission. He went to Croatia. He said it was one of the best times he’s had in his life. I wouldn’t even be able to make it up to someone’s door in the city. The doorman would tackle me in the lobby before I got to the elevator. It’s actually kind of pathetic. I stand out on the street like some Scientologist, or someone trying to get you to go to a comedy club. It’s degrading.”
     I couldn’t think of anything cheerful to say to her and, though I wanted to, I didn’t have the heart to continue attacking her about gay rights. We sat there in silence for a minute as it began to rain again. Umbrellas popped up around us as if out of thin air and I heard someone yell from below. She rested her head lightly against my shoulder, where it would be protected from the rain by the large umbrella of the man sitting next to me.
     “ERIC! Over here! We thought we’d lost you.” It was Greg and he came bouncing up the stairs with Cindy in toe. “Have you seen Sergio today? Radio says he’s on fire,” he said, pointing to the single white headphone on his left ear. “Why, hello, who’s your new friend? Is that the girl you saved from hitting her head in the Pavilion? Great move. What quickness. Exactly the type of fitness we talk about at the site. I’m Greg, by the way. Greg Danielson.”
     “I’m Sister Bloom,” Jill replied, sticking out her hand. Greg looked at her as if she’d said Tiger was about to retire.
     “You’re a nun?” he spluttered. It was obvious that he’d already put back more than a couple of drinks in the Champion’s Pavilion. “Don’t you have to wear a cape in public?”
     “You mean a robe, Greg,” Cindy said from behind him, pinching him in the side. She seemed undeterred by his obvious inebriation. “Nuns wear robes, for modesty.”
     “She’s not a nun,” I said. A flood of relief poured out of Greg.
     “Well, thank God for that. Knew she couldn’t be. Nuns don’t golf. She’s your sister then? Bloom? That’s not your last name, Eric. It’s Davies, Eric Davies. Knew she couldn’t be a nun though. Far too pretty.” At this last comment, Greg flashed his bulbous, boyish smile at Jill. Cindy looked furious and her cheeks began to rouge towards the color of her hair.
     “I’m not related to Eric, I’m actually a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints,” Jill replied. This time, Greg looked as if she just told him Tiger had been beaten to death by his caddy on the third hole. However, it was Cindy who spoke up.
     “You’re joking, right?” she said in a tone that suggested she didn’t think Jill was joking at all. I guessed she was still upset about the grin Greg had given Jill. “You are a spokeswoman for the magical underwear company? This is too much. A real life Mormon in New York, now that’s something you don’t see everyday.” Apparently, Greg hadn’t been the only one getting loaded.
     “Cindy,” Greg interjected pleadingly.
     “No, I want to know some things,” Cindy continued. “So are you part of some sort of harem Jill, or are you not allowed to marry yet since you’re a missionary?” Even though I also wondered what Jill’s thoughts were on polygamy, I was still resisting the urge to throw Cindy down the grandstand and into the mud. My heart quickened uncomfortably and I tried to calm it by telling myself that Cindy was just a middle-aged computer nerd who didn’t understand social interaction. It wasn’t convincing. Cindy knew exactly what she was doing. I readied my throat to yell at her, but Jill put her hand gently on my arm.
     “The Mormon Church actually doesn’t condone polygamy anymore,” Jill spoke calmly. “And we can get married whenever we want, but I’m not. Some of my friends from high school are married already, but I think I’m too young for that. I don’t even have a boyfriend.” Greg tried to catch my eye, but I pretended to be watching the grounds crew squeeze water off the green.
     “Perfectly right. Play the field. That’s what I always say,” Greg belted out giddily. “Don’t get married until you have to. I should know. Been married twice. Cindy, we need to get moving if we want to see Angel play that nasty fourth hole.” Cindy looked torn between wanting to take another verbal swing at Jill and having Greg all to herself again. Her desire for Greg won out and she clanked absurdly down the grandstand after him in her mud-splashed high-heels.
     “They’re alright once you get to know them,” I said. “Actually, just Greg. Cindy is pretty much always like that.”
     “Are they, together?”
     “Who knows,” I laughed. Jill and I sat silently for a few moments. A young golfer who had qualified for the first time hit a beautiful chip out of a sand trap and onto the green six inches from the hole. The crowd around us went wild, waving their umbrellas up and down, spraying each other with water. Nobody cared about that. The golfer turned and pumped his fist to the crowd. He looked elated. I knew that feeling. I wished Greg had been here to see this. He would have appreciated it more than Jill or I could.
     “Do you play golf, or just like to watch?” Jill asked pleasantly. I tensed.
     “No, I don’t play golf. It’s too much of an old man’s game for me. I figure I’ll pick it up when I put myself out to pasture in Florida or somewhere like that. I played tennis in college, but I haven’t in awhile.” I tried to sound casual, but my heart was beating angrily. I hadn’t even been able to watch tennis on television in months. It was too painful.
     “I’m sorry,” Jill said softly.
     “Don’t be sorry for me,” I snapped. “I’m fine. I just got sick of tennis that’s all.” I turned away from her and looked past the course, towards the rest of Long Island.
     “I understand. Sometimes I get sick of the whole missionary thing.”
     “No it’s nothing like that,” I threw back. “You still do it. Every day.” I was struggling to keep my breathing under control.
     “What does that mean?” Jill asked.
     “Nothing,” I replied. “I just don’t get you. You can’t really believe it.”
     “Believe what, Eric?”
     “I don’t know. Like, that Jesus came to America. Or that Joseph Smith could read some secret Indian language no one else could. Those things. They aren’t real.” For a long time Jill didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I didn’t know why I was so upset. My chest began to feel like it was in a tennis racquet stringer that wouldn’t stop tightening. This had never happened before. I grabbed Jill’s hand and squeezed it hard.
     “Are you alright,” she whispered.
     “I need some air,” I croaked, ignoring the obvious fact that we’d been outside the entire day. I hobbled down the grandstand with Jill on my arm. When I reached the grass I collapsed to a knee. I breathed in the smell of horse manure, cut grass, and muddy shoes. I hadn’t noticed it smelled like horses before. It almost made me smile.
     “Do you want me to get a doctor,” Jill asked. She dropped down on her knees, getting mud all over her skirt. She put her hand over the one I had planted on the ground. I tried to breathe in deeply and coughed, but I felt my chest loosening.
     “I’m alright,” I managed, rising to my feet and waving off the small crowd of onlookers who had gathered to look concerned.
     “Are you sure,” she asked.
     “I’m fine,” I said. I really was feeling better. My breathing had returned to more or less normal, if still a bit shallow. I no longer felt like my heart was taking a nine-iron to my chest. I wanted to put her at ease. “Look at you,” I said, gesturing to her dirty dress and arms.
     “You should see yourself,” she smiled, picking up my mud-caked hand and putting it in front of my face. I told her one of the best parts of the Open, and the Champion’s Pavilion in particular, was the abundance of luxurious portable washrooms. They had wood paneling, faux marbling, and as many baby-soft paper towels as you needed to scrub the grime off your arms. When we were both as clean as we could get under the circumstances, we sat by one of the café tables that lined the deck of the Champion’s Pavilion. We were half-protected from the rain by a thick plastic awning that flapped lazily in the wind above us.
     “About what you asked me earlier,” Jill started.
     “Forget about it,” I said.
     “No, I won’t. I get it. You think I’m stupid because I go along with beliefs you think are ludicrous. That’s what you’re saying right?”
     “But don’t you think they’re ludicrous?” I asked.
     “A few. Maybe. Sure. So what?”
     “So what? It’s your life, Jill. How can you settle like that?”
     “I’m not settling. I know what I love and it’s my family and my friends and the place I was raised. It’s a beautiful place, full of the kindest people. I’m not going to try to convince you, but it’s true. If I have I have to wear special underwear to be a part of my family, who cares?”
     “But it’s not just that,” I interjected, “you know it’s not.”
     “Then what is it?” she asked.
     “I don’t know,” I replied. I looked out over at the throng of people trudging their way towards the exits. These were the early birds trying to get back to a dinner reservation in the city. The golf day hadn’t quite finished up yet. I saw Greg trying to cut his way across one of the columns. He spotted us and waved. Cindy was nowhere to be seen.
     “Where’d Cindy run off to,” I asked him when he finally panted his way up to the deck of the Champion’s Pavilion.
     “Don’t know. Lost her. Ran to see Mickelson on twelve. Thought she was right behind me. Guess he wasn’t. She was weighing me down a little anyway. She doesn’t understand golf at all. Don’t know why she wanted to come. I wasn’t going to waste the whole day. ” We all laughed at that. Greg looked considerably redder than he had at the beginning of the day. He sunburned easily, even in the rain, but I didn’t think this accounted for all of it. He was flush with life and a considerable amount of alcohol. He reminded me of the young golfer we’d seen on the seventh hole.
     “I thought you two were together,” Jill said.
     “Cindy and I?” Greg asked.
     “Yeah.”
     “No,” he replied firmly. “I mean she’s a nice woman. Real sexy.” I cringed at that. “Just knew she wasn’t for me. Know what I mean? And I’m not the best judge of women either. Been divorced twice. Did I mention that? Anyway, I’m going to look at souvenir golf shirts before the merchandise tent closes. You want anything Eric?”
     “No, I’m okay. Thanks though,” I replied.
     “Sure?” Greg asked. “Great to wear around the office. Everyone will be jealous.”
     “No, I’m good.” We watched Greg race across the grass to the merchandise pavilion, almost knocking over a man carrying a toddler on his shoulders.
     “I like him,” Jill said.
     “Me too,” I replied.
     “I like you too,” Jill continued. “Even though you hate my religion and think I’m a pathetic sellout.”
     “I don’t think you’re pathetic. I just can’t be as sure as you are about everything. I’m not built that way.”
     “Maybe you are. Maybe you aren’t, Eric. I think when you find something you really love you’ll stop looking for ways to knock it down. I think everyone does.” I thought that was a little cheesy, but the way she said it made me smile anyway. It was a nice thought.
     “I told you not to try to sell me,” I said, but I knew she was being sincere. Jill knew I wasn’t going to move to Utah and have lots of Mormon babies and she didn’t care. She wasn’t selling anything anymore. We sat there in a pleasant silence, watching as the fickle rain began to dry again.
     “ERIC!” It was Greg. He was standing outside the merchandise tent, holding up two matching U.S. Open 2009, Bethpage Black golf shirts, and gesturing towards the exit. “We’re going to miss our train!” he yelled. I hoped one of those shirts wasn’t for me.

Nathan McAlone is a recent graduate of Columbia University's creative writing program, living and working in New York City. His love of sports comes from his dad, who once quite gloriously struck out Reggie Jackson.