John David Anderson - One Last Shot

Its a beautiful, sunny day here in Williams Bay, Wisconsin, where twenty-four talented young golfers are getting ready to tackle this monster of a course.

Thats right, Bill. This one is a killer. Each hole more challenging than the last. Expect to see some serious bogeys on the cards today. Weve got sand. Weve got water. But this aint no day at the beach.

You said it, Jim. And here we have the underdog: twelve-year-old Malcolm Greeley in the dark blue polo. What do you make of him?

Well, his ears are a little big, Bill. Theyre just not in proportion to his face. Sort of like a Mr. Potato Head. And those shorts his mother picked out for him are hideous. He looks like he just waded waist deep through Mustard Creek. A little yellow goes a long way out here on the green, Mrs. Greeley.

No, Jim. I mean what do you think of the kids chances? Do youthink he has what it takes to bring home the Morris-Hirschfield Trophy this afternoon?

Malcolm.

Well, its a challenging field, Bill. A lot of talented golfers out here today. But the odds-on favorite has to be returning champion Jamie Tran, who has dominated just about every mini golf competition hes played in this year.

Malcolm.

No question, Tran has the skills, Jim. I suspect hes going to annihilate the likes of Malcolm Greeley. Really rub his face in the

Malcolm!

Mom snaps her fingers. Her freckled face is only inches from mine. I can smell her perfume, the stuff Dad puts in her stocking at Christmas every year. Its flowery but also sort of sweet smelling. Like rose petals and vanilla frosting.

You okay?

I lick chapped lips and give her two nods. Normally twos enough to convince her, but not today. I could nod until my head snapped off and she would still know better. Given everything thats going on, how could either of us be okay?

Youre up, she says, touching me softly on the shoulder. Dont be nervous. Just relax. Visualize. My mother takes a series of deep, cleansing breathsin through the nose, out through the mouth. She probably learned that in yoga class. I dont understand the point of paying someone to teach you how to stand like a tree, but she likes going. It relaxes her, she says. Im pretty sure I dont relax her. She places her hand over her heart as if shes about to recite the Pledge. Youre going to do great.

I know she thinks so. But not everybodys definition of great is the same.

I scan the crowdthe hundred or so people who have turned out for the tournament, most of them parents or grandparents. A few hold up poster-board signs with colorful bubble names and drawings of golf clubs. Many more hold Starbucks cups. Most of the siblings who have been dragged along already have their faces in their phones. Ive seen some of them before. Heard these same parents telling their respective kids to take their time, to relax their elbows, to focus. Theyve probably never tried to relax their elbows. Its harder than it sounds.

Mom scans the crowd too. She looks disappointed. Or maybe I just want her to look disappointed. The announcer comes on over the PA system. His voice muffled and mechanical, nothing like the voices in my head.

Up next on hole one, Malcolm Greeley, age twelve, from Falls Point, Illinois.

Thats you, Mom says. I know its me, even if Im not always crazy about the fact. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jamie Tran talking to his coach by the Coke machine thats really a Pepsi machine. Jamies coach whispers something and both he and Jamie look my way. I look down at my feet and wonder what Ive done to get their attention. Not that it matters. I can only assume today will end the same way as last time. Theres no way I can win. And at this point Im not even sure if it matters.

Hes not coming.

Thats what the voice inside my head says.

Hes not coming.

Which sucks. Because this was maybe my last chance to fix things. To make him happy. To convince them both that this is all worth it, the three of us together. Its foolish, I knowits just miniature golfbut I figured it was worth a shot.

Except the voice in my head is right. Hes not coming.

And I still cant help but feel like its somehow my fault.

Ive heard voices ever since I can remember. But I didnt hear that voice until one night a little over three years ago.

The night I almost died.

Dad says its an exaggeration. He says I would have had to sustain some sort of physical trauma. A car accident. A heart attack. A mauling by a mountain lion. You need to pass out, or at least be bleeding from your ears and eyeballs, as my salty old Granny Allison would say. Then you can say youve almost died. Dad says you cant almost die of freaking out, which was what I was doing.

I know hes right. I know I just panicked. But at the time, I felt like Id lost everything.

It was buy-one-admission-get-one-free day at the fair. Also the day of the big horse race, although that part didnt interest me; those horses always look like they want to trample me, snorting and pawing the ground, just like some of the bigger kids at school. Going to the county fair was a Greeley family tradition. Every year for as long as I can remember. I mostly went for the ice cream, though that year I had another prize in mind.

I needed a goldfish.

At school, Susan Stottlemeyer was always bragging about the goldfish shed won at the same fair two years ago, playing that game where you have to toss the Ping-Pong ball into the bowl with the colored rim. Her fishs name was Willy McGilly, and shed managed to keep it alive for two years already. She said that proved she would make an excellent mother someday. Susan wasnt exactly a friendI didnt have a lot of thosebut she had awesome scented markers that she shared and orange hair that reminded me of a campfire.

Fish are marvelous, she informed everyone at our table. They listen to everything you have to say and never talk back, and they always give you something to watch when youve used up your screen time. I was always maxing out my screen time, so I figured I could use a fish. Besides, it might be nice to have someone else to talk to besides myself.

After two weeks, Id almost convinced Mom and Dad through a delicate mixture of nagging and begging. I figured if I were to win one at the fair, theyd have no choice but to let me keep it. Dad weighed in, saying the last thing we needed in the house was another mouth to feed, until I informed him that a goldfishs mouth is about the size of a freckle and promised Id buy the food with my allowance.

Dad frowned. Mom said, Well see. They left it at that.

For the ten days leading up to the fair, I practiced the carnival game in the kitchen, using a Ping-Pong ball and whatever containers I could findmixing bowls, flower vases, empty orange juice cartonsthe ball click-clacking across the linoleum. Mom watched silently, smiling whether I made it or not. I knew better than to practice when Dad was around; I didnt need that much advice.