Fairway Phenom (3 page)

And another thing: Mr. Ridley wore a short-sleeved shirt that had a logo reading “Richmond Country Club.” Malik knew what
that meant — it meant Mr. Ridley was not only a baseball player, he was also a golfer.

The bell rang, and Luis motioned to Malik to come outside with him. Malik did want to hang with Luis, to tell him all about
his classes and the kids and the teachers and stuff. But he had to talk to Mr. Ridley first — alone.

“Go on, I’ll meet you downstairs in two minutes!” Malik called over the noise of students free for the day and gabbing up
a storm.

“By the handball courts,” Luis shouted back, then booked it out of there.

Malik waited till the crowd of kids surrounding Mr. Ridley had thinned out before approaching him. “Um, Mr. Ridley, could
I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

“Malik.”

“Malik! That means ‘king,’ doesn’t it?”

“That’s right!” Malik said, grinning. “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, I know a lot of stuff,” he said. “I’m a math teacher.”

“You know about golf?” Malik asked.

Now it was Mr. Ridley’s turn to be surprised. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I play just about every week. You?”

Malik paused for a second before answering, “Uh-huh.”

“Cool,” Mr. Ridley said, nodding. “Where at?”

“Urn, I don’t really remember the name of the place, actually. It was a long
time ago.”

“Uh-huh.
How’d you do?”

“Okay. Um, what do you usually score?”

“Oh, mid-eighties, low nineties. How ‘bout you?”

Malik didn’t know what to say. Having lied himself into a corner, he now had to pull a number out of thin air. He knew it
had to be higher than Mr. Ridley’s average — after all, Mr. Ridley played regularly — but not
too
much higher. Malik didn’t want to sound like a dork who couldn’t swing a club. “Um, about ninety-five,” he said.

“Ninety-five’s really good for a kid!” Mr. Ridley said, obviously impressed. “For real? Ninety-five?”

Well, now that he was in it this far, Malik had no way to go but forward. “Yup,” he said. “Hey, where do you go to play golf
around here? I mean, when I played, it was in Florida someplace.” He was lying out the wazoo now, but he didn’t care. He only
wanted to impress Mr. Ridley — and find out where to play.

“I belong to a private club on Staten Island,” Mr. Ridley said, pointing to the logo on his shirt. “But there’s a driving
range by the Sixty-ninth Street Pier.”

“No lie?”

“No lie,” Mr. Ridley said, chuckling. “There are courses you can get to by subway, too. But take my advice and try the driving
range first. You want to be in tip-top form when you hit the first tee.”

“Right. I’ll do that,” Malik said, not quite sure what a tee was, but understanding about the driving range. “Thanks, Mr.
Ridley.”

“No problem. Pleasure talking to you, Mr. King.”

“Mr. King,” Malik repeated. “Yeah, I like that. Mr. King.”

There were no subways that ran down to the pier at Sixty-ninth Street, but by taking two buses, Malik got to within a few
short blocks. He walked the rest of the way to the driving range. As Malik strolled out onto the pier, he could see the island
of Manhattan across New York Bay. The sunlight, reflecting off the buildings, made him shade his eyes.

The view didn’t stop there. The Statue of Liberty
held up her torch out in the middle of the bay, and to the left rose the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Once, Malik knew, it had
been the longest suspension bridge in the whole world. Till they built some bigger ones. Just as someday there would be new
golf champions, even better than the champions of today. Malik could see himself lifting up a big trophy and smiling for the
cameras.

The driving range was a series of open booths with green carpeting. Sticking out of the carpeting were little white rubber
tubes. People would put their golf balls on top of the tubes, then hit the ball off them, down the pier. But the balls didn’t
go into the water. There were huge nets strung across the pier, strung on what looked like big telephone poles. The whole
pier was covered in green carpeting, and there were little flags with numbers on them to tell you how far you hit your ball.

Malik wondered if people were supposed to bring their own balls. He didn’t think so. Most of the people in the booths were
hitting balls with a fat red stripe on them. Near the pier entrance was a little shack with a sign that read “Office.” Malik
walked over and went in.

Inside, an old man with hair growing out of his ears sat on a stool behind the counter, near the cash register. “Yeah? Can
I help you, sonny?” he asked Malik in a gruff voice.

“I need some golf balls,” Malik said.

The man pointed behind Malik. “See them machines? You put a token in. What size bucket you want?”

“Uh, small, I guess.”

“Six dollars,” the man said, pushing a button on the cash register. It opened with a ring.

Six bucks!
Malik took his money out of his pocket and counted it. There was a five dollar bill he’d saved from last week’s allowance,
and a lot of loose change. He needed $1.50 to get back by bus — it was an awfully long way to walk — and Malik found that
he was exactly one dollar short. “Anything smaller?” he asked the man.

“Smaller?” He laughed, like Malik had just said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Smaller than small?”

“Never mind,” Malik said, and left the office empty-handed. He felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t he asked Mr. Ridley how much
it cost to drive golf balls? And
now
what was he supposed to do? He’d
come all the way out here just to hit balls where he wouldn’t get in trouble for it, and he couldn’t afford even a small bucket!

Then Malik got a bright idea. Some of the booths were empty, and there were a few balls lying not far from the front of each
of them. Probably missed shots, Malik figured. Anyway, if he snuck just a little ways out onto the carpet, he figured he could
gather enough balls to make his trip worthwhile.

Grabbing an empty bucket, he brought his clubs into a booth and laid them on the ground. Then, making sure nobody nearby was
watching, he casually moved toward the front of his booth and stuck his longest club out.
Nothing to it,
he thought happily as he reeled in the nearest ball.

Two others were just beyond reach. He got them by sticking one foot out onto the carpet. No sweat. Now he had three.

Malik looked up at a sign that said “Stay behind yellow line! Danger!” The sign hung just above the yellow line, which ran
across the front of all the booths. Looking both ways, Malik stepped over the line, with both feet…

There! Quickly, he scarfed up four more balls and
retreated back into the safety of his cubicle. He put a ball on the rubber thingie, reared back, and swung with all his might.

Wham!
The ball ricocheted off the side of the cubicle and bounced about ten feet beyond, coming to rest on the carpet with a new
smile cut into it by Malik’s club.

Undaunted, he put another ball down. This time, he swung even harder and faster — and missed completely. The ball toppled
over the edge of the rubber thingie, blown by the wind from Malik’s mighty swing.

This was not going too well. Malik changed clubs, selecting one of the shorter, flat-headed ones. He figured he couldn’t do
any worse. He was right. He did just the same. After six more huge swings, all the balls he’d gathered were gone. Most were
just a few feet away on the carpet. The one he’d hit the farthest had rolled along the ground, nestling next to a white flag
with the number 50 on it.
Fifty yards or fifty feet?
Malik wondered. He wondered, too, if the white flag was trying to tell him something — like “surrender.”

But Malik was not the kind of kid who gave up
easily. Last year, he’d asked this girl he liked to go to the movies with him. She’d refused — not once, but five times —
before she finally gave in and went with him, just to keep him from pestering her. On that one date, he’d discovered that
he didn’t really like her. She had a voice like scratchy nails, and everything she said was stupid.

Anyway, he wasn’t about to quit now. He was just getting warmed up. He roved the space behind the cubicles, looking for another
empty one with a lot of golf balls within easy reach. He finally settled on one and went to work fishing for balls, edging
farther and farther out onto the carpet.

There was a sharp clicking sound, and Malik felt something whiz right by his left ear. “Hey!” yelled an angry man’s voice
behind him. “Get back behind the line, you idiot! You’re gonna get killed like that!”

Malik retreated, but not before grabbing five nearby balls. He had just set one of them on the rubber thingie and was reaching
for a club when he felt a tapping on his shoulder.

“Hey!” the same man’s voice said, still angry. “You’re not supposed to do that, you know — there are balls for sale in the
office.”

“Oh,” said Malik. “Sorry.”

The man took the bucket of balls and threw them all out onto the carpet. “You don’t go out there and take balls, understand?”
he lectured. “If you wanna play, you’ve gotta buy the balls.”

Malik wished he could run away from there, but the man was blocking the back of the cubicle. He had reddish hair and lots
of freckles and was wearing a shirt that said “Golf on the Pier.”
So he works here!
Malik realized. No wonder he’d taken Malik’s bucket!

“So what are you waiting for?” he asked Malik. “Go on and buy some balls, or else go home.”

Malik looked down at the ground and sighed. “Don’t have enough money,” he muttered, almost too softly for the man to hear
him. “If I buy a bucket, I can’t afford the bus home.”

He sighed again, surprised to find that he was close to tears. He’d gone to such lengths just to get here, and now they were
chasing him away — him, the potential future champion of golf!

“Hey, kid,” the man said, his voice softening. “How much you need?”

“Dollar,” Malik said, still mumbling.

The man took out his wallet and held a dollar out to Malik. “Go on, take it.” When Malik hesitated, the man grabbed his hand
and stuffed the dollar into it. “I said take it. Next time, bring enough money, okay?”

“Thanks,” Malik said in a near-whisper. The man made way for him, and Malik went inside to buy some balls.

When he came back, the man was still standing there. “Let’s see you swing,” he said. “Tee one up.”

“Huh?”

“Tee. The rubber thing. Haven’t you ever played golf before?”

Malik shook his head.

“Geez, I shoulda guessed, what with those antique clubs. Where’d you get them, anyways?”

“Off the trash.”

The man chuckled. “Yeah, I can believe it. Okay, go ahead and swing.” He stepped back, and Malik swung so hard he nearly toppled
over. The ball dribbled forward and came to rest just beyond the yellow line. Malik wanted to reach for it, but he could feel
the man’s eyes on him, so he reached into the bucket instead.

“That’s right,” the man said. “You never cross the yellow line. It’s a safety issue, understand? I don’t care about the stinkin’
balls. It’s bad business for me if my customers start getting their heads cracked open. Okay, so swing again — a half swing
this time, okay? And slower. Much slower.”

Malik did as he was told, although he hated to waste a golf ball on a measly half swing. But to his astonishment, the ball
screamed into the air, way beyond anything he’d ever hit — and landed near the blue flag with 150 on it!

“Whoa!” Malik gasped. “How’d I do that?”

“Golf’s not about how hard you swing,” the man said, chuckling. “It’s a finesse game, mostly. Later, when your swing is right,
you can swing a little harder — but not much. The idea is to have your swing under control at all times, see?”

Malik nodded, not sure he understood but grateful to the man for any pointers he was willing to give. After all, thanks to
him, Malik had just hit his first really good golf shot.

Under the man’s watchful eye, Malik hit the rest of the balls in his bucket, using one club after another, swinging slow and
easy. Half his shots went
far and straight, like that first good one. The others either tailed away to the right or popped straight up or were grounders.
After each bad shot, the man would say something:

“Keep your head down!”

“Follow through!”

“You’re standing too close to the ball!”

Malik could see there was a lot to learn about golf. He thought of those golfers he’d seen on TV. Man, they were really amazing
— ‘cause this game was
hard!

“Mister… ?” Malik said when he’d emptied the bucket.

“Call me Al,” the man said, extending his hand. “Al Sheinman. What’s your name, kid?”

“Malik Edwards.”

“Where do you live, Malik?”

“Sunset Park, over by Fourth Avenue.”

“Well, you’ve got a nice, natural swing. You could be good someday, you keep playing.”

“You know anyplace to play around here?” Malik asked. “I mean, like, a real golf course?”

“Sure,” Sheinman said. “Dyker Beach, over by Fort Hamilton and the bridge. You can get there by
subway — the RR line. It’s a nice course, but busy. And you’d better call up first and find out how much it is, before you
drag those crusty old clubs all the way there from Sunset Park.”

“Dyker Beach, huh? Thanks!”

“You come here a few more times first, kid,” Sheinman advised him. “Get your swing squared away. Then you go play a round
of golf.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Sheinman.”

“Al, kid. Call me Al. Nice meeting you — and remember, never, ever cross the yellow line.”

Malik promised he wouldn’t. But as for coming back here before he played some real golf, there was no way. He’d hit some fantastic
shots, hadn’t he? His swing was good enough right now, Malik decided. First chance he got, he was going to head out to Dyker
Beach and
get down!

K
eisha, stop crying — I’m on the phone. Can’t you see?”