Hot Girlz: Hot Boyz Sequel (16 page)

“Thanks for coming out.
Shadow on
the Green
is a book I felt strongly about writing because some, not all, of
my experiences on the green involved racism. Mostly during the time I played
the game it was color blind. But behind the scenes I felt there were times I
was labeled too black if I supported certain organizations, like the
Congressional Black Caucus, Urban League, or NAACP. Also, I was confronted by
someone claiming to want to manage my career, and take me to the next level, a
‘white level’ as he called it, if I would just seem a little less black. If I
just moved away from Ladera Heights and found a place in Beverly Hills, or some
other city where I would be among fewer people who looked like me. That person
went to some pretty interesting ends to try and blackmail me, but, I held my
ground and I’m glad I did. I still live in Ladera and I’m just as black as I
was when I first picked up a golf club, shadow or not.”

The audience applauded.

“But, this book is about more than
what happened to me in golf. The message in this book can be correlated into
any aspect of life, and I wrote it with that mission in mind. A mission to show
how standing your ground can work in your favor. My father always told me that
champions aren’t those who never fail; they’re those who never quit. Champions
fail sometimes but are never failures, because failure is an event, not a person.
Don’t be afraid to dream in life and be brave. Don’t take the least line of
resistance. There are great
blessings
from those
stressings
. The
message in
Shadow on the Green
is don’t stop, dream big, and never give
up, even against all odds. Thank you.”

The readers stood and put their hands
together as Mason gave the microphone back to the owner.

His eyes made their way to the back of
the room, and in the very corner, standing behind a Hispanic man, peering over
his shoulder, was Mercedes. Nodding. And applauding.

~~

After a forty-five minute question and
answer period, it was time for Mason to sign his books. He was seated at the
table while the owner and his wife had everyone line up by the number that was
written on their receipts.

A half hour later, with the line about
thirty deep, Mercedes’s phone rang. She quickly turned it to silent and stepped
back, facing the wall, trying to look incognito.

“Hi, Lucinda,” she whispered.

Lucinda spoke with her Puerto Rican
accent. “Ah, Mrs. Wilson, I was just wondering when you’d be back. I need to
get home so I can go out with my friends. I need to be there in about an hour.”
She rolled the last letter of her last word.

“Oh, I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll leave
right now.”

“
Gracias,
Mrs. Wilson
. Adios
.”

Mercedes watched her popular husband
greeting, signing, talking, laughing, and taking pictures. She pulled herself
away, sneaking out, at least satisfied that he had seen her, but not satisfied
in knowing he made a point to pretend that he did not.

~~

A while later, Mercedes arrived home
and Lucinda left.

Twenty minutes after that, Nadia began
barking from the backyard like she heard a siren, just as Mercedes walked in
Mattie’s room. She tiptoed up to her bed, sneaking a kiss upon Mattie’s nose.
Mattie’s nose twitched and she turned her face away. And then, Mattie began
coughing.

Mattie opened her eyes and looked up
at Mercedes, gave a smile and coughed again. And again.

“Are you okay? Do you need some
water?”

Mattie still smiled but Mercedes
noticed that her skin seemed to darken. The veins of her neck protruded, and
her mouth remained open. It looked like she was choking.

“Mamma!” Mercedes screamed, pulling
Mattie up by her shoulders and then crawling in the bed behind her, leaning her
forward and grabbing her along her chest, using the palm of one hand making a
fist with the other, squeezing intermittently. She gave quick movements inward
and upward just below her ribcage. “Cough it out. Cough it out, Mamma.”

But Mattie didn’t. She began to gag
and her head slumped to her left. Mercedes squeezed again and again, and then
propped two pillows under Mattie’s head while aligning herself to face her. She
opened Mattie’s mouth and pressed on her tongue, reaching back with two
fingers. Nothing was in her airway. She then straddled her, pressing the palms
of her hands onto her chest. She noticed Mattie was turning purple.

“Mamma! No, Mamma, cough for me.
Breathe. Please breathe. Oh my God. No, Mamma.” Her frantic words were the
foreground to the background noise of Nadia barking frantically.

Mattie’s eyes closed.

Mercedes hurriedly climbed off of
Mattie and grabbed the cordless landline, dialing 911 and pleading as they
answered. “I need an ambulance. My mother is choking. She can’t breathe. Please
come here quick. On Ladera Crest. Please hurry!”

The operator said, “Yes, ma’am. Did
you try the Heimlich?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check her throat to see if
she’s choking on her tongue?”

“I did.”

“Is she breathing at all?”

“No.”

“Is she on the floor?”

“No. She’s on the bed.”

“Ma’am. Lay her flat on her back on
the floor.”

Mercedes dropped the phone and with
all of her might she scooped Mattie up, stepping back and placing her along the
carpet. She took hold of the phone again. “Okay,” she said, waiting for
instructions.

“Now, put your hand on her wrist and
check her pulse.”

Mercedes said, “I can’t feel it.”

“Do CPR. Do you know CPR?”

“Yes. Wait.” Mercedes put the phone on
speaker and placed it down on the floor next to Mattie’s head. “Okay.”

“Kneel next to her and put your hands
against the middle of her abdomen. Push down on the center of her chest, pump
hard and then tilt her head back. Lift her chin, pinch her nose and cover her
mouth with yours. Blow until you see her chest rise. Give two breaths. Then go
back to pumping against her chest. Do it again and again.”

Mercedes did. She was sweating and her
skirt had risen up to her waist. She still tried.

She heard the woman say from the
phone, “Hello?”

“She’s not breathing.”

“Keep doing it, we’re on the way.
They’re pulling up now. Do you hear them?”

“No.” Mercedes began to shake, and
then she answered, focusing on listening for the sirens, “Okay. I hear them.
Hurry.”

“They’re there. You’re doing fine.
Just keep it up.”

No words from Mercedes.

Nadia barked as though hit by a car.

The lady said, “They’re at the door.
Let them in.” There were three loud knocks, and repeated ringing of the
doorbell.

Mercedes still said nothing. She just
pressed on Mattie’s chest.

“Ma’am, are you letting them in?”

Mercedes grabbed the phone and hopped
up and ran down the stairs to the front door, opening it. The paramedics rushed
in and followed Mercedes upstairs. They entered the room and scrambled to
attend to Mattie along the floor. Mercedes couldn’t see her mother–in-law from
the width of three burly men before her.

Mercedes still had the phone in her
hand. “Hello?” she said, sounding scared to death.

“Okay, ma’am. You did great.”

Mercedes said, “Bye,” as though in a
daze and simply hung up, standing before the door to Mattie’s room.

She stood there trembling, and
actually pinched her arm, hard, without looking down. And again she pinched
herself. She felt the pain and took a deep breath, realizing this was not a
dream. She instantly used the landline to call Mason. It went directly to
voicemail. Her voice was piercing. “Mason. Mason, call me right back. It’s an
emergency!”

Struggling to remember her
brother-in-law’s number, she called Torino and he answered. She hollered with
all of her might, watching the paramedics work on Mattie. “Torino, Mamma
stopped breathing. I can’t reach Mason. The ambulance is here at the house.
Come quick, please!” she begged in terror. “Hurry!”

It was then that Mercedes began to
sob, crying a river in the name of her mother-in-law.

Nadia joined her, howling as though
tormented by an unimaginable, gut-wrenching pain.

But, it was no one’s imagination.

It was real.

17

The Wilsons

“. . . beyond the rainbow why, oh why, can’t I?”

A dark Saturday. Fall had fallen.
Hearts had broken.

The sky was gray and the autumn leaves
were brown. A tribute to a matriarch’s life had been planned.

Front row, the Wilson family.

All dressed in black.

Edwardian dresses with large satin
bows.

Organza suits with white Peter Pan
collars.

Velvet tiered skirts with ebony
blazers.

Six button double-breasted suits with
solid silk ties.

Three piece pinstripe with French-cuff
dress shirts.

The fashions were classic and rich.

Their faces were dark and sorrowful.

Yet Star smiled.

Her lace pinafore pleated dress had a
wide silk sash.

The smile, and the outfit were for her
Grammy.

Her Grammy whose body lay before them
in the silver metal casket.

The viewings had already taken place.

The enormous stained glass windowed
sanctuary in Playa Del Rey called the Angel City Worship Center was packed, almost
as packed as it would have been for a regular Sunday morning service. The rows
of red velvet seats were full. The cathedral ceiling was adorned by soft water
color paintings of blue skies and white cottony clouds with soaring angels. It
was a day to celebrate a queen angel gone home to her king. A day the Wilson
family had long dreaded.

The salt-and-pepper haired, well
dressed reverend who the Wilsons had known for decades and who they called the
Rev, had already spoken with vigor and passion for about thirty minutes about
the meaning of life and the amazing life of Mattie Wilson, his church member
and friend who died of complications from Alzheimer’s.

He spoke from the altar. “I met the
classy couple, Jesse and Mattie Wilson, when their youngest son, Torino, was a
teenager.” He looked toward Torino and then back at the audience. “In the
beginning after they moved from Houston the Wilsons would always bring all
three boys to early service, all well dressed in suits and ties, very
well-mannered. And of course Mattie, who was truly the original diva, wore a
fancy hat and tailored suit, looking like Michelle Obama, and they’d sit in the
front row. I wasn’t the pastor back then. My dad was. But I’d notice that at
the end of every service when some people would wait around to meet and greet
my dad, the Wilsons would always wait patiently in line, standing with their
sons. They would step up and shake his hand, each paying their individual
respects. Not once did they look impatient or did they rush.

“They came to church together and
worshiped together. Their father Jesse would even usher the Thursday evening
services. And then one day their oldest son who you all know, Mason Wilson,” he
said while looking directly at Mason and nodding, “headed off on tour to embark
upon his record-breaking pro-golf career, and whose own son Rashaad, by the
way, is now following in his footsteps. So though at one time it would be the
five Wilsons each week, then there were four, three, and eventually two as the
young men attended less and less frequently, each having their own lives but
nonetheless they came, even eventually bringing their new family members.”

He stepped from behind the podium.
“The family that prays together stays together, and Jesse and Mattie Wilson
were married for forty-two years before Jesse went home to be with the Lord. A
lifetime of loving each other, two souls have now been reunited eternally. What
a blessing. No longer suffering. No longer in pain. Let us not be selfish and
mourn for ourselves as though we feel we’ll never see them again, only focusing
on our own sense of loss. You will meet again.

“Let us rejoice and be thankful. John
14, verses one through four,
Let
not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s
house there are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go
to prepare a place for you? And when I go to prepare a place for you, I will
come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. And
you know the way to the place where I am going. A
nd John 14:28,
If
you loved me you would be glad that I am going to the Father, for the Father is
greater than I.