Golf is funny, but in a way that’s frustrating to the point of self-destruction and just when you’re ready to throw your clubs in the air it pulls you back in with a chip shot right into the cup. We already know he’s made of W’s, from softball to poker to golf he is exceptional. The other day he found strength and determination through the agony of lost balls, off set rules and an unforgiving course. I watched him, standing under a tree on the back nine, chin to the sky and eyes closed…he’s digging deep. I’ve never seen this side, I’ve never had the opportunity, the privilege to witness the attempt at a comeback. He knows the math, he knows all the scores, what’s left and what he can accomplish in the last four holes…maybe not the W, but I wanna see what he can do. I choke down my anxiety and watch him step up to fifteen.
This is one of my favourite things on earth…Marcus at the tee box with his driver…there’s nothing better! He studies the fairway, spots the pin, steps into box and makes magic. I have yet to meet someone who has golfed with him and isn’t picking their jaws up from the greens. There’s always one who see his greatness, they seem to be the ones that understand and respect the game and what he brings to it, he’s a purist. Like a quiet mentor because they have played the course to remembrance and can’t wait give him a tour, to be of some assistance to him. Witnessing is enough for many, but some respectfully find their way into his space through small talk. I’m sure they carry it around with them too…they know where’s he’s headed and likely can’t wait to tell their friends about the day they golfed with him. Maybe a few will throw in how they helped him birdie a hole…or even gifted him a club.
He’s steady, his confidence checked back in and his focus has been restored. He always has the furthest drive, so I never miss a shot walking to his next one. I’m counting the strokes in my head, obsessing over the other players scores and wondering what can actually happen. He's counting too, except on a completely different level…he already has all the combinations figured out. He drops in a birdie. I jump then try to compose myself, I’m not shocked. Another drive, another birdie. My heart is in my throat, his smile is still tucked away. By the time he walked into the tee box at seventeen I was full on holding my breath…as if it would make a difference. I’ve lost all the math and combinations of winning…I’m strictly here to bear witness…he drops another birdie; I throw my arms in the air as a silent cheer and make my way to eighteen.
Sitting on the bench it hits me like truck, when my flood gates open, I can never seem to find the way to close them again. I can never seem to gather my composure and find a way to move forward without crumbling under the pressure while my confidence runs away. When I’m close enough, I sync my breath with his, just to be in his calmness. I couldn’t get that close today, I’m just a spectator at his tournament, and I can only offer smiles and encouragement from afar.
He didn’t birdie the last hole, he bogied…but that’s beside the point now. I don’t know what he prayed for standing under that tree a few holes back, but I can tell you it was delivered. Some people never find the courage to step into their greatness and take a real shot at their dreams…and then some people have nothing but courage and a long line of cheerleaders hoping to be part of something great.
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