Playing the Field: Tee’d Off

Chapter 2

It’s Thursday, a mere twenty-four hours before the first rounds of golf begin, and Greg stands in the lobby of the Hermitage, waiting. He’s behind a long registration table—spread out before him are nametags on lanyards, free pens, and goody bags full of promotional tees and mini golf balls on key chains and other knick-knacks golfers will love. Greg knows; he spent most of the night before stuffing the last of the bags after the shipment of Ping-sponsored golf towels finally arrived. Now he stands with his arms folded behind his back, his gaze roaming over the table one last time, assessing it as if the items before him were an offering to please the gods.

His attention is drawn to the nametags, which look jostled. A few of them are just slightly out of line with the others. The smallest detail bothers him—with so many people lodging at the Hermitage for the tournament, Greg knows just how much can go wrong over the course of one weekend, and he’s determined to make sure nothing happens that might make golfers not want to return or sponsors pull out of the event. Anything he can control, anything at all, takes priority, even if it’s as simple as straightening a line of nametags.

Leaning over the table, he runs his hands along the rows of plastic-coated tags to shimmy them into position. They’re in alphabetical order, the registered golfer’s last name in large print across the center of the tag, their first name or nickname of choice in small print above that. This being the South, there seems to be an extraordinary number of men named “Bubba” participating in this year’s tournament. Greg thinks it’s a stupid nickname, but as long as they paid their three hundred dollar entry fee like everyone else, he’ll call them whatever they want, no matter how dumb “Bubba, sir” may sound.

Now that the first row is fixed, he moves onto the next, and the next. Halfway through the rows, he notices a name he hasn’t seen in quite a while. JOHNS. From where he stands behind the table, the first name is hard to read—he’s looking at it upside down, and the nametag above it partially obscures the word. He sees the letter T, though, and to be honest, how many other Johns does he know in the world of golf? It’s a small sport of diehard fanatics like Greg himself. Each year, the same faces show up at the Hermitage for the tournament. Greg recognizes a lot of the names when he receives their entry forms. Some of the older guys he’s played with on the green, and can even cite their handicap if asked.

There’s only one Johns among the golfers in Virginia, and Greg remembers him well. It’s good to see he’s still playing the game. I’ll have to keep an eye out for him. Make sure I say hi. Mr. Johns would get a chuckle when he saw that Greg still dragged around his mentor’s old golf bag full of clubs some ten years later.

Then the sliding glass doors leading into the lobby open, and the first busload of golfers descend on the Hermitage. Some make a beeline for the check-in counter; others veer in Greg’s direction to complete their registration before they even bother unloading their luggage. Hands reach for the nametags, scattering Greg’s arrangement as nimble fingers flip through looking for their own name. The goody bags start to disappear as if by magic. Ducking beneath the table, Greg grabs another box of bags to restock the supply. Let the games begin.