Some Kind of Normal

“Thanks,” I said, giving them a wave as they headed back to their car. We were losing the light and maybe had twenty minutes left.

Dad moved over just then. “I’m outta balls.”

I snorted. “Yeah, half of them are in the trees.”

“True,” he said. “But golf’s never been my strong suit. It’s more your mama’s game.”

I glanced in my bucket. “You want some of mine?”

“Nah. You’re doing good. I’ll watch.”

I shrugged. “Your call.”

I grabbed some more balls from the bucket. After sending them straight ahead, all within ten to fifteen feet of each other, I paused, aware that my dad was watching me in that way that told me there was something on his mind.

I set up another ball.

“I heard you playing your guitar this morning.”

And just like that, any ease that I’d had slipped away like water down the drain. My muscles cramped, my knee throbbed like hell, and, well, the gentle wrists went the way of the dinosaur.

I swung my club, angry he would bring something like that up out here. Golf was sacred—what part of that didn’t he get? I chopped at it and the ball hopped to the left, jumping a few feet before coming to a standstill.

Glaring, I turned around because I wanted my dad to know I wasn’t impressed with his choice of conversation. But his eyes were dark and I saw the concern. It was a look I’d seen way too many times, and even though the anger was still there, rumbling beneath my skin like his Harley, I couldn’t act on it.

“I sounded like crap.”

I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was waiting for him to tell me the opposite. You know, butter me up a bit. Inflate the ego when it was sagging. But that wasn’t my dad. The guy had no tact, but you had to give him points for always being honest and direct. He’d told me once that anything other than the truth was a waste of time. That time wasn’t always on our side, so why waste it?

“Can I do anything to help?” he asked gruffly.

I placed another ball on the tee. “Nope.” And sent it sailing up the green.

“Are you worried?”

“Jesus, Dad. Are we really going to have this conversation here? Now?”

“Is there a better time?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“When?”

“Never,” I whispered to myself.

I stared down into my bucket and fought the urge to send the stupid thing flying. I was in the mood to hit something, but it sure as hell wasn’t balls.

“Trevor.”

I cut him off. “Of course I’m worried and pissed off and a whole lot of other stuff that I can’t even name.”

Something let loose inside me, something nasty, and I tossed my club. It hit my bag and sent it flying, and I watched my dad bend over to straighten it.

“I haven’t told Nate that I suck. He has no idea that the thought of performing in front of a bunch of kids scares the crap out of me because I’m not so sure that I can remember half the notes to a simple AC/DC song. They’re, like, three chords. And even when I do, sometimes my fingers won’t do what I’m telling them to do anyway, so why even try?”

The driving range was now empty, so there was no one out here to hear my tirade. No one except my dad, who stood a few feet away, his eyes intense as they studied me.

“You’re getting better, Trevor. But it’s going to take time, and your mother and I, well, we…” He cleared his throat, and I knew this was just as hard for him. Must suck to look at your kid and know he’s defective.