Page 16 of Sweet Spot
“So, why would he come to Valley?” I ask, stopping any pretense that I’m working, and take a seat. “No offense, but you guys aren’t exactly attracting media attention.”
“He and Coach James played together in high school.”
It’s weird to picture Lincoln and Coach James as being in the same age bracket. Coach James is a younger coach. It’s his fifth year at Valley and second as head coach. Still, that has to make Lincoln, what? Thirty? The way he holds himself and the experience that oozes off him make him seem like he could be that old. But last night at the bar, he seemed like one of us—a hot grad student maybe.
“Did he play college?”
“They both did; although, not together. Coach James went to ASU. Lincoln went to Texas for a couple of years before he went pro.”
“He’s a pro? How come I’ve never heard of him?”
“He didn’t tour for long. He struggled the first year, missed a lot of cuts, and almost lost his eligibility. Then, as soon as he started placing and gaining momentum, he had some back issues that took him out for a year. They were speculating that when he returned, he’d be the next big thing, but when he resurfaced, it was as a swing coach for one of his friends on the tour. He worked with several pros before starting his company.”
“Really? He coaches the pros?”
“Yeah, well, he did. I heard him say he only personally coaches a handful of clients now so he can focus on the business.”
I nod, lost in my thoughts. Keith pulls his goggles back down over his eyes, and we get back to work.
After lab, Keith walks me back to the dorm on the way to his car.
“Thanks,” I say as we approach the front of Freddy. “See you in class tomorrow.”
“No problem, and, uh, maybe be on time. Need me to text you?”
I roll my eyes. “I got it.”
Inside my room, I toss my bag on the bed, lie down beside it, and stare up at the ceiling, exhausted. My reprieve only lasts a few seconds before I sit up and grab my laptop and the card Lincoln gave me earlier.
Lincoln Reeves, Owner Reeves Sports. It lists the website URL, his email address, and phone number.
I place it on the bed next to my laptop and type in the web address. My pulse quickens as the logo appears in the left-hand corner. There’s a video on the main page, Lincoln’s build and those full lips of his are frozen on the screen.
Smiling, I click play and listen intently as he gives a thirty-second pitch for the site. His tone is serious, no smiles or enthusiasm—all business.
From there, I navigate to the golf portion of the site and watch another video, then two more. He holds a seven iron casually in his left hand, standing on a driving range, swinging the club lightly as he talks to the camera. He goes through a proper setup and then a few drills. It’s an introduction video, beginner stuff, but his command speaks to the breadth of knowledge I now know he has.
He isn’t saying anything I don’t know, but it’s the way he moves, and the memory of how being coached by him felt. Even now, my face warms like it had as his confidence and guidance wrapped around me earlier, making me feel as if I could do it—I could be exactly who I want to be. Nothing else mattered, only golf. I wish I could bottle that feeling.
There are a lot of videos. Some are by different coaches, and others feature current pros—men and women. I must view twenty videos, each one from start to finish, afraid I might miss the smallest piece of advice.
I click through every single one with Lincoln. He really is the best. His explanations are clear and concise, and he’s able to break it down in a way that makes sense.
I press play on another. In this one, he’s teaching the stinger. After a few minutes of explanation, he sets up to demo it. His swing is a beautiful, effortless thing. The ball rushes down the fairway, low and straight, before it bounces onto the green and rolls smoothly toward the pin and in.
His smile turns boyish with surprise at the hole in one he just caught on video. He treks down the green with the camera at nearly a run. When he pulls the ball from the hole, he holds it up and smiles with pride and excitement. Pressing pause, I smile back.
I open my email, type in his address, and then pause, going back and forth over how to address him. Lincoln? Mr. Reeves? Eventually, I decide to leave off all formalities.
Thanks for today. I’ve never seen Coach Potter so mad.
Keira
P.S. Sorry again for insinuating that you might be a creeper . . . and for throwing tequila on you.
After I press send, I get ready for bed and watch a few videos on my phone.
There’s a nine-year-old kid in Florida who has his own golf channel where he does trick shots. It’s one of my favorites, and I watch his newest video as my eyes get heavy.
