Page 4 of Sweet Spot
He leads me into the clubhouse and to a small office. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I say as we take our seats. “This should be fun.”
He grunts a laugh as if he doesn’t believe my optimism. Yeah, I don’t either. The Cardinals haven’t made it this far in the season in years, and instead of watching the game, I’m going to spend my Sunday afternoon giving pointers to a bunch of college kids who expect me to sweep in and make big changes to their game in two hours of work. Not even I’m that good.
I lean back and rest my interlocking fingers at my waist as I study my old friend. It’s been almost twelve years since I’ve seen him, but he’s the same arrogant kid I knew in high school—minus a little hair and plus a little weight around his midsection.
“It’s fine. Happy to do it. You’ve been a big supporter of the new coaching site and I appreciate it.”
“But?”
“How do you know there’s a but?”
He arches a brow pointedly.
“But any one of my guys could have done it. Why am I here?”
“Because you’re the best.”
Well, I can’t argue there.
“Look,” I reason with him, “I’m glad to help how I can, but this isn’t really what I do. Analyzing and fixing an entire team of kids’ mistakes in a single afternoon . . . I’m not a miracle worker. Usually, I work with individuals over weeks, sometimes months or years. And the group clinics I offer cover a single aspect of the game like downswing sequencing or setup. A few hours giving pointers to ten kids isn’t going to make the same kind of difference that I see with my personal clients. I want to make sure you understand that.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay for as long as you need to get these boys on track. They’re excited about meeting you. They’re a young group, making all sorts of rookie mistakes, but I think they have potential. Smith Jacobson has a good, clean swing I think you’ll appreciate.”
“You can’t afford for me to stay that long.” I smirk. “Let’s just focus on what you think would be the best use of their time for today.”
Leaning forward in his chair, Mark grins back at me. “Fair enough.”
After chatting about what he views as the biggest weaknesses of the team collectively, we decide the best use of everyone’s time is for me to do a few quick drills on adding length and accuracy to their drives. Then I’ll spend time with each kid before giving them targeted feedback.
We don’t talk individual players because I don’t want to walk out there with any preconceived notions about them. If I’m looking for a specific fault right off the bat, I might miss something else.
“All set?” Mark stands. “The guys are probably getting anxious to meet you. A few of them were here an hour before practice already stretching and warming up.”
“Let’s do it.”
The bright blue Arizona sky is flawless, not a damn cloud as far as the eye can see. That, and the nonexistent breeze make it spectacular golfing weather for January.
A man approaches as we step onto the grass and Mark slows. “Lincoln, this is Wyatt Potter. He’s the coach of the girls’ team.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I hear your record is pretty good this year.”
“Top two consecutively since I took over three years ago.”
“Impressive. I’m happy to include them in the clinic today or—” Before I can offer my services another day, he holds up a hand, which annoys the fuck out of me.
“No offense, but no one coaches my girls but me. Too many outside influences confuses them and makes it hard to keep them motivated.”
I quirk a brow. Is this guy for real?
Mark jumps in, “Lincoln’s a hell of a coach. He played professionally and—”
I clap a hand on Mark’s shoulder to stop him from saying more. It’s obvious this guy has no interest in my qualifications or background, no need to waste my time.
“Even still,” Coach Potter says, voice and face full of condescension.
What a prick. I dig deep for some professionalism and manners, despite his lack thereof. “Well, the offer is always good if you need anything. Good luck on the season.”
