SEVERAL DAYS AFTER returning to California, Arman had overcome jet lag and resumed his normal routine. He wiped his sweaty left hand on the towel attached to his golf bag and banged out another perfect drive.
Roaming the range with a discerning eye, Stanford Golf Coach Glen Hawthorne stopped behind his star golfer.
“Don’t you ever get bored hitting every drive so perfect?”
“Guess that’d hold water if I indeed nutted every drive.”
His next shot was a quick snipe off to the left. “See what I mean.”
Hawthorne cradled his prominent square chin between a forefinger and thumb.
“How come you don’t wear a glove?” he inquired discreetly.
“A glove was a luxury I couldn’t afford when I started out. I mean, I was so poor I used to walk that thorn-infested, rocky course over a minefield in bare feet. This cord grip sticks like fly paper compared to the bare metal I grew up using. Besides, they’re bulky and just don’t feel right—almost like trying to eat with boxing gloves on.”
“Boy, that’s a new one on me, and I thought I’d heard it all,” the coach said with a chuckle.
“Ever see photos of Ben Hogan or Fred Couples with a glove? It’s all a matter of feel. Thankfully, I perspire very little. The only thing I have to be cautious of is if the backs of my hands get too sweaty, there’s the distinct possibility they’ll slip and separate. That’s why on a hot, humid day, you’ll always see me drying the backs of my hands when I approach the ball.”
“Makes sense. Can never downplay the cohesiveness of a grip when it comes to golf. So, what are you working on?”
“I’ve been trying to get the ball to turn over. Augusta sets up for that nice, high draw.”
“Kind of goes against the grain of that little cut shot you usually hit.”
“As you well know, the pros play whatever the shot dictates. So, in order to compete, I need to be more than just a one-trick pony.”
“Spoken like a veteran. Let’s see what ya got.”
Arman teed it high and set up well behind the ball to get the required height, but hit a streamlined, frozen rope.
“When I miss, it goes dead straight, which can be problematic when I’m aiming far right, playing the hook.”
“Ever try closing the clubface slightly?”
Arman gave the suggestion a try. He knew by the way the closed clubface felt at the top, he would hit a draw. The resulting shot bounded down the range like a jackrabbit in heat.
“Wish I could bottle that and take it with me to Augusta.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine—as long as those nerves don’t get to ya. I know it’s cliché and easier said than done, but try not to get caught up in the moment. Treat it like any other tournament you’ve played.”
“Yeah, right,” the collegiate said with a nervous laugh.
The coach hemmed and hawed as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk about with you.”
Arman leaned on his driver and waited with a fair amount of trepidation.
“Now, I realize that patrons at the Masters are the most polite, knowledgeable golf fans in the world, but human nature dictates there’s always going to be a bad egg in the carton.”
“Exactly what are you trying to say, Coach?”
“I’m sure this isn’t a newsflash to you, but the war in Afghanistan has really escalated recently. We’ve sent thousands of new troops there, and after sixteen long years of conflict, a lot of resentment and bitterness has built up. The media will play to the fact you’re the first Afghan to compete in a pro tournament. Now that you’re on the world’s biggest stage, don’t be surprised if you receive some static—possibly even some heckling.”
“A few unkind words are nothing compared to the gunfire and shelling that took place while I used to play. Even the threat of a mined golf course didn’t deter me, so I’ll hardly be intimidated if confronted by a drunken fan or the callous entreaties of an insensitive journalist.”
“I’m certain you wouldn’t, Arman. I only bring it up because in this scary, out-of-control world we now live in, it’s almost inevitable. So, what else have you been doing to ready yourself for the big event?”
“I’ve heard that while preparing for his first Masters, Tiger Woods would go to the Stanford gymnasium and putt on the hardwood floor in order to ready himself for those fast, slick greens.” Arman shrugged his shoulders. “What’s good for Tiger is good for me.”
“So, you’re telling me you’ve been putting on the gym floor?”
“Who can argue with success? You saw how he dominated the field in that ’97 Masters. I mean, he won by twelve strokes and set a new course record in the process. It seemed he made every putt he hit, and the few that didn’t go in sure looked like they should have.”
“Let’s just hope that doesn’t skew your distance control in our upcoming matches.”
“It’s as simple as Darwin’s theory of evolution: adapt or perish.”
To release some pent-up nervous energy, Hawthorne cracked his neck. “Rumor has it you’re planning to turn pro after the Masters.”
“I won’t lie to you, Coach. If things go my way, that’s the direction I’ll be headed.”
“I completely understand your situation, but you’d be sorely missed around here. Hard to replace a contender for the Am title. If not for a little bad luck, I’m fairly certain you would’ve won. I mean, you had momentum on your side after birdying those last two holes that evened the match.”
“Water under the bridge. All I can do is build on it and move on.”
“Can I ask you something? How did you acquire such a carefree attitude?”
“Mama always used to say ‘Don’t sweat the small stuff. Oh, and by the way, it’s all small stuff.’ It boils down to a matter of perception.”
“Your mother sounds like a very wise woman.”
“Raising a fatherless family in a war zone will tend to sharpen your wits and harden your resolve.”
“Guess it would,” the coach said as they headed back to his office. “Want to go over your game plan? I’ve got a detailed, hole-by-hole map of the course.”
“Besides watching countless tapes and telecasts, I’ve been over it thousands of times in my head. All I can do is hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Once I get there I’ll try to figure out where I want my misses to end up and take extra time practicing from there.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan. I have a feeling this tournament is going to be your coming-out party.”
“Hard to say. Golf’s as unpredictable as the weather. I can only hope it doesn’t rain on my parade.”