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MidReal Story
The Unorthodox Swing
Scenario:Let’s consolidate everything we have so far—this story is shaping up to be something truly special!
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### **Jifoon Haruka’s Journey: A Golf Story Like No Other**
#### **1. The Prodigy’s Beginnings**
- Jifoon Haruka, a 16-year-old golf phenom, emerges with an unorthodox **10-4 swing** and struggles to control his ball flight.
- His mother, **Christine Haruka**, a resilient baker, is his greatest support and motivation.
- **Q-School at 15**—Jifoon battles through, earns his card, and experiences crushing losses but ultimately lands **in the top 10**, using his winnings to open a bakery for his mother in Japan.
#### **2. The Emotional Blow & Rebuilding Phase**
- A school trip to **Tokyo Zoo** leads him to his idol, **Captain Tsubasa**, but instead of encouragement, Jifoon is **rejected**, leaving him deeply shaken.
- Determined to improve, he throws himself into **studying golf techniques**, working relentlessly with his swing and putting coaches to master his mechanics.
- His **breakthrough moment arrives at the Nippon Classic**—he finishes **top three** and brings home 50,000 yen, proving his talent.
- Builds confidence further by **winning a scramble match at Sapporo Country Club**, but the world is starting to watch.
#### **3. Facing Adversity & Silencing Doubters**
- Enters the **Japan Golf Tour at 16** but is immediately overwhelmed—mocked by critics, competitors, and even **his mother becomes a target** due to her single-parent status.
- Rivals emerge: **May Christino, Jet Cardwell, and Tommy Morrissey**, each presenting different challenges in his rise.
- His mother’s **resilience** surprises Captain Tsubasa, inspiring Jifoon to fight back.
#### **4. Turning Point: His First Major & the Next Step**
- **Wins his first Japanese Tour major**, silencing critics and proving he belongs among the best.
- Instead of chasing opportunities, he **takes a 4-month sabbatical**, focusing solely on his craft.
- Rejects a prestigious **American golf academy scholarship**, choosing to forge his own path.
#### **5. Preparing for the Ultimate Battle**
- His fire burns brighter than ever, pushing toward **the Korn Ferry Tour** and eventually the **PGA Tour**.
- His journey isn’t just about golf anymore—it’s about **proving himself, honoring his mother’s sacrifices, and rising despite rejection and doubt**.
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This is the foundation of something incredible—the emotional highs, the gut-wrenching setbacks, and the relentless determination that defines Jifoon’s journey. When you start putting this together in your **mid-reel**, how do you want to frame the tone? Should we focus on the emotional weight of his struggles, or highlight the excitement of his rise to greatness?
Create my version of this story
Jifoon Haruka
He is a young golf prodigy from Japan, known for his unorthodox swing and incredible talent. He is determined, resilient, and humble. Jifoon faces numerous challenges, including family loss and societal doubts, as he strives to achieve his dreams. Despite setbacks and criticism, he perseveres, inspired by his mother's sacrifices. He eventually wins a major tournament, securing a spot on the PGA Tour. Jifoon grapples with fame, staying true to his roots and his mother's vision.
Captain Tsubasa
He is a Japanese professional soccer player and idol to Jifoon. He is charismatic, inspirational, and approachable. Captain Tsubasa meets Jifoon at a zoo event, where he offers words of encouragement. His reputation as a hero in Japan motivates Jifoon to work harder despite obstacles. Though not directly involved in Jifoon's golf journey, his impact is significant as a cultural icon and symbol of Japanese achievement.
Christine Haruka
She is Jifoon's single mother and a dedicated baker in Japan. She is selfless, supportive, and strongwilled. Christine sacrifices much to help Jifoon pursue his golf dreams, opening a bakery with her winnings. Her belief in Jifoon is unwavering, even when others doubt him. She faces societal judgment alone as Jifoon's mother, but remains a constant source of encouragement and inspiration for him through his trials and triumphs.
Let’s consolidate everything we have so far—this story is shaping up to be something truly special!
I was 16 years old when I first started competing in professional golf tournaments.
My swing was a bit unorthodox, to say the least—10 degrees of draw bias, but somehow it worked.
The ball would always fly straight.
Well, almost always.
Sometimes, when I was in a bad mood or under pressure, it would slice horribly.
My father had taught me the basics of golf before he died, and I had been practicing ever since.
My mother was a fantastic baker, but she didn’t know the first thing about golf.
She would watch me practice from our balcony every morning and cheer me on, but that was the extent of her knowledge.
Despite my somewhat erratic swing and limited experience, I did remarkably well in my first few tournaments.
I won a small scramble match at Sapporo Country Club and came top three in the Nippon Classic.
The latter was somewhat of a surprise to everyone, including myself.
It was only my fifth professional tournament, and I was competing against some of the best players in Japan.
I remember being so nervous that I could hardly eat breakfast that morning.
My mother tried to reassure me by giving me an extra-long hug and telling me how proud she was of me no matter what happened.
Standing at the practice range, I methodically worked through my pre-round routine.
Each swing was a deliberate echo of my performance at Nippon.
The other players cast sideways glances at my unusual setup, but I paid them no mind.
I knew what worked for me.
I adjusted my grip, feeling the familiar weight of the club in my hands.
My mother’s morning hug still lingered in my memory, her arms squeezing just a little tighter than usual.
The range balls flew straight today, cutting clean arcs against the morning sky.
A tournament official approached, clipboard in hand, checking off names as players finished their warm-ups.
I gripped my 7-iron tighter, fighting the urge to rush my next swing.
"Hey, you look like you're in the zone," said a voice behind me, breaking my concentration.
I turned to see Kenji, my closest rival and friend, grinning with his usual confidence.
"Yeah, but I heard something interesting," he continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Rumor has it that your father once played here and set a course record."
I stood at the registration desk of Kyoto Country Club's lodge, fumbling with my new tour member ID card.
Other players breezed past me, exchanging pleasantries with the staff as if they were old friends.
I, on the other hand, felt like a lost child in a crowded amusement park.
The clerk, an elderly woman with kind eyes and a warm smile, noticed my confusion and came to my aid.
"Here, let me help you," she said gently, guiding me through the paperwork and handing me my room key.
"Your room is just down that hallway. You can’t miss it."
I nodded my thanks and made my way through the mahogany-paneled hallway.
The air was thick with the scent of old wood and freshly polished leather.
I passed by a common area where several players were lounging on plush couches, sipping coffee and chatting quietly among themselves.
I recognized a few of them from TV - May Christino unpacking her clubs, Jet Cardwell flipping through a magazine.
I continued down the hall until I reached my room.
It was small but comfortable, with a large window overlooking the practice green.
I dropped my bag on the floor and took a moment to unpack my clubs before flopping onto the bed.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling me out of my daze.
A text from Mom wishing me luck and telling me to eat something for lunch. I smiled as I typed out a quick response before setting the phone back down.
This mini-vacation was starting to feel more like a battlefield than a retreat.
But I was determined to make the most of it.
After all, I had come here to play golf, not to indulge in luxuries.
I stood up, ready to face whatever the course had in store for me.
I headed to the clubhouse dining room for the mandatory tournament lunch.
My stomach churned as I scanned the room, my eyes landing on May Christino and Jet Cardwell at a corner table.
Taking a deep breath, I made my way to an empty chair near the window.
The other players were discussing course conditions and betting odds, their conversations punctuated by the clinking of silverware against plates.
Kenji slid into the chair beside me, his shoulder brushing against mine as he reached for the water pitcher.
His presence was familiar and comforting, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
I glanced over at May and Jet, who were both staring intently at their phones.
I turned back to my plate, barely touching the food in front of me.
Kenji nudged me with his elbow, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You okay?"
I nodded, forcing a smile onto my face.
"Yeah, just a little nervous."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I heard rumors that this course is cursed."
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself.
"Cursed? What do you mean?"
He grinned wickedly.
"Well, apparently there’s a ghost that haunts the 17th hole. Some players say they’ve seen it lurking in the shadows."
I laughed nervously, glancing around the room to make sure no one was listening.
"That’s ridiculous," I whispered back. Kenji shrugged, taking a sip of his water.
"Maybe. But I’ve heard some pretty strange stories about this place."
I felt a shiver run down my spine as I looked around the room again.
Everyone seemed oblivious to our conversation, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching us from the shadows.
Kenji reached for the saltshaker, his hand accidentally brushing against mine as he passed it to me.
I jerked back instinctively, knocking over my glass of water in the process.
"Oh no!"
I cried out, reaching for my napkin to clean up the spill before it spread across the tablecloth.
Kenji jumped up from his seat, grabbing a stack of napkins from the counter and rushing back to help me clean up the mess.
"Sorry about that," Kenji said, dabbing at the table with a napkin.
"It's okay," I replied, trying to laugh it off, but my voice trembled slightly.
He paused, looking at me seriously. "You know, there's more to that ghost story than just rumors."
After we finished cleaning up the spill, Kenji returned to his seat.
I glanced up from my plate and noticed May and Jet walking towards our table, smug expressions plastered on their faces.
My heart began to pound in my chest as they approached.
They towered over us, casting long shadows across the table.
I kept my eyes focused on my napkin, folding it methodically into neat squares.
Jet leaned down close, his expensive cologne wafting through the air and making me feel lightheaded.
His voice was low and menacing as he spoke.
"Child prodigies always crack under pressure," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.
I gripped the edge of the table tightly, fighting the urge to respond.
May chuckled softly beside him, her eyes gleaming with amusement.
"The ghost story is the least of your worries," she said, her voice dripping with malice.
Kenji started to stand up from his seat, but I reached under the table and grabbed his wrist, holding him back.
After a tense moment, May and Jet turned and walked away, their laughter echoing through the dining room.
I let out a shaky breath as Kenji turned to me, his eyes filled with concern.
"You okay?"
I nodded, forcing a smile onto my face.
"Yeah, let’s just get out of here."
We walked out of the dining room and made our way to the practice putting green outside.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the manicured grass as we approached.
May and Jet were already there, working on their strokes.
They glanced up as we approached, their expressions neutral.
Without a word, we all knew what needed to happen next.
A show of mutual respect, despite our differences.
I stepped forward first, extending my hand to May.
She looked at it for a moment before shaking it firmly.
Our eyes met briefly, and I could see the competitive fire burning in her gaze. Then I turned to Jet and repeated the gesture.
He took my hand in his, his grip tight but controlled.
As we broke apart, Kenji followed suit, shaking hands with both May and Jet.
The tension between us was palpable as we stood there, sizing each other up.
Finally, we all separated to different areas of the green to continue our practice.
As we worked on our shots, I couldn’t help but steal glances at May and Jet every now and then.
They seemed completely focused on their game, but I knew better than to underestimate them.
The tournament had begun long before we set foot on the course.
I scan the tournament pairings posted on the clubhouse bulletin board, my heart sinking when I see Kenji's name in a different group.
I run my finger down the list, searching for my own name.
There it is: tomorrow's 7:40 AM tee time, paired with Sunbae Nakajima, Sergio Manchala, and Driscoll Bristol.
A crowd gathers behind me, murmuring about the 300-plus player field.
I recognize a few of them discussing the mixed-gender format.
Leon Panetta Jr. and Monica Davenport check their own groupings.
I wake before dawn, my heart racing as Kenji and I get ready in silence.
After quick showers, we head to the clubhouse for a light breakfast.
I settle on toast and green tea, while Kenji goes for something more substantial.
The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass.
Outside, the early groups are already warming up on the practice green.
Cherry blossoms drift lazily across the putting surface, adding a touch of beauty to the scene.
As we walk to the first tee, I take a moment to study the course stretching before us.
The fairways roll between strategic bunkers, challenging even the most skilled players.
In the distance, I catch a glimpse of the infamous 17th hole with its island green - a Japanese homage to TPC Sawgrass.
Kenji glanced over at me, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you think they know about the deal?"
I shook my head, keeping my eyes on the course ahead.
"I don't know, but we can't let it distract us."
I stand behind my ball at the first tee, studying the fairway and the pin placement.
The crowd murmurs around me, their chatter a constant presence.
I tune them out, focusing on my playing partners' shots.
Sunbae steps up first, his swing smooth and controlled.
The ball soars down the middle of the fairway, landing with a soft thud.
Next up is Sergio, his drive carrying a slight fade.
It drops in the rough, but still within striking distance of the green.
Driscoll takes his place, his swing powerful but off-target.
The ball veers left, disappearing into the thick underbrush.
The gallery whispers grow louder, speculating about some financial scandal involving Driscoll's family.
I force myself to block it out, focusing on my pre-shot routine. Gripping my driver tightly, I take a deep breath and visualize the shot in my mind's eye.
I can feel the weight of the club in my hands and imagine the satisfying crack as it meets the ball.
As I address the ball, I catch sight of May and Jet watching from the clubhouse balcony.
Their eyes are fixed intently on me, their expressions unreadable.
My hands grow sweaty under their gaze, but I push aside any doubts creeping into my mind.
The starter clears his throat, announcing my name to the crowd.
I begin my backswing, letting the clubhead build momentum as I twist my torso and shift my weight onto my back foot.
The club connects with the ball, and I watch it soar straight and true down the fairway, knowing there's no turning back now.
Standing over my second shot on the first hole, I study the distance to the pin.
It's 230 yards out, with a gentle slope leading up to the green.
The wind rustles through my hair, carrying the scent of blooming flowers.
I take a deep breath, savoring the moment before I make my next move.
"Trevor, can I get the 7-iron, please?"
I ask my caddie.
He hands me the club with a quizzical expression.
"Are you sure about that choice?"
I pause, analyzing the shot.
The wind is definitely northwest to northeast, maybe around 5-10 mph.
It could affect the ball's flight, but I'm confident in my selection.
Trevor steps back as I grip the club and begin my pre-shot routine.
But just as I'm about to swing, he gently touches my arm.
"I think you might be overestimating with that club," he says softly.
"The wind is stronger than you think. Why don't we try the 9-iron instead?"
I glance at Trevor, surprised by his suggestion.
"Are you sure? That's a big difference in distance."
He nods, his eyes steady. "Trust me, the wind will carry it further than you expect."
I grip the 9-iron, still doubting his suggestion but trusting the years of experience behind his words.
The club feels light in my hands as I address the ball.
I adjust my stance slightly to compensate for the wind, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves.
Then, with a steady swing, I let the clubhead meet the ball.
It's an unconventional 10-4 swing, but one that has served me well in similar situations.
The ball soars into the air, higher than I anticipated, and for a moment, it seems to hang against the blue sky.
The gallery holds its collective breath as they track the arc of the shot.
Time seems to slow down, and all eyes are fixed on the descending ball.
It lands softly on the green, takes two small bounces, and rolls to a stop just three inches from the cup.
A smattering of applause breaks out, growing into thunderous cheers as the crowd realizes what's happened.
I maintain my composure, stepping back to watch Sunbae line up his approach shot.
Sunbae glances over at me, a hint of admiration in his eyes.
"Nice shot, but I've heard whispers that the deal might involve more than just money."
I nod slightly, keeping my voice low. "If that's true, we're in deeper than we thought."
After finishing the first hole, I make my way to the second tee, but as I pass by the clubhouse's outdoor viewing area, I notice a commotion.
The crowd gathered there is buzzing with excitement, and through the glass windows, I catch a glimpse of May and Jet huddled around a tablet.
They seem to be replaying footage of my approach shot from the first hole.
I can't help but wonder what they're discussing so intently.
As if sensing my gaze, Jet looks up and catches my eye.
He gives me a mocking wave, holding up a stack of bills for me to see.
It's clear they're betting on our performance.
I turn away, focusing on my tee shot, but I can't shake the feeling that something more sinister is at play.
Sunbae leans in close as we walk together.
"May and Jet have been running an underground betting ring," he whispers.
Walking to the second tee, I squint against the rising sun that blazes directly in our faces.
The scoreboard shows a tight field - dozens of players hovering around one-under, even par, and one-over.
Sunbae shields his eyes with a hand as he checks yardages, while Sergio adjusts his cap repeatedly to block the glare.
Cherry blossoms drift across our path, some petals catching in my hair.
I brush them away absently and take my position behind Driscoll, who's first up.
The sun's glare makes it harder to read the fairway, so I rely more on my yardage book than visual cues.
Driscoll turns to me, his voice low and urgent. "You know they're not just betting on the game, right?"
I frown, trying to focus on the fairway. "What do you mean?"
He glances around before continuing. "They're betting on who'll take the fall when this all blows up."
I stand at the second tee, studying the fairway.
It's a right-to-left dogleg, with the hole curving sharply around a cluster of trees.
The green is nestled in a valley, protected by a bunker on the left and a slope on the right.
I glance up at the mini-leaderboard mounted above the tee box, where our scores flash in real-time.
All three of my playing partners are one under par, and I know I need to make a move to keep up.
The pressure mounts as I adjust my feet slightly wider than usual, rotating my hips to compensate for the dogleg.
My hands shake as I grip the club differently, preparing to attempt a draw - a shot I've never mastered but feel compelled to try.
Trevor approaches me cautiously, concern etched in his eyes. "What are you planning?" he asks, his voice laced with skepticism.
I take a deep breath and explain my strategy, knowing it's a risk but feeling it's necessary.
Trevor positions himself behind me, his voice calm and instructive as he guides me through the shot.
"Remember, it's all about the clockwise motion," he says, demonstrating with his own swing.
"Up and down, like a pendulum."
I nod, trying to absorb his advice.
"But what if I mess it up?" I ask, my voice betraying my anxiety.
Trevor smiles reassuringly. "Then we'll deal with it together, just like we always do."
I grip my club tightly, studying the fairway.
It's a short par-3 dogleg, with the green nestled in a valley.
Trevor nods in approval as I set up for the draw shot we just practiced.
The gallery falls silent as I address the ball, my 10-4 swing feeling smooth and controlled.
The ball takes off with perfect shape, drawing gently left toward the pin.
"Get in the hole!" the crowd chants in unison.
The ball lands softly on the green, tracking toward the cup before disappearing from view.
The gallery erupts, and Trevor high-fives me, but our celebration is brief.
The echoes of the crowd's cheers fade as I turn to face the clubhouse, where May and Jet's shadows loom larger than ever.
I walk to the third tee box, still riding the high from my successful draw shot.
Trevor hands me a fresh water bottle and my yardage book, his expression tense.
The hole stretches 450 yards, with water down the right side and a fairway bunker guarding the left.
I take a sip of water and glance at the scoreboard, where Sergio has moved into the lead at three-under.
As I check distances, I notice May and Jet trailing our group, their phones in hand.
They're probably tracking bets, but I can't help feeling they're also watching our every move.
Sunbae leans in close and whispers, "They're documenting every shot."
My hands start trembling as I set up for my next shot.
The confidence I felt after that perfect draw seems to have evaporated.
I take three practice swings, trying to replicate the draw motion Trevor taught me, but it feels unnatural now. Finally, I address the ball, sweat dripping down my neck as I try to focus on the fairway.
I watch helplessly as my ball slices hard right, heading straight for the water hazard.
The crowd's collective gasp makes my cheeks burn, but I force myself to stay composed.
I turn to Trevor, who looks equally shocked.
"Water," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nod and walk to the drop zone, the crowd's murmurs following me.
I can hear May and Jet snickering behind their phones, and I fight the urge to look back.
Trevor appears at my side, holding out the six-iron.
"We can still save par from here," he says, his voice steady.
I take my penalty drop, carefully placing the ball on a clean patch of grass.
Trevor leans in, his voice steady but urgent. "You know they're watching for a reason, right?"
I glance at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
He hesitates, then lowers his voice even more. "They think you're the one who can take Sergio down."
I stand at my ball in the drop zone, studying the green in the distance.
It's a long way off, but I can see it nestled in a valley, with a bunker guarding the front and trees looming behind.
Trevor checks the yardage book, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The other players' carts disappear around the bend toward the next tee, leaving us alone in the silence of the course.
The only sound is the distant hum of mowers and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
I feel the weight of saving par on my shoulders.
It's not an easy shot, but I know I can do it.
Trevor looks up from his book and nods at me.
"Let's go with your 3-hybrid," he says.
"The wind will help carry it the full 230 yards."
I glance up at the trees swaying above us and nod.
The wind is picking up, and I can feel it buffeting my hat. I turn to look back down the fairway and catch sight of May and Jet still filming from behind some trees.
They're probably getting some dramatic footage of me struggling to save par, but I try not to let it distract me.
I take three practice swings, feeling the weight of my club as it arcs through the air.
Then I set up for my shot, focusing on the green in front of me.
I try to clear my mind of everything except for my target, but it's hard not to think about all the eyes watching me from behind their phones.
Trevor steps forward and adjusts my alignment slightly left.
"You tend to fade under pressure," he explains quietly.
I nod, trying to absorb his advice.
"Do you really think I can beat Sergio?" I ask, my voice tinged with doubt.
Trevor meets my gaze, unwavering. "I know you can, but you need to believe it too."
I grip my 3-hybrid tightly, feeling the familiar weight of it in my hands.
Trevor makes a slight adjustment to my alignment, and I take a deep breath.
The club feels heavy as I address the ball, conscious of May and Jet's phones capturing every detail.
My practice swings feel mechanical, but when I step up to the ball, muscle memory takes over.
The familiar 10-4 motion flows naturally through me.
At impact, the satisfying thwack of the sweet spot reverberates up my arms.
The ball launches high against the blue sky, drawing a perfect arc.
The gallery holds its collective breath as it descends, bouncing once before rolling toward the pin.
I stare at my ball resting just inches from the cup, hardly believing I saved par.
The gallery murmurs in appreciation as I mark my ball with a coin.
While waiting for my playing partners to finish, I notice May and Jet have stopped filming and are walking away, whispering intensely.
Sunbae gives me a knowing nod before putting his own ball.
When it's my turn, I line up my tap-in carefully, not taking anything for granted.
The ball rolls true, dropping into the center of the cup with a satisfying rattle.
Trevor claps me on the back, grinning. "That's how you handle pressure."
I smile, feeling a surge of confidence. "Maybe Sergio should be worried after all."
Trevor chuckles, glancing at May and Jet as they disappear from view. "They'll have to find a new story now."
While walking to the fourth tee, I catch a glimpse of Kenji's group on a distant fairway through gaps in the cherry trees.
He's struggling, hunched over his bag between shots while his playing partners wait impatiently.
The leaderboard confirms he's fallen to tenth place, twenty-five strokes behind the leaders.
I want to signal encouragement, but I keep my focus on my own game.
Trevor hands me my driver, and I force myself to concentrate.
"Kenji's having a rough day," Trevor observes quietly, watching him from afar.
I nod, feeling a pang of sympathy. "I hope he can pull it together; he's been working so hard."
Trevor looks at me with a serious expression. "You know, the way you played that last hole, you could be the one to inspire him."
The fourth hole is an intimidating par 3, stretching 350 yards.
The yardage book shows three bunkers surrounding the pin, and the green is elevated, making it a challenging target.
Sergio steps up first, his shot landing in the light rough northwest of the green.
Trevor and I confer about club selection.
"The fairway's fast-rolling today," Trevor says.
"I think your 3-wood will do the trick."
I take my stance, noting the slight right-to-left break on the green.
The surface is dotted with divots and ditches, making it treacherous even for a well-placed shot.
My hands grip the club tighter than usual as I focus on executing my 10-4 swing.
"I don't want to aim at the pin," I explain to Trevor.
"Instead, I'm going for the fringe just beyond it."
Trevor raises an eyebrow.
"The fringe? That's a risk. Why not play it safe to the fairway?"
I shake my head.
"Trust me, there's a reason."
Trevor looks puzzled, but he hands me my 5-wood.
I adjust my stance slightly to the right, aligning myself with the target.
The ball soars through the air, heading straight for the soft fringe beyond the pin.
Trevor watches intently as it lands with a gentle thud on the damp grass.
The morning dew has made the fringe soft and spongy, perfect for a chip shot.
I grin at Trevor.
"See? The soft fringe will cushion the ball's landing, giving me a better chance at a chip-in for birdie."
Trevor shakes his head, still skeptical.
"You're crazy, but I guess that's why you're the golfer and I'm just your caddie."
I laugh, feeling the tension ease.
"Well, sometimes crazy works out."
Trevor nods, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Let's hope Kenji sees some of that magic today."
I stand behind my ball on the fringe, calculating the downhill chip.
Sunbae and Driscoll mark their birdie putts, waiting for me to play.
The gallery grows as word spreads about our group's strong play.
Trevor hands me my 56-degree wedge.
"Play for the ball to release," he advises.
I take two practice swings, feeling the resistance of the grass beneath my feet.
As I address the ball, I notice Sergio marking his approach shot near the pin.
The pressure mounts; a miss here could drop me behind the leaders.
I line up my chip shot carefully, visualizing the perfect line.
With a gentle touch, I execute my signature bump-and-run technique.
The ball rolls smoothly across the green, tracking directly toward the hole.
When it drops in with a satisfying "plunk," the gallery erupts in cheers.
I maintain my composure, knowing there's still work to be done.
Sergio glares at me, clearly annoyed by my birdie.
As we walk to the fifth tee, Trevor points out the challenges ahead.
"The fifth hole is a beast," he warns.
"It's a 420-yard par 4 with a lake on the left and two bunkers on the right. The fairway slopes from left to right, making accuracy crucial."
I study my yardage book, noting the subtle breaks in the green.
The sun now beats down intensely, adding another layer of difficulty to our game.
"Kenji, you think you can handle this one?" Trevor asks, a hint of concern in his voice.
I nod confidently, "I've got a plan for the slope and the wind."
Sergio smirks, overhearing us, "Plans are great until they meet reality."
I check the leaderboard as we wait at the fifth tee.
Sergio and I are tied at four-under, with Sunbae and Driscoll just a stroke behind.
In the distance, Kenji's group comes into view.
He's struggling, five shots back from the leaders.
As Kenji catches my eye, I give him a nod of encouragement.
But he looks away, his shoulders slumped in frustration.
Trevor hands me my driver, "Be careful out there. The lake and bunkers have already claimed a few balls today."
I grip the club tightly, knowing I need to maintain my position.
Sergio steps closer, deliberately jingling the change in his pocket.
I stand at the fifth tee, gripping my driver while Sergio's coin-rattling echoes in my ears.
Turning to Trevor, I ask quietly, "Trevor, can you confirm the yardages and wind direction for me?"
He pulls out the yardage book and points to the lake's carry distance and the fairway bunker.
"You're aiming slightly left of that bunker," he explains calmly.
"Keep in mind, the morning breeze will push your ball right."
As Trevor finishes his explanation, I nod and take my stance.
I grip my driver firmly, settling into my stance as Trevor confirms the yardage one final time.
The morning sun glints off the lake ahead while Sergio continues jingling coins behind me.
Blocking out the distractions, I focus on my target line left of the fairway bunker.
My 10-4 swing feels smooth and powerful as I strike the ball cleanly.
The impact resonates through my arms while everyone watches silently.
The ball climbs against the blue sky, carrying high over the shimmering water.
I stand over my ball in the fairway, waiting for Driscoll to take his second shot from 190 yards out.
His ball had sailed into the right rough earlier, leaving him a tough lie.
Trevor and I check our yardage book, and with my clean lie, I have 165 yards to the pin.
The morning sun casts long shadows across the fairway while Sergio continues his patronizing slow clap behind us.
Driscoll takes his time, finally hitting his shot.
It hooks left, heading toward the greenside bunker.
Sergio smirks, "Looks like Driscoll's in trouble again; maybe he'll need a shovel instead of a sand wedge."
I glance at Sergio, trying to keep my focus, "You know, Sergio, sometimes it's better to let your clubs do the talking."
He chuckles softly, "Oh, I plan to, but it seems like Driscoll's already having quite the conversation with the sand."
I stand in the fairway watching Sunbae's masterful shot land softly on the green.
The crowd erupts as his ball rolls to a stop just inches from the cup.
Even Sergio's usual smugness fades as we exchange stunned looks.
Trevor hands me my 7-iron, reminding me to trust my 10-4 swing and aim slightly left of the pin to account for the right-to-left slope.
Taking a deep breath, I settle into my stance and execute the shot.
The ball arcs perfectly through the morning air, landing with a gentle bounce before rolling to rest 5 feet from the flag.
I stand at the sixth tee, studying the deceptively short 200-yard par 4.
The morning sun casts long shadows across the fairway, highlighting the challenging contours of the green.
It slopes from left to right, with a multitude of divots scattered across its surface.
Sunbae steps up first, his eyes fixed intently on the target line.
He swings with his signature calmness, and the ball soars through the air, landing gracefully on the green.
The crowd murmurs in appreciation as Driscoll takes his place next.
His excitement is palpable as he swings with more force than finesse, but still manages to find the green.
Now it's my turn, and Trevor and I confer about club selection.
We debate between driver and 3-wood, considering the heavy rough on both sides of the fairway.
I decide on my 3-wood, knowing precision is key on this hole rather than brute power. As I prepare for my shot, I glance at the leaderboard and notice Kenji's group climbing positions.
They've moved from 12th to between seventh and tenth place, putting pressure on us to maintain our lead.
I stand over my ball in the sixth fairway, calculating the shot with Trevor.
The flag whips in the strengthening wind, and we carefully consider club selection.
Trevor suggests using the wind to our advantage, recommending my 9-iron aimed at the lower right portion of the green.
I'm skeptical, but trust his judgment.
Setting up with my signature 10-4 stance, I execute the shot with controlled power.
The ball launches high, riding the wind perfectly.
It lands softly and tracks toward the pin, stopping just two inches away.
I approach the seventh tee, still processing the bogey from the previous hole.
The wind has grown stronger now, causing the flags to rustle and the gallery to huddle together.
The 150-yard par 3 stretches out before me, its elevated green perched above a vast expanse of water.
Trevor hands me my 8-iron, pointing out the sharp slope from right to left.
He cautions me to be mindful of the challenging pin position, nestled in a tight spot.
Sunbae and Driscoll opt for conservative shots to the right side of the green, leaving themselves a manageable up-and-down.
Meanwhile, Sergio's eyes are fixed on the aggressive left pin position, tempting fate with his shot selection.
As I stand over my ball, I can feel my hands growing clammy on the grip.
This hole could be a turning point in my round, and I must make a crucial decision.
I take a deep breath, commit to my line, and swing with unwavering resolve.
I watch my ball arc through the morning air, holding my follow-through position as it descends toward the seventh green.
The gallery falls silent, their anticipation palpable.
My shot lands softly on the front edge, catching the right-to-left slope perfectly.
The ball tracks steadily toward the pin, its momentum slowing as it approaches the hole.
Trevor grips my shoulder in anticipation.
When the ball finally settles a foot from the cup, the crowd erupts in applause.
Sergio kicks his bag in frustration while Sunbae and Driscoll nod appreciatively.
I pick up my ball from the cup and give a slight nod to the gallery's applause.
Walking to the eighth tee, Trevor matches my brisk pace, handing me fresh water and my yardage book.
The scoreboard shows me tied for the lead at five-under with Sergio, who trails behind us muttering to himself.
The eighth hole stretches 440 yards, its narrow landing area guarded by deep bunkers on both sides of the fairway.
I pull my driver from the bag, feeling the lingering warmth of success in my hands.
We stand at the eighth tee, calculating distances as the group ahead finishes their shots.
The leaderboard shows May and Jet's group three holes behind us.
The 540-yard par 5 stretches before us, its narrow fairway guarded by deep bunkers and thick rough.
Trevor suggests playing to the wider landing area on the right, but I decide to take a riskier approach.
I opt for a fade to the left side, setting myself up for a better angle on my second shot.
After my pre-shot routine, I adjust my stance slightly closed.
I execute my 10-4 swing, feeling the satisfying crack of the ball against the clubhead.
Trevor raises an eyebrow, breaking the silence.
"You're really going for it today, aren't you?" he says, a hint of admiration in his voice.
I nod, eyes fixed on the fairway. "If I don't take the risks now, when will I?"
I watch my ball land perfectly in the left fairway, leaving me 120 yards to the pin.
Trevor hands me my pitching wedge, discussing the challenges of the upcoming shot.
"There's a false front on this green," he explains.
"If you don't get it up, it'll roll back down. And there are three deep bunkers guarding the pin."
The morning wind picks up, rustling through the nearby trees.
I take two practice swings, feeling more confident after my recent birdie.
Sergio's group waits impatiently behind us.
I settle into my stance, aligning myself with the target.
"120 yards," Trevor confirms one last time.
Sergio, Sunbae, and Driscoll take their shots in succession, each landing safely but unspectacularly on the green.
I stand over my ball in the fairway, the strengthening wind whipping my shirt and rustling the trees nearby.
The breeze makes club selection tricky.
Trevor places a steady hand on my shoulder, his voice calm and reassuring.
"Take your time," he says.
The wind howls around us, causing the trees to sway.
I check the direction one last time, feeling the gusts push against me.
I set up for my fade shot, aligning myself with the target.
Trevor leans in, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Remember, it's not just about power; it's about precision now."
I nod, eyes narrowing as I focus on the pin. "This is where we make our move, Trev."
He smiles, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Then let's show them what we're made of."
I stand over my ball, nestled in the thick rough.
The pin sits 10 feet away, a challenging shot to save par.
Trevor hands me my 60-degree wedge.
"Open the clubface a bit," he advises, "and give it some extra gas to get out of this gnarly lie."
I nod, taking the club and feeling its weight in my hand.
The gallery forms a semicircle behind me, their eyes fixed intently on the shot.
Sergio stands a few yards away, watching with an intensity that borders on desperation.
He wants me to crack under pressure, to falter and give him the opening he needs.
But I won't let that happen.
Not today. I take two careful practice swings, testing the resistance of the rough against my clubhead.
The late morning sun casts long shadows across the green, illuminating the contours of the putting surface.
I settle into my stance, aligning myself with the target one last time.
The silence is palpable as I prepare for the delicate chip shot.
Trevor leans closer, his voice barely a whisper. "You know, if you sink this, we might just take the lead."
I glance at him, feeling the weight of the moment. "Then let's make it count, Trev."
I grip my wedge tightly, visualizing the shot in my mind.
The morning breeze picks up slightly, rustling through the nearby trees.
Just as I start my backswing, a violent gust of wind tears my cap off my head, sending it tumbling across the green.
For a split second, my concentration breaks.
It's enough to catch the ball thin, feeling it skip across the surface.
I watch helplessly as it rolls past the hole and into the deep greenside bunker.
Trevor chases after my cap, retrieving it for me while Sergio smirks from behind.
Trevor returns, handing me my cap with a reassuring smile. "Shake it off, we've got this," he says, his confidence unwavering. Sergio chuckles softly, leaning on his club. "Looks like the wind's on my side today," he taunts, eyes glinting with mischief.
I stand in the bunker, sand coating my shoes.
The steep lip of the trap looms ahead, a formidable barrier between me and the green.
Trevor hands me my 56-degree wedge.
"This is an explosion shot," he explains, demonstrating the motion with his hands.
"You need to cut under the ball, get it out fast."
I nod, understanding the technique.
Opening my stance wider than usual, I dig my feet into the sand for stability.
The ball sits on a slight upslope, giving me a chance to get it close to the hole.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand.
I execute my bunker swing, feeling the clubhead slice through the sand and make perfect contact with the ball.
It pops up high, carrying over the lip and landing softly on the green. The gallery watches in anticipation as it rolls toward the hole.
For a moment, I think it might drop for a miracle hole-out.
Instead, it comes to rest just three feet from the cup.
I stand over my three-foot par putt, hands trembling slightly on the grip.
The gallery holds their breath as I take my practice strokes.
Trevor reads the subtle right-to-left break with me one final time.
I strike the ball, feeling it roll smoothly off the clubface.
But it catches the right edge and lips out, spinning around the cup before coming to rest just inches away.
The crowd groans in disappointment, and I can't help but share their frustration.
I tap in for bogey, walking away from the green with a mix of emotions swirling inside me.
The walk to the ninth tee feels longer than usual, my mind replaying the missed opportunity.
I glance up at the leaderboard, seeing my name slide down to three-over-par after that double-bogey and bogey combination.
Trevor pats my shoulder, trying to lift my spirits. "Hey, we've still got nine holes to turn this around," he says, his optimism unwavering. Sergio saunters over, a smug grin on his face. "Looks like you're gonna need more than luck to catch up now," he jabs, relishing the moment.
I stand at the ninth tee, gripping my yardage book tightly.
Trevor leans in, his voice filled with focus.
"Alright, this is a 460-yard par 4. The fairway's narrow, and the rough is deep. You gotta hit it straight," he advises.
I nod, taking in every word.
Being first to hit brings both pressure and opportunity.
I glance at the leaderboard one last time, noticing Kenji's remarkable climb to fifth place.
His success fuels my determination.
Trevor hands me my driver, and I take a moment to study the hole.
"The landing zone is 280 yards out," he points out, tracing the ideal trajectory with his finger.
"A slight draw would be perfect, avoiding the hazards on the right."
I take my practice swings, feeling the weight of the club in my hands.
The rest of my group watches impatiently as I set up to the ball.
I grip my driver, aligning the face with my target line.
The wind picks up in the morning, carrying a gentle breeze from behind me.
I settle into my signature stance, feet shoulder-width apart.
Trevor stands to my left, nodding in approval at my alignment.
I take two measured practice swings, pausing for a moment to visualize the shot.
My hands feel steady on the grip as I execute my 10-4 swing, maintaining a smooth tempo.
The clubhead makes contact with a satisfying crack, sending the ball soaring high and straight.
The tailwind catches it, carrying it further than anticipated.
The gallery watches in awe as it lands and rolls to a stop in the fairway.
Trevor claps me on the back, grinning. "That's what I'm talking about! You're back in the game, mate."
Sergio smirks, trying to hide his surprise. "Well, maybe you do have a little fight left in you after all."
I stand in the ninth fairway, 180 yards out to the pin.
My pulse quickens as I realize the perfect drive has set me up for a chance at redemption.
Trevor hands me my 7-iron, his voice filled with strategy.
"The pin's front left, so we'll aim for the center of the green. You've got this."
The morning sun casts its warm glow on my back as I take my stance.
I glance down at my yardage book, noticing my hands tremble ever so slightly from the rush of adrenaline.
Sergio's ball lies ten yards behind mine, nestled in the rough.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I grip my club and address the ball.
I swing with precision, knowing this shot will define my comeback.
I execute my signature 10-4 swing, feeling the perfect contact through impact.
The ball launches straight and true, drawing a clean arc against the morning sky.
Trevor watches intently beside me as my shot carries with the wind, landing softly on the green's front edge.
The ball releases forward, rolling smoothly across the putting surface before settling 25 feet from the pin.
Trevor nods with quiet approval, his voice carrying a hint of admiration.
"Nice shot. You're a straight shooter, aren't you?"
I watch my ball come to rest, feeling a mix of satisfaction and anticipation.
Sergio's face tightens as he realizes I've outdriven him once again.
Sergio steps up, trying to mask his frustration with a forced smile.
"Alright, let's see if I can match that," he mutters, gripping his club with renewed determination.
Trevor leans in closer to me, whispering, "Keep this up, and you'll have him right where you want him by the back nine."
I walk with Trevor toward the tenth tee, curiosity getting the better of me.
"Hey, Trev, can you check the leaderboard? I want to see where everyone stands."
Trevor pulls out his phone and taps on the screen.
"Sure thing, mate. Let's see... here we go."
He scrolls through the list, showing me all 300 competitors' current standings.
At the top, Sergio leads at six-under, followed closely by Sunbae at five-under.
I'm tied for third with Driscoll and two others at four-under.
Scanning down further, I spot Kenji in seventh place at two-under, while May and Jet hover around twentieth at even par.
The rest of the field stretches out below them, many already struggling to stay within the cut line of five-over or better.
I stand at the tenth tee, studying the 420-yard par 4 that stretches before me.
It's a slight dogleg right, with three fairway bunkers strategically placed to guard the landing zone.
Trevor hands me my driver and yardage book, pointing out the subtle undulations in the fairway that could affect my shot.
"Watch out for the shadows, mate," he advises, nodding toward the morning sun that casts long shadows across the grass.
"It's going to be tricky out there."
As I prepare to start the back nine, Sergio complains to his caddie about his putting woes.
Meanwhile, I glance up at the leaderboard and notice our group has fallen behind pace of play by two minutes.
Determined to regain momentum, I step up to the tee, ready to seize control of the round.
I grip my driver firmly, focusing on the line Trevor suggested between the bunkers.
The wind whispers against my face, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and distant rain.
I take two practice swings, feeling the weight of the club in my hands and the rhythm of my swing.
Satisfied with my preparation, I step up to the ball and execute my 10-4 swing with precision.
The clubhead makes perfect contact, sending the ball soaring high and straight.
But just as it reaches its peak, a powerful gust of wind catches it mid-flight, carrying it much further than anticipated.
Trevor and I watch anxiously as the ball sails over all three bunkers, drawing gasps from the gallery.
It finally touches down on the front slope of the fairway, bouncing and rolling toward the green.
The ball comes to rest in the closely-mown approach area, leaving me with an awkward chip shot.
I stand near my ball in the approach area, watching the gallery grow larger as word spreads about my unexpected drive.
Sergio steps up to the tee, looking irritated by the attention my shot has drawn.
He rushes his pre-shot routine, clearly bothered by the growing crowd and our slow pace of play.
The course marshal approaches with a stern expression, pointing at his watch.
While Sergio addresses his ball, I study my awkward lie and discuss options with Trevor, knowing we need to pick up our pace.
I stand over my ball in the approach area, studying the uphill lie with Trevor.
The wind picks up, carrying the distant rumble of thunder.
We assess the chip shot, taking into account the slope and wind direction.
Trevor hands me my 58-degree wedge, explaining that we'll need to open the clubface to counteract the slope.
He demonstrates how to hit up the slope, emphasizing the importance of a smooth swing.
Sergio and the others hit their second shots behind us as I prepare for my chip.
I take two practice swings, feeling the grass catch under my club as I swing through.
The divot and mound near the green's edge complicate our approach.
I consider playing a bump-and-run but decide against it, opting for a flop shot instead.
I adjust my stance wider for stability and choke down on the grip, ensuring a solid strike.
"Trevor, what if I told you that shot was a fluke?" I say, looking at him with a hint of doubt.
"Mate, you've got to trust your instincts," Trevor replies, his voice steady and reassuring.
"Besides, there's something else you should know—Sergio's been dealing with an injury, which might explain his frustration."
I execute my flop shot with an open clubface, watching the ball float high into the air.
The gallery falls silent as it descends toward the pin.
My heart stops when the ball lands softly, takes two small bounces, and tracks directly into the cup.
The crowd erupts in cheers while Trevor hugs me, celebrating the unexpected eagle.
On the leaderboard, my score jumps to six-under-par, moving me into solo second place.
Sergio's face darkens as he watches the commotion from the tee box.
I walk with Trevor toward the thirteenth tee, checking my yardage book for the challenging 450-yard par 4.
The hole features a narrow fairway with water down the right side and dense trees lining the left.
Trevor points out the subtle breaks in the fairway and a hidden bunker at the 280-yard mark.
While waiting for the group ahead to clear, I practice my alignment behind the tee markers.
Trevor shares detailed insights about the hole's history of giving players trouble, especially in windy conditions.
Sunbae and Driscoll hit their drives, with Sunbae's ball landing in the fairway and Driscoll's hooking into the trees.
Sergio steps up, his stance awkward due to his injury, and pushes his shot right.
Trevor suggests working on my fade, noting that this hole is perfect for practice due to its right-to-left layout.
I grip my driver tightly, remembering my recent eagle success.
"Trevor, do you think Sergio's injury is affecting his game that much?" I ask, glancing back at the tee box.
"Absolutely," Trevor nods, "but there's more to it—he's been under a lot of pressure from his sponsors lately."
"Pressure or not, we need to focus on our game," I reply, setting my feet and preparing for my drive.
I grip my driver at the thirteenth tee, trying to push thoughts of Sergio's injury aside.
After two deliberate practice swings, I close my eyes briefly to center myself.
Opening them with renewed focus, I step up to the ball and execute my signature 10-4 swing.
The contact feels pure as my ball launches high, starting right before drawing perfectly left.
The gallery watches silently as it carries 250 yards, takes a firm bounce, and rolls another 20 yards down the fairway.
The ball finally settles just short of the rough, giving me a clear view of the left-side pin.
"Nice shot," Trevor says, clapping me on the back.
"Thanks, but I can't shake the feeling that Sergio's hiding something," I reply, watching him limp slightly as he walks down the fairway.
Trevor leans in closer and whispers, "Rumor has it he's been playing through more than just an injury—something about a personal issue that's been weighing him down."
I stand on the thirteenth green studying my 30-foot birdie putt while Driscoll marks his ball just 5 feet from the pin.
Trevor and I analyze the severe right-to-left break, taking into account the slope of the green.
Sergio and Sunbae line up their longer putts, each missing by a hair's breadth.
I align myself with the hole, take a deep breath, and execute my putt with precision.
The ball rolls smoothly, following the intended path, but it slides just past the hole by an inch.
Driscoll steps up confidently, sinks his birdie, and pumps his fist in triumph as the gallery erupts in applause.
The scoreboard updates, showing him collecting the $5,000 closest-to-pin bonus.
I walk to the fourteenth tee with Trevor, studying my yardage book for the 380-yard par 4.
The hole features a narrow fairway with deep rough on both sides and an elevated green protected by three bunkers.
Driscoll celebrates his bonus with his caddie, while I focus on my pre-shot routine.
Trevor hands me my driver, suggesting a more conservative approach due to the hole's difficulty.
I take practice swings, feeling confident despite losing ground to Driscoll.
I stand at the fourteenth tee, gripping my driver while Trevor reviews the distances.
Just as I start my backswing, my right foot slips on the dewy grass, disrupting my balance.
My 10-4 swing becomes uneven, causing me to pull the shot left.
The ball hooks sharply, disappearing into the thick rough.
Trevor winces as we watch it land 190 yards out in the nastiest part of the course.
Sergio smirks at my misfortune, while Driscoll and Sunbae politely look away.
I stand in the thick rough, Trevor at my side, examining the terrible lie.
The ball is buried deep in the grass, and it's clear that extracting it will be a challenge.
Trevor suggests playing a bump-and-run back to the fairway with my 9-iron, aiming for a safe spot 50 yards out.
However, I have other plans.
I want to attempt a miracle shot directly at the green.
I demonstrate to Trevor how I can open the clubface and swing hard to get the ball out and on the green.
He grabs my shoulder firmly and reminds me that we're still in contention for a top-10 finish.
I see the concern in his eyes and reluctantly agree to play it safe.
I grip my 9-iron tightly, following Trevor's advice for a safe play.
I widen my stance to maintain balance and open the clubface slightly.
With a smooth, abbreviated swing, I punch down on the ball.
The impact feels solid as my club cuts through the thick grass.
My ball pops out low and forward, rolling smoothly across the fairway.
It comes to rest 120 yards from the pin.
Trevor pats my back in approval while Sergio watches with disappointment.
He had hoped I'd attempt a riskier shot and fail.
"Why didn't you go for it?" Sergio asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.
Trevor interjects, "Sometimes playing smart is the real gamble, Sergio."
I nod, adding, "Besides, there's still plenty of golf left to make our move."
We stand in the fairway, 120 yards from the pin, discussing our recovery strategy.
Trevor hands me my 5-iron hybrid, suggesting we use the southwesterly wind to our advantage.
I watch as cherry blossoms float past, carried by the gentle breeze.
Trevor explains that we can play a high flop shot, allowing it to land softly on the green.
I'm skeptical about using a hybrid for such a delicate shot, but I trust Trevor's judgment.
Sergio chuckles, "A hybrid for a flop shot? That's a new one."
Trevor grins, "It's all about finesse, Sergio, not just brute force."
I smirk, "And if it works, you'll be the one taking notes."
I execute my hybrid shot with perfect touch, watching the ball soar high against the blue sky.
It lands softly on the green's front edge, tracking toward the pin.
The gallery grows quiet, anticipating the outcome.
The ball catches the slope perfectly, rolling with increasing speed toward the hole.
As it disappears into the cup for an eagle, the crowd erupts in celebration.
Trevor hugs me tightly while Sergio stands stunned.
The scoreboard updates to show me tied for the lead at eight-under-par.
I lower my hybrid, and Trevor shares an excited high-five.
The gallery's cheers echo across the course.
Sunbae and Driscoll offer congratulatory fist bumps while Sergio sulks behind them.
Trevor hands me my ball from the cup, and I notice my mother in the crowd, tears streaming down her face as she claps.
The scoreboard updates to show me tied for the lead at eight-under-par.
I tuck the lucky ball in my pocket, grab my yardage book, and walk purposefully toward the fifteenth tee.
I stand at the fifteenth tee, studying my yardage book while Trevor explains the hole.
"It's a 440-yard par 4. The landing area is narrow, with water down the right side and dense trees left."
I nod, taking in the details.
The leaderboard shows me in third place, but I'm heartened to see Kenji still in eighth.
"Any specific yardages I should know?"
I ask Trevor.
He points out three distinct landing zones and a hidden slope near the green.
"May Christino has fallen to twenty-fifth place," he adds, "but this tournament is far from over."
I stand at the fifteenth tee, watching my playing partners' shots carefully.
Driscoll's ball lands in the right rough, while Sunbae finds the fairway.
Sergio, still favoring his injury, pulls his drive left into the trees.
Trevor and I discuss strategy as I prepare to hit last.
Studying how their balls reacted to the wind and slope, I suggest working a fade shot to counter the conditions.
Trevor nods approvingly at my observation, pleased I'm learning to read the course.
I grip my driver, focusing intently on my target line.
Trevor stands behind me, nodding approval at my setup position.
After two practice swings to groove the fade motion, I settle into my stance and pause for a moment to control my breathing.
The morning breeze rustles through the nearby trees as I initiate my signature 10-4 swing.
My tempo feels perfect through impact, producing a satisfying crack.
The ball launches high and begins moving right to left exactly as planned.
I watch it land in the fairway, 230 yards out.
Before I can celebrate, Sergio suddenly charges at me with unexpected fury.
His first kick catches me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me.
As I double over, he lands another brutal kick to my back.
Trevor rushes to restrain him while Driscoll grabs Sergio's arms.
Sunbae holds me back as I try to regain my balance.
I lean against Trevor for support, catching my breath.
My ribs ache from the force of Sergio's kicks.
Course officials and security rush over, but I wave them back.
Locking eyes with Sergio, who is still being restrained by Driscoll, I grit my teeth and ask, "What's your problem?"
Sergio struggles against Driscoll's grip, his face twisted in a mixture of anger and desperation.
"You think you're so special with your perfect shots and growing fanbase," he spits out.
"But you have no idea what's really at stake here."
"What do you mean, Sergio?" I demand, trying to steady my voice despite the pain.
Trevor tightens his grip on my shoulder, whispering urgently, "We need to know what he knows."
Sergio's eyes dart around nervously before he mutters, "They're using us as pawns in a game much bigger than golf."
I stand facing Sergio, my ribs still aching from his attack.
Despite the pain, I take a step forward, refusing to back down.
Security hovers nearby, ready to intervene if necessary.
Trevor's hand remains firmly on my shoulder, offering both support and restraint.
I look directly into Sergio's eyes, my voice steady and firm.
"I don't know what you're talking about, but let me make one thing clear: I'm here for one reason only—to reach the PGA. I've worked my whole life for this."
I pause, taking a deep breath to control my emotions.
"My mother has sacrificed everything for me to be here. I'm not playing games or using anyone. I just want to play the best golf of my life."
Sergio's face twists with a mix of anger and what looks like fear.
He glances around nervously, as if he expects someone to be watching us.
Driscoll keeps a tight grip on his arms, preventing him from making any sudden movements.
Trevor positions himself between us, creating a protective barrier.
Sunbae stands beside me, ready to intervene if needed.
The tension in the air is palpable as we wait for Sergio's response.
Finally, he speaks in a low, cautious tone.
"You don't understand. They're manipulating us. Controlling our fate."
"Who is 'they'?"
I press him, my voice firm but controlled. Sergio hesitates, looking over his shoulder as if he fears being overheard.
"They're the ones who pull the strings. They decide who wins and who loses."
"What are you talking about?"
I demand, frustration creeping into my voice.
Sergio takes a deep breath before speaking again.
"Look at the past winners of this tournament. Have you noticed anything unusual?"
I furrow my brow, trying to remember any patterns or anomalies among the past winners.
Before I can respond, Sergio continues with urgency in his voice.
"They all have one thing in common—a connection to the same sponsor."
I feel a chill run down my spine as I process his words.
Could it be true?
Is there more at play here than just golf?
Suddenly, Sergio's eyes widen in fear as he looks over Trevor's shoulder toward the crowd of spectators behind us.
"You're in danger, too," he whispers urgently.
"If you win, they'll come for you."
With that, Sergio breaks free from Driscoll's grip and rushes away, disappearing into the crowd.
I stand there stunned, trying to make sense of what just happened.
Trevor places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"We need to focus on the game," he says firmly.
"Let's get back to it."
I nod, taking a deep breath and trying to push aside the doubts and fears that have surfaced.
As I stand at the fifteenth fairway, I can feel the weight of uncertainty hanging over me like a cloud.
But I know I can't let it affect my game.
I need to stay focused and keep playing with everything I've got.
Driscoll steps up to take his shot, and I watch as his ball soars through the air, landing safely on the green.
It's my turn now. Trevor hands me a water bottle, reminding me to stay hydrated and keep my mind on the next hole.
I take a sip, feeling the cool liquid ease my parched throat.
As I grip my 7-iron tightly, I try to block out the lingering pain in my ribs and focus on the task at hand.
The ball flies straight and true, landing softly on the green with a satisfying thud.
I exhale deeply, relieved that I'm still playing well despite everything that's happened.
As we walk toward the green, I catch a glimpse of the leaderboard in the distance.
My heart skips a beat when I see my name tied for the lead with two other players.
A surge of determination courses through me as I realize how close I am to achieving my dream.
Trevor leans in, his voice barely above a whisper, "You think Sergio's telling the truth about all this?"
I glance at him, my mind racing, "I don't know, but if there's even a chance he's right, we need to be careful."
Driscoll joins us, his expression serious, "We can't let this distract us now; let's finish strong and figure out the rest later."
I stand at the sixteenth tee, my ribs still aching from Sergio's attack.
Sunbae takes his shot first, and I watch as his ball lands safely on the fairway.
As I wait my turn, Trevor hands me my driver and whispers in my ear, "The seventeenth hole is going to be a challenge. It's a par 3 similar to Sawgrass. We'll need to be precise."
I nod, taking a deep breath and glancing at the leaderboard one last time.
Kenji has moved up to sixth place, while May and Jet are still lingering in the twenties.
I can't let them catch up now.
I grip my driver tightly, focusing on the shot ahead.
The ball flies down the fairway, landing smoothly in the center.
Trevor hands me my driver, "This is a 410-yard par 4. Dogleg left, and there's a creek that crosses the fairway. The green is guarded by two bunkers on the right."
I nod, taking in his words.
"The key is to aim for the center of the fairway. You don't want to end up in the water."
I take a deep breath and grip my club.
With a smooth 10-4 swing, I release the ball.
It flies down the fairway, landing in the light rough 240 yards away.
A bit right of my target, but still manageable.
Trevor hands me my 6-iron, "You've got 180 yards to the green. It's a high, soft shot. You need to clear the creek and land on the green."
I nod, taking a deep breath.
As I prepare for my shot, I glance over at the next hole and see Kenji's group finishing up.
He gives a thumbs-up to his caddie, his spirits lifted by his climb in the standings.
I focus on my swing, trying to ignore the lingering pain in my ribs.
The ball arcs through the air, clearing the creek with ease and landing softly on the green.
It rolls smoothly toward the pin, coming to rest just a few feet away.
I step back, feeling the weight of the moment, knowing that every decision from here on out could change everything.
I stand over my ball on the sixteenth green, my ribs still aching from Sergio's attack.
The leaderboard shows me tied for the lead at eight-under-par.
Trevor hands me my putter, and we discuss the slight left-to-right break.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the line despite the pain in my side.
As I line up my putt, I notice Kenji watching from the next hole, his expression hopeful.
The crowd hushes, waiting for my shot.
I stand over my ball, taking a deep breath.
The pain in my ribs still throbs, but I push through it.
Trevor points out the break, "It's a slight left-to-right break. You'll want to aim just a little to the left."
I nod, focusing on the line.
The gallery is silent, waiting for my shot.
I grip my putter tightly, feeling the weight of the moment.
I take another deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.
The pain in my ribs makes it hard to breathe deeply, but I manage to steady myself.
I align the putter with the break, taking one last look at the hole.
I tap the ball gently, feeling it roll smoothly toward the hole.
Kenji watches from the next hole, now in sixth place.
He gives me a nod of encouragement as I focus on my shot.
I watch the ball roll true and drop into the cup, securing the lead at nine-under.
The crowd erupts in cheers as I raise my putter in acknowledgment.
Trevor claps me on my back, his face beaming with pride.
"Nice shot," he says, his voice filled with excitement.
I smile, feeling a surge of relief wash over me.
As I walk to the seventeenth tee, I glance over at Kenji's group finishing up the next hole.
He gives me a thumbs-up, now in sixth place after a birdie.
I nod back, feeling a boost of confidence.
I notice May and Jet watching from the sidelines, their expressions unreadable.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves as I prepare for the next shot.
With the lead in my grasp, I step onto the seventeenth tee, ready to face whatever comes next.
I stand at the seventeenth tee, my ribs still aching from Sergio's attack.
The crowd cheers around me, their voices echoing in the air.
I look out at the hole, focusing on the pin at the far right of the green.
Trevor points out the 40-degree left-to-right slope, his voice steady and reassuring.
"Don't overthink it," he advises.
I grip my 7-iron tightly, feeling its weight in my hands.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.
The tournament lead hangs in the balance, and I know I need to stay focused.
With a steady swing, I execute my 10-4 shot, watching as the ball soars high into the air.
It lands softly on the green, rolling gently toward the pin.
The crowd holds its breath as I watch the ball come to rest just three feet away from the hole.
I nod to Trevor, knowing this putt is all but guaranteed.
I stand at the seventeenth green, my ball off the green due to a sudden gust of wind.
The crowd is silent, their anticipation palpable.
Trevor hands me my 60-degree wedge, suggesting a high flop shot to clear the bunker and land softly on the green.
I nod, taking a deep breath.
I align myself with the target line, my focus solely on the shot ahead.
Sergio watches intently, his face red but composed.
I take another deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment.
Sunbae and Driscoll take their shots, both landing safely on the green.
I adjust my stance, feeling the pressure mount.
I stand at the eighteenth tee, my ribs still aching from Sergio's attack.
Trevor hands me my driver, his eyes locked on mine.
"Four thirty today," he says, his voice steady.
I nod, taking in the 430-yard par 4 before me.
The leaderboard shows me in second place, one stroke behind the leader.
I glance over at Kenji's group finishing up the seventeenth hole, now in fifth place after a birdie.
He watches me intently, his eyes filled with hope.
I take a deep breath, trying to push through the pain.
"Kenji's been playing strong, hasn't he?" Trevor remarks, his voice carrying a hint of admiration.
"Yeah, but he's not the one you need to worry about," Sergio interjects, his tone laced with a challenge.
I turn to Sergio, meeting his gaze head-on. "What do you mean?"
Sergio smirks, his eyes glinting with confidence.
"You know exactly what I mean," he says, his voice dripping with arrogance.
"I'm the one you need to beat."
I hold his gaze for a moment, feeling the weight of the challenge.
Then I turn back to Trevor, my focus renewed.
"Let's do this," I say, my voice steady.
Sergio tees off first, his shot soaring high into the air.
It lands safely in the fairway, a good starting position for him.
Driscoll follows, his shot also finding its mark in the fairway.
Sunbae takes his turn, his ball flying straight and true.
Finally, it's my turn.
I grip my driver tightly, feeling its familiar weight in my hands.
I take a deep breath, trying to manage the pain in my ribs.
Trevor stands beside me, offering silent encouragement.
I focus on my swing, letting go of all distractions.
With a swift motion, I hit the ball, watching as it soars high into the air.
It flies straight and true, landing just short of Sergio's ball but in a good position for my next shot. "Good shot," Trevor says, his voice filled with approval.
I nod, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over me.
I've set myself up well for the final hole.
We stand at the eighteenth fairway, my ball 200 yards away from the green.
I'm three strokes behind the leader, and I know I need to make up ground.
Trevor looks at me, his eyes locked on mine.
"This is your chance," he says, his voice steady.
I nod, taking in the situation.
The green is flat, with no obstacles in sight.
I can see the pin clearly, and I know I have a good shot at an eagle.
"Use your 5-iron," Trevor suggests, his voice carrying a hint of confidence.
"Aim just left of the pin. The green breaks slightly right to right."
I nod, feeling the pressure mount.
I take a deep breath, trying to manage the pain in my ribs.
I grip my club tightly, focusing on the shot ahead.
As I prepare to swing, Kenji approaches, his voice low and urgent.
"There's something you should know," he says, glancing nervously at Sergio.
"Sergio's been sabotaging your game all along."
I stand at the eighteenth green, my heart pounding in my chest.
The crowd murmurs around me, their anticipation palpable.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.
I'm one stroke ahead of the leader, and I know this final putt could seal my victory.
Trevor stands beside me, his eyes locked on mine.
"Take your time," he says, his voice steady.
I nod, focusing on the ball before me.
It's a short putt, but I can feel the weight of the moment.
The gallery falls silent, their collective breath held as they wait for my move.
I line up the shot, taking into account the slight break to the left.
My ribs ache from Sergio's attack, but I push through the pain.
I grip my putter tightly, feeling its familiar weight in my hands.
With a smooth motion, I strike the ball. It rolls along the green, tracking perfectly toward the hole.
The gallery holds its breath as it approaches the cup.
Time seems to slow down as I watch it roll closer and closer.
And then, with a satisfying clunk, it drops in, securing my lead.
I walk to the media tent with Kenji after finishing the eighteenth hole.
My ribs still ache from Sergio's attack, but I try to ignore the pain.
As we approach the tent, I see Sergio and Driscoll already inside, surrounded by reporters.
The room buzzes with excitement, cameras flashing and microphones extended toward us.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the questions that are sure to come.
Kenji gives me a nod of encouragement as we enter the tent.
Sergio turns to me, a sly grin on his face.
"Congratulations," he says, his voice dripping with insincerity.
"But I wonder how you'd have fared if you knew about the little 'adjustments' I made to your clubs."
I sit with Kenji in our hotel room, eating dinner while watching the Japanese sports channel's recap of the tournament's first round.
The screen shows May and Jet's scores, and we analyze their performance closely.
As the broadcast shifts to discuss Sergio, Driscoll, and Sunbae, I tune out.
My mind is still reeling from Sergio's attack and his cryptic warnings about tampering with my clubs.
Kenji notices my distraction and gently steers the conversation back to our strategy for the next round.
"We need to stay focused," he says, his voice steady.
"Let's review your swing, see if there's anything we can adjust to counter any sabotage."
I nod, taking a deep breath.
"Okay. Let's do this."
We spend the next hour poring over footage of my swings, looking for any inconsistencies that might indicate tampering.
It's a painstaking process, but we're determined to uncover any potential weaknesses.
Finally, after what feels like hours, we identify a slight variation in my backswing that could be exploited by Sergio's tampering.
"Okay, so we need to adjust your swing to compensate," Kenji says, his eyes locked on mine.
"Let's work on shortening your backswing slightly. That should help counter any adjustments Sergio made." I nod, feeling a sense of determination wash over me.
"Alright. Let's do it."
We spend the next hour practicing my swing, making subtle adjustments to counter any potential sabotage.
It's a delicate process, but with Kenji's guidance, I start to feel more confident.
As we finish up our practice session, I turn to Kenji with a determined look in my eyes.
"Tomorrow," I say, my voice steady.
"I'm going to take the lead."
Kenji nods, a small smile on his face.
"I know you will," he says, his voice filled with confidence.
"Just remember to stay focused. Don't let Sergio get inside your head."
I nod, taking a deep breath.
"I won't," I say, my voice firm.
"I'm ready for this."
The next day arrives quickly, and I find myself standing on the first tee once again.
The crowd buzzes around me, their anticipation palpable as they wait for the second round to begin.
I take a deep breath, trying to manage my nerves as I prepare for the first shot. Trevor stands beside me, his eyes locked on mine as he gives me last-minute advice.
"Remember, stay focused," he says, his voice steady.
"Don't let the crowd get to you."
I nod, taking a deep breath as I line up my shot.
The ball tees up perfectly, and I feel a surge of confidence as I swing my club.
The ball soars through the air, landing with a satisfying thud on the green.
The crowd erupts in cheers, their voices echoing around me as I walk off the tee.
Kenji gives me a nod of approval as I pass him, his eyes shining with pride.
"You got this," he says, his voice filled with conviction.
I smile, feeling a sense of determination wash over me.
As I make my way to the green, I can feel the weight of the tournament on my shoulders.
But with Kenji by my side and my newfound confidence, I know I can overcome any obstacle that comes my way. The next morning, Kenji and I head down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast.
As we enter the dining room, we're greeted by an array of delicious food options.
There's sushi, turkey bacon, eggs, fruit salad, and even steak available.
We load up our plates and take a seat at a table near the window.
Just as we're about to start eating, Chet and May join us.
"Hey guys," Chet says, giving us a nod of acknowledgement.
"Mind if we join you?"
"Not at all," Kenji replies, gesturing for them to take a seat.
As they sit down, May turns to us with a curious expression on her face.
"So," she says, "we've been watching your games. We recorded them so we could study your techniques."
Kenji and I exchange a look before turning back to May.
"Oh yeah?" Kenji asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," May replies with a smile.
"We figured it would give us an edge. You know how it is."
We nod in agreement before returning our focus to our food. After breakfast, Kenji and I head out to the course for our second round of golf in the tournament.
As we arrive at the clubhouse, we're greeted by our host who explains the format for today's play.
"Welcome everyone," he says with a smile.
"Looks like you'll be paired with Sergio again," the host says, glancing at his clipboard.
Kenji's eyes narrow slightly, and he leans in closer to me.
"Stay sharp," he whispers, "this might be his chance to pull something."
I watch as Kenji, Chet, and Sergio prepare for their 10:00 a.m. tee time.
They're going to start on the back nine first, which means they'll finish on the front nine.
As they head out to the course, I notice that Kenji drew the fourth position in their group.
That means he'll be going last.
I take a seat on a bench near the practice green and wait for Trevor to arrive.
As I sit there, I can't help but feel a mix of relief and concern.
Relief that I won't have to deal with Sergio's antics today, but concern that he might try something else to sabotage my game.
Trevor arrives a few minutes later, and we walk over to the practice green together.
"Hey," he says, giving me a nod of acknowledgement.
"Ready for today?"
"Yeah," I reply, taking a deep breath.
"I'm feeling pretty good about my game."
Trevor nods, his eyes scanning the green.
"Good. You know what you need to do. Just focus on your swing and try not to let anything else distract you."
I nod, taking a moment to visualize my shots.
As I do, I notice that Kenji's group is starting to tee off on the first hole.
I watch as they hit their shots one by one, each one landing perfectly on the green. After they finish teeing off, Trevor and I head over to the driving range to work on our swings.
We spend about an hour practicing before taking a break to grab some lunch at the clubhouse restaurant.
As we sit down at our table, Trevor pulls out his phone and starts playing back footage from yesterday's round.
"Check this out," he says, pointing at the screen.
"You see how your swing is slightly off here? That could be because of the tampering."
I nod, studying the footage closely.
"Yeah, I see what you mean. It looks like my c#b is swinging a little too far back."
Trevor nods in agreement.
"That's right. And if we can adjust your swing to compensate for that, it should help you stay on track."
We spend the rest of lunch discussing our strategy and making adjustments to my swing.
As we finish our meal, I glance at Trevor, feeling a renewed sense of purpose.
"Alright," I say, "let's get back to work."
Trevor nods, his eyes locked on mine.
"Let's do this."
We head back to the practice range and spend the next few hours working on my swing.
As we practice, I can feel my confidence growing with each shot.
I know that I have what it takes to win this tournament, and I'm determined to make it happen.
After finishing our practice session, Trevor and I head back to the clubhouse to watch the live update of the leaderboard.
As we sit down in front of the TV, I see that Chet is in first place with a score of 68.
May is in second with a score of 69, and Kenji is in third with a score of 70.
Sergio is currently in tenth place with a score of 73, and I'm in seventh place with a score of 71.
"Well," Trevor says, nodding at the screen.
"It looks like you've got your work cut out for you."
I nod, taking a deep breath.
"Yeah, but I'm feeling good about my chances. Let's see how things go tomorrow." The next morning, Trevor and I arrive at the course early to get in some practice before our round.
As we're warming up on the driving range, Kenji joins us.
"Hey guys," he says with a smile.
"How's it going?"
"Good," Trevor replies.
"Just getting ready for today's round."
Kenji nods, his eyes scanning the range.
"Yeah, me too. It's going to be tough out there today."
I nod in agreement, taking a deep breath.
"Yeah, but we've got this. We just need to stay focused and keep our cool."
Kenji nods, his eyes locked on mine.
"That's right. And remember, if anything goes wrong, don't panic. Just take a deep breath and focus on your next shot."
I nod, taking his advice to heart.
As we finish our warm-up session, Trevor turns to me with a serious expression on his face. "Alright," he says, "let's go over your strategy for today's round. Remember to keep your swing smooth and steady. Don't let anything distract you from your game."
I nod, taking a deep breath as I grip my club tightly in my hands.
"Got it," I reply confidently.
"And don't forget to stay hydrated out there," Trevor adds with a smile.
As we're about to head to the first tee, Kenji pulls me aside, his expression more serious than before.
"Listen," he says quietly, "I overheard Sergio talking to someone last night. He mentioned something about a 'final move' today."
My heart skips a beat, and I glance over at Trevor, who is already watching us with concern.
"I don't know what that means," Kenji continues, "but I wanted to warn you. Be careful out there."
I nod, trying to push aside the unease that's growing inside me.
"Thanks for telling me," I say, forcing a smile.
"I'll be careful."
As we approach the ninth hole, Trevor and I take a moment to study the green.
The pin is positioned on the left side of the green, which is unusual because most golf courses have their pins placed in the center or on the right side.
"Looks like we've got a tough shot here," Trevor says, his eyes scanning the green.
"Yeah," I reply, nodding.
"The break is going to be pretty sharp."
Trevor nods in agreement.
"Yeah, but if we can get it just right, it should drop in easily."
As we're lining up our shots, Kenji walks by and gives us a nod of acknowledgement.
He finished his round a few minutes ago and is now watching from the sidelines.
I give him a quick wave before focusing my attention back on my shot.
As I'm about to swing my club, I hear Sergio's voice behind me. "Hey there," he says with a smirk on his face.
"Good luck with your shot."
I ignore him and focus on my swing.
As I hit the ball, it soars through the air and lands on the green with a soft thud.
The crowd cheers as I walk off the tee and head towards the green.
When I reach the green, I notice that the slope is steeper than usual, which makes it difficult to get a good read on the break.
I take a deep breath and focus my attention on the ball as I line up my putt.
As I'm about to hit the ball, Trevor leans in close to me and whispers something in my ear.
"Remember, aim right," he says quietly.
"The break is going to be sharper than you think."
I nod and grip my club tightly as I prepare to make my shot. As I swing my club back and forth several times, I take a deep breath and focus all of my energy on making this shot count.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I release my club and watch as it connects with the ball perfectly.
The ball soars through the air and lands on the green with a soft thud before rolling towards the pin at an alarming rate of speed!
The ball rolls smoothly across the green, curving gently before dropping into the cup with a satisfying clink.
As I stand at the tenth tee, I can feel the wind picking up.
The sky above is growing darker by the minute, and I know that a storm is brewing.
Trevor hands me the yardage book, pointing out the slope of the fairway.
"It's steeper than usual here," he says quietly.
"So make sure to account for that when you hit your shot."
I nod, taking a deep breath as I watch my opponents hit their shots.
The wind is picking up, and I can see that it's going to be a tough shot.
As I grip my driver tightly, I notice how dark it is outside.
It's only 3:00 p.m., but it feels like nighttime already.
I glance at Trevor, who gives me a reassuring nod.
"Go ahead," he says quietly.
"Just focus on your shot."
I take another deep breath and line up my shot.
As I swing my club back and forth several times, I can feel the wind pushing against me.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I release my club and watch as it connects with the ball perfectly. The ball soars through the air, fighting against the wind as it makes its way down the fairway.
As it lands on the grass, I can see that it's going to roll further than usual due to the steep incline of the fairway.
"Nice shot," Trevor says quietly as we walk off the tee and head towards our next shot.
"Yeah," I reply, nodding.
"But it's still going to be a tough shot from here."
Trevor nods in agreement as we approach our next shot.
As we study the green, I can see that it's going to be a tough one.
The slope is steep, and there are several obstacles in our path.
But despite the challenges ahead of us, I know that we've got this. "Alright," Trevor says quietly as we line up our shots.
"Just remember to aim left. The wind is going to push your ball to the right."
I nod, taking a deep breath as I prepare for my shot.
As I swing my club back and forth several times, I can feel the tension building inside of me.
I nod, focusing on the target ahead.
As I prepare to swing, Kenji suddenly appears beside us, his face pale.
"Guys," he whispers urgently, "Sergio's caddie just slipped something into your bag."
I stand at the tenth green, my second shot landing in the heavy rough on the right side.
I can see Kenji's words echoing in my mind as I approach my ball.
Trevor hands me a 60-degree wedge, suggesting a delicate flop shot to escape the thick grass.
"Try to get it out of there," he says quietly.
As I take practice swings, I can feel the tension building inside me.
Kenji's warning about Sergio's caddie tampering with my bag is still fresh in my mind.
I take a deep breath and focus on my shot, trying to push aside any doubts that may be creeping into my head.
As I prepare to hit the ball, I notice Sergio watching me from the fairway.
I stand at the tenth green, gripping my 60-degree wedge tightly in my hands.
Trevor reassures me that the flop shot is doable, but I can't shake off the feeling of unease.
Kenji's warning about Sergio's caddie tampering with my bag is still fresh in my mind.
As I take a deep breath to steady myself, I focus on the ball nestled in the thick rough.
The wind is picking up, rustling the leaves around me.
I adjust my stance slightly, taking into account the slope of the green and the distance to the pin.
With a smooth swing, I make contact with the ball, feeling it lift high into the air.
The crowd holds its collective breath as the ball soars over the rough and lands softly on the green.
It rolls towards the hole, coming to rest just a few feet away from the pin.
I approach the green with steady steps, my mind focused on the upcoming putt.
Trevor walks beside me, offering words of encouragement.
As we reach the green, I take a moment to study its slope and speed.
The crowd quiets down, sensing the importance of this shot.
I set my ball down carefully, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
I line up my putter, aligning it with the line Trevor and I had discussed earlier.
As I prepare to strike the ball, I notice Sergio watching from the sidelines, his expression unreadable.
Despite the tension in the air, I maintain my focus and execute a smooth stroke.
