By: Stacey-Ann Slatter
August 15, 2025
I couldn’t believe the sun was so blisteringly hot. My little brother’s toothless smile reminded me why I was outside at noon, but not in school, sharing summer’s watermelons on the porch next to the leaky garden hose.
My initial task that afternoon was simply to ensure; as the good older sister, that Robert, 4 years my junior, didn’t accidentally swallow too many little black pellets that he couldn’t pass them out later when the stomach ache from too much of anything sunk in. He suffered in the toilet right around dinnertime.
“Take care of him, Stacey, he’s your responsibility. You’ll take the beating for the both of you if anything happens to him in your care”, most every adult, but mostly my mother warned.
So, I sulked in a rapidly spreading puddle of my own sweat and pretended to still enjoy the gritty, but so sweet texture of my favorite fruit that still reminds me of summertime. I’ve undoubtedly swallowed way more seeds than him or pretty much any “responsible” sister thusfar.
Even at that young age, I think I was about to start the fifth grade, I yearned for a memory as sweet as those juicy, bleeding, polka dotted deliciousnesses that only the year before brought such comfort in their green encrusted, sugary, watery, summery succulence. Oh, and the smell. They smelled to me like some sailor’s rescue from a watery grave; clean, salt free water rushing over his lips after weeks adrift. It was pure gratitude. A small taste of heaven- true satisfaction.
Forgive me, I digress. As Robert, age 6, drooled on himself, the porch stoop, my arm, the hose, and pretty much everything else I dreamt of those Jack Nicholas Junior elite set of golf clubs received after my father’s return from somewhere in Europe on business. I found a twisted, unhealthy ecstasy in any of the “forgive me for being gone for all this time” gifts. I squinted towards the backyard’s shed where my new clubs in their red and white Titlist golf bag with a real kickstand to prevent any clubs spilling out as you walked the fairway to your second shot from the tee lived.
I hadn’t actually ever played more than one hole of golf in my nine years but I sat at home watching the PGA on satellite on many Sunday afternoons while my Dad went golfing with his buddies.
As the sun got hotter, Robert got distracted and a little over full of watermelon to sit still much longer, I decided to just wipe the clubs off in case next weekend there was enough time to try them out. Maybe I could even drive the golf cart again like I did one time when I was much younger than I am now.
Robert, toothless and soaked in watermelon juice instantly became “the blind” led by Stacey; “the blind”.
Looking back on that day’s events now I’m filled with an uncanny, and tender love for my younger brother because of his unwavering trust and support of his older sister. That gave me much needed motivation, however unguided and reckless my influence proved to be. In fact, growing up we were all we had and we loyally played our roles….
This was the plan that sweaty early summer afternoon. Robert would be the “look out”. Not only were our newly acquired golf clubs strictly off limits but the garden shed they called home was equally so without one of our parent’s supervision.
Tiptoeing across the strangely cool, slightly overgrown, and extra lush, green grass I began my quest. For just a little time to wipe off the gleaming shafts, polish their wooden heads and pick the pesky flint and dust bunnies from the red, vinyl of the freestanding golf bag that somehow were “mine” and yet not mine. I was told not to touch them until there was enough time for Daddy to properly instruct and supervise. And they were awfully expensive aswell!
The temptation of the forbidden time alone with my fat headed #1 wood, the club that could withstand your most powerful swing, was simply too much to resist. This club could send the ball zooming down the fairway from the tee. Dad called his #1 club the “driver” and professed of how satisfying teeing off could be for the mere fact that with the proper stanse, keeping your eye on the ball, lining up your knees perpendicular to your shoulders, feet apart, knees slightly bent, head tucked into your chest, gripping the club; hands apart 3 or 4 inches etc you could whollop (one of my dad’s favorite descriptive words) the heck out of the ball to achieve the farthest distance, getting as close to the pin and the hole with the flag in it as possible.
Of course, 85 percent of these instructions were administered verbally and existed only in theory as there was so little time to be with us kids on the course.
Robert and I; teammates by birthright, now get to dribble on those gleaming shafts. We had defeated the dreaded adversaries who denied our “right” to do as we pleased. It’s now about two o’clock and those long discarded and forgotten pellets no longer matter; screw the watermelon!
We got inside the shed. It was like a higher power had intensified our inexplicable rebellion. As I shined my clubs I “grew” in my mind. Unstoppably z I became an expert, all I’d needed was to hold those treasured clubs and, some James Bond shit happened.
In hindsight, an idiot now being a genius, I had infiltrated the evil forces that denied me of my “miss know it all” attitude self.
And God bless her, my mother’s words still ring in my ears, “the devil busy, Stacey, the devil is so busy”…..
Tara was older by at least 3 years. I couldn’t see past this jealousy because her talk, her mouth, her voice was always louder than mine. Plus, she overshadowed me by at least four inches. Somehow I had something to prove to our whole neighborhood. Her Dad was always around; I hated her for well, whatever but she definitely could not get her Dad to teach her how to play golf. And I had my, however sticky, watermelony hands on the illusive clubs that, although forbidden, made me the female god-damned Jack Nicholas of our lush, bright green, Bahamian backyard course that July day.
“The devil so busy…..” Was that what Tara said instead of,
“Ha, just look how you think you’re better than everyone. I’ll bet you don’t even know how to use that funny looking stick thing. I think you’re a faker, and your father doesn’t care about you that’s why he’s never home.”
Well, I would show her. How was I gonna be the best golfer in the world, whose Dad bought her her very own golf clubs. At nine, my very own junior set of Titlist clubs kickstand, #1 “whollop” wood, and all without showing this buck tooth bitch how to do this thing.
“Besides Stacey, I’ll bet you don’t even know how to hit the ball anyway,” she actually cackled at me.
Well, that was it. The last straw to break this pimply adolescent camel’s back. Somehow, six year old Robert; turned super caddie and coach, appeared beside me wearing the greatest, gappiest, shit kicking grin and my red and white matching golfer’s towel around his neck. I felt like Rocky before he fought that Russian guy in my favorite sequel of, in my opinion, the greatest underdog movie ever made.
This challenge would be met head on and I slid my #1 (whollop the ball) wood and bright red tee from my upright bag.
This entire situation was already completely out of control. Mostly because not only was our backyard roughly one tenth the size of the smallest fairway on any given course but I had never actually “wholloped” anything, especially not a golf ball, in my whole life. Also there was not one adult in sight. Although a crowd of neighborhood kids quickly and quietly converged to witness the show down.
Hands on her hips, foot tapping and mashing our grass; Tara spat, “Well Stacey, we’re waiting. Show us what you’ve got”. The smirk accompanying her dare made spots appear in my vision. I was so mad and determined to really show her.
Now, I had seen my Dad tee off a thousand times in the course of my nine years so I balanced the ball on top of the tee which I had already pierced the grass with. It stood perched two inches above the grass; all the better to see the ball. Keep your eye on the ball being lesson#1 in Dad’s oratory instruction manual I had stored in my brain in preparation for the “whollop” to follow.
I spaced my feet about a foot apart and perpendicular to the ball and tee; the distance from the ball was, of course, the club’s length. After bending elbows slightly and gripping the club with your two hands together, the opposite thumb nestled into the crook of the hand below. Bent my knees, tucked my chin into my chest, all the time keeping my eye firmly on the little pocked white jewel shining back in the July sun. Keeping my eye on the ball still being lessons 1 and 2.
I was physically ready to “tee off”, and be the star of our small, island, suburban community of residents under the age of thirteen. There must have been twenty preadolescents gathered in the grass in anticipatory silence awaiting the event to unfold. It was showtime.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten one or two minor details in the complete instructions of a successful tee off, “whollop” in a game of golf. The first being the distance between the spectators and the golfer must be sizably larger than the crowd allowed. They had squeezed into a tight circle around me and my sidekick, Robert.
“You guys got to back up some more, all of you!”, I shouted, mostly to regain everyone’s rapidly evaporating attention. The circle, in unison I recollect, opened up about two additional feet. Truthfully, that was all the room our backyard would allow. Another clue for us ding bats that this fairway was too small for such recklessness.
And yet, no one stopped us. I mean, noone could have stopped me at that point as my whole childhood credibility was riding on this one performance of spectacular golfing ability.
What happened next will be with me for the rest of my life…..
In the final seconds before I attempted to whollop the heck out of the small, white ball I double checked my tucked chin, the proper stanse, the grip on the oversize headed junior golf club. All the while keeping my eye locked on the target.
I wiped a few beads of sweat that trickled down my forehead and reassumed the position, while mentally calming the butterflies that all at once fluttered in my stomach.
I brought the club straight back and with all my might I swung the club, missed the ball completely, and wholloped Tara; who had come to stand exactly one club length behind me and out of sight. Right in her mouth I finished my “follow through” with all of my strength.
Tara began screaming. I turned to look and saw three of her bottom teeth disappear into the grass.
I suppose the moral of this story is a classic one- listen, obey, and don’t be influenced by that ever present devil in your head that always gets kids in trouble.