Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (20 page)

Intro Music: “Cupid's Chokehold” by Gym Class Heroes

Hi there. Welcome to
The Love Manifesto.
I'd like to lay things right out for you today. There's lots to tell and something of a sad ending. But it's for the best. At least, I think it's for the best.

Over the past few weeks, I've really screwed things up. Sure, I was handed a raw deal with my girlfriend dumping me and finding out my father is cheating on my mother and getting fired from my fourth job this year and all sorts of other crap, but none of those things are reason enough for me to do what I've been doing. I've been rude. I've disrespected people. I've trampled on people's feelings. And I shouldn't have done any of it.

Yesterday, my ex-girlfriend came back into my life, and although it was tempting, I decided getting back with her
is not the right move. Don't get me wrong. Things might be different for you. I'm not saying you can't get back with an ex. I'm just saying that it's not right for me right now. I know there has been a lot of buzz around the “156 reasons” I posted, and I hope somehow it helps someone, but no matter how many reasons I had when I wrote it, I'm just not feeling it anymore.

To the girl I met at the pool, I don't want to say your name for fear of another knee in the balls, but you know who you are. All I can say is I'm sorry. You're right. You were nothing but nice to me, and all I did was disrespect you. I never took you seriously. I hope you can forgive what I did and how you lost your job. If it's any consolation, I went down and had a talk with the store manager. She seemed understanding. Not sure if she'll offer you your job back, but I did what I could.

I still don't know what to make of my father and his mistress. That one is going to have to simmer on the back burner. Sorry to leave everyone hanging.

Now, before I sign off for a final time…yeah, you heard me right…this is the final episode of
The Love Manifesto…
I think I should talk a little about what I've figured out about love.

All I can say is, what good are 156 reasons if all of them put together don't add up to both people being happy? It's easy to become addicted to someone, it's easy to get those chemicals dumping into your brain, but the hard part is getting them to dump for the right reasons.

You can break love down into smaller and smaller parts,
talk about hormones and mating rituals and biological responses. You can poke fun at all the stupid things people do for love. Little piece by little piece, it all looks ridiculous. Like golf is just hitting a white ball around a field. That is, until you allow yourself to stand back and enjoy the game for what it is.

You can't dissect love, you can't explain it, because once you do you prevent yourself from being able to experience it. You pull yourself out of the enjoyment of it, the excitement of it, the meaning, no…the importance of it.

And that's what it's all about, isn't it?

Love is important.

There's someone else I want to reach out to before I sign off. And all I want to say is that I'm sorry you had to see what you did when you came to my house yesterday. Just know I was confused.

I was confused then, but I'm not confused now.

But you didn't have to try to assassinate my mom's dog with a chicken salad sandwich. That was downright cruel.

I'm going to miss you, my loyal listeners, but I better quit now before I mess things up more than they already are. So on that note, make sure your day is a good one, make sure your life is a good one, and make sure everyone you love in your life knows it.

Outro Music: “I'm Yours” by Jason Mraz

“N
ice putt,” my father says as I tap in a four-footer that, as far as I can tell, ties us for the lead. “Almost lipped it out, though.”

“How about just ‘nice putt' and we'll leave it at that?”

It's the first time I've snapped back at him in three days. I've been on good behavior, not a single slip of the tongue, not a single nasty comeback, but each time my father pecks at me about something, I inch closer to wrapping a club around his neck.

We hop in the cart, and he steers us toward the next tee box. Drizzle spots the windshield. It's been hot and sunny all weekend, but these summer storms can come quickly. The sky is streaked with alternating bands of muddy green and blue with gray overtones—murky blue, just like Luz described my aura.

The tournament is going better—and worse—than I
imagined. It's Sunday afternoon, and my father and I are in the final pairing. The trouble is that the other team is not Dimitri and his dad.

It's Anders and his father.

Yes,
that
Anders.

Dimitri and his father were ahead of everyone until they three-stroked out of a trap yesterday. After that, the wheels came off and they dropped to fifth place. I'm not sure how they did today—there's no scoreboard like in the tournaments on television—but when I spoke to Dimitri last night he was not optimistic.
Six strokes back is insurmountable,
he said.
At least I've got an outfit that'll wow them.

He wouldn't say a word about his wardrobe plans, but if it's any more bizarre than Friday's Joker outfit or Saturday's one—bright yellow polo, bright red pants, and a bright blue Kangol (he called it a tribute to primary colors)—he might get tossed in a padded room for the rest of the summer.

As for me, ever since I teed off on Friday morning, something about my game has been different. Good different. My swing has had more conviction than ever and my ball seems to have a mind of its own. Some people might argue that my muscles have a memory, after all. I think it's more likely that my father is getting on my nerves. Just being near him tightens up my shoulders and straightens my back. Now that Anders is around, my game rocks even more.

But Anders and his dad have been golfing well, too.
We're approaching the eighteenth tee box and we're tied at +19. That might seem lame if you watch professional golf, but actually it's pretty amazing, considering we're all amateurs. It's the total of almost three full rounds, and the flags have been placed in some diabolical spots.

The format of the tournament is what they call “four-some,” which means my father and I alternate hitting the same ball from the tee to the hole. It's supposed to be about teamwork, family unity, partnership, all that. I just can't wait until it's over. The past three days have been hell.

“The Terrys are having trouble with par fives today,” my father whispers to me. I stare at his hand clutching the sleeve of my orange striped shirt until he lets go.

In another attempt at teamwork, family unity, partnership, and all that, my mother bought my dad and me matching outfits and demanded we wear them together. “Team Baumgartner” she called us. As if.

My father goes on. “Neither one of those guys is strong off the tee. They'll have to lay up to make that dogleg on the eighteenth.”

“Super,” I say.

“Stop rolling your eyes at me.”

“I did not roll my eyes.”

“Look, Seth,” my father says, “we have a shot at the ten thousand here. Our names on the bronze plaque in the clubhouse. Let's not let some squabble with your girlfriend or some feud with your fashion-challenged friend get in the way.”

I nod.

“See? Right there,” he says. “You rolled your eyes.”

“I didn't roll my eyes.”

“You just did it again! Get your head in the game, Seth. We can beat these guys.”

I wait in the cart as my father unsheathes his driver, tees up his ball, and launches it down the fairway with a loud
ping
! It sails straight and low with a little fade. Easily a two-hundred-seventy-yard drive, which will put our ball in perfect position to see the green on the next shot.

“Nice drive,” Mr. Terry says to my father as he tees up his own ball.

My father winks at me.

I turn away. My eyes land on Anders, who is sitting in his cart, grinning at me. It's the first we've acknowledged each other all day, aside from the cursory handshake at the first tee. While my father is watching Mr. Terry and Mr. Terry is eyeing his shot, Anders raises a fist next to his face and starts jabbing the side of it toward his mouth, simultaneously poking his tongue at the inside of his opposite cheek, the universal blowjob taunt. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Anders turns a nervous eye to the sky.

I go back to watching Mr. Terry. Thunder usually means a tournament will be delayed, but since we're on the last hole they might let us finish up. It depends how far off the storm is. We keep playing unless we hear the air horns blow.

As Dad predicted, Mr. Terry's shot is short. They will have to lay up on this hole, which means Anders will have to hit to where the fairway bends in order to see the green.
My father and I will have a major advantage.

We drive along the cart path to the Terrys' ball. Anders grabs his seven-iron and takes a few practice swings. He swats at the ball, and it pops into the air. It bounces just as the fairway starts to dip to the right and picks up an extra fifty yards of roll. I'd pay him a compliment if he wasn't such an ass cheek.

My father pulls up alongside my ball. “You're using the three-wood, right?”

“I was thinking about using my five,” I say. “Play the hill to the edge of the green. Let you chip up.”

My father clicks his tongue. “With your five, you're guaranteed to be short. Why don't you go for the green instead of leaving all the work for me?”

“Either way it's still two strokes, right?”

“Do whatever you want,” my father says dismissively.

Now I'm faced with a decision. But it's not over which club is the better one to use. It's about what will happen if I hit well or poorly with each of the clubs in question. Here's how it shakes out: If I hit well with either club, I'll get a pat on the back and a “Nice one” from my dad. If I hit poorly with the three-wood, the club he suggested, he'll say something like “Must've caught the turf a little funny with that swing” or “You didn't keep your head down.” However, if I hit poorly with the five-wood, I'll never hear the end of it. He'll be bitching for years about how I blew the tournament, how I let ten grand slip through our fingers, and how I never have the family's best interests in mind.

It pisses me off to think I'm making this decision based
on fear of my father's criticism, but that's what I do. I pull the three-wood and approach my ball.

I gaze down the last two hundred forty yards of fairway. The late-afternoon light coupled with the storm in the distance makes for some weird shadows across the green. For the first seventy-one holes, for the better part of three days, there was no one in sight. No officials. No spectators. No media. All scoring is left to the honor system. That and knowing your opponent is probably counting your strokes even closer than you are. The final hole, however, is mobbed. Every last member of the board of directors sits on a small covered grandstand around an easel that holds an oversized novelty check written out for ten thousand dollars. The families of the participants—easily more than a hundred people—stand clustered around the small kidney-shaped green. The blue-and-white striped tent from Friday night still stands on the patio next to the clubhouse. I can smell the grills from here, cooking hot dogs, hamburgers, sausage, peppers, and onions.

I've played this shot a thousand times, and it's probably a twenty percent chance I can land it on the green. I take a few practice swings as I stare down the fairway. The snack truck sits on the cart path to the right of the green. I think I can make out Audrey sitting behind the wheel. I pat the large pocket of my cargo shorts to make sure the bundle I put in there this morning is still safe.

I line up alongside my ball, waggle my club head a few times, and swing.

If I thought I was playing well all weekend, that's
nothing compared to how well I connect with this shot. Barely grazing the turf beneath it, my club face hits the ball like a hammer coming down on an anvil. I can practically see sparks. The ball sizzles through the air, climbing higher and higher as it soars. Sounds of cheering make their way up the hill as that baby continues to rise. When it starts to descend, the cheering gets louder. And when my ball takes its first bounce and practically sticks to the green as if it's glued there, the cheering turns to a roar.

I can hardly believe it myself. It's tough to tell from here, but it looks as if I'm within eight feet of the flag.

“Son of a bitch,” Anders mutters.

I turn to him and poke my tongue into my cheek a few times. He stomps on the pedal and steers his cart down the hill to his ball.

My father claps me on the back. “Nice one,” he says.

Both his hand on me and his compliment feel rank. Even the shot feels tainted. It might sound crazy, but I'd rather have hit a crap shot with my five-wood than sink it in the hole with the club he suggested.

We drive down the cart path until we're even with the Terrys' ball, my father whispering the whole time about how we've got the championship in the bag, how we're a stroke ahead, all that. I ignore him and scan the crowd looking for Dimitri. For Audrey. For my mom. Even for Mr. Motta. Anyone to remind me that I'm a normal high-school kid with a normal life who knows and likes—no, is known and liked by—normal people.

Mr. Terry swings. His ball hangs in the air and goes
long. Even with backspin, he left Anders a twenty-foot putt. The crowd give a feeble cheer. Golf claps all around.

“Yessssss,” my father whispers, pumping his fist slightly below the level of the cart window so no one sees.

Anders tosses his arms in the air in frustration. “Oh, super,” he says. “Way to go, Dad.”

Mr. Terry shrugs, then smiles at my father. “You win some, you lose some, huh?”

“You ain't kidding, Bill. Bad break.”

We head to the green and check out the situation. It's Anders's twenty-foot putt to my father's eight. But we picked up a stroke on the fairway. Even if both teams two-putt, my father and I will be a stroke ahead. Short of a Tiger Woods miracle, Anders won't make his shot. It turns out the Fates aren't smiling on him. The drizzle seems to have slowed down the greens, and his ball rolls short. It curls even farther away with the slope of the green. Anders's father has still got a four-footer, not a gimmee by any stretch.

My dad kneels to line up his shot. I should be standing right behind him to offer advice, but instead I scan the crowd some more. I can't help but notice the board members fumbling with the oversized check. One of them is already printing my name on the recipient line. My mother, her purse clutched in her hands, stands alone at the foot of the grandstand. She gives me a smile, and I return it. Veronica is standing on the other side of the green next to a woman I don't recognize. When I see her square face and how intently she's watching the match, I figure she must be Anders's mother. Typical. Veronica came to my house three days ago
to hook up with me but didn't break up with Anders yet. She's like a monkey swinging in the jungle, never letting go of one vine until she's grabbed the next. Dimitri and Audrey are nowhere in sight.

My father rises and stands over the ball. The crowd goes silent.

It starts to rain a little harder, but no one moves.

In the distance, a car door slams. I look over the heads of the spectators to the parking lot. A green Acura Integra sits diagonally in the fire lane. Luz walks to the fence. She's holding a sheet of paper and nervously shifting from side to side. When she spots me, her eyes bulge and her jaw drops. I'm not kidding. It's like a cartoon. I'm probably doing the same. I glance at my mom, who has already followed my gaze.

The crowd comes alive, which tells me my father has taken his shot. I watch our ball roll directly at the cup and then come to a stop just short. Inches short. A mere tap-in. I mark the ball and wipe it on my shirt. Even though we're a stroke ahead and sure to win, it's customary to let the winner take the last stroke of the tournament.

I step back to let Mr. Terry hit. My mother's head is shaking from side to side, her face red. Everything in me wants to run to her, but I have to wait until the tournament is over. I want to find Dimitri or Audrey. The snack cart is empty.
Where could they be?

I glance back up at Luz. She is clutching the paper more tightly than before, almost strangling it. Her eyes dart between my father and me.

Mr. Terry's putt rolls true. His ball arcs slightly to the left and drops into the hole. People clap.

It's time for my tap-in.

I return my ball to its marked position and grab my Odyssey 2-Ball putter, the one I got from my folks for my birthday last year. I squeeze the grip and look down. Two inches from the cup. Two inches from glory. Two inches from my name engraved on a brass plaque, immortalized for all time next to my father's behind the glass of the clubhouse trophy case.

I squeeze the grip harder and look at my father. He's giving me encouraging nods, a grin ready to spring onto his face, his arms ready to pump into the air in victory. When his gaze locks on mine, I look up at Luz. She's already in her car, the engine growling to life. I will my father to look at her, too. When he does, his face pales. He takes a small step toward me but not in time to stop what I'm going to do. I spin around, line up toward the parking lot and draw back my putter like I'm going for a five-hundred-yard drive. What should be a tiny tap comes as a colossal swing. I strike the ball with all the strength I have—with all the anger and frustration that have been building up. If I thought my podcast was a good stress reliever, this feels infinitely better. My club carves a foot-long divot in the velvety green, and my ball launches like a rocket over the fence.