Out of Bounds
By the time we reached the seventh hole, the midday heat was really starting to bake the fairways. My hands were totally sweaty on the grip of the five-iron, and my swing came over the top—wild and awkward—slicing the ball hard to the right. It went screaming over the bumpy grass and disappeared into the long weeds right against the chain-link fence.
“That's gone,” Landon called out, shielding his eyes from the glare. “Don’t bother, bro. Just drop another one.”
“Nah, let me just look for a second,” I said. I was glad for a moment to get away from his coaching anyway.
I walked over to the edge of the course where the rough gave way to the perimeter fence. On the other side of the rusted wire lay the old Tashawaga cemetery. It wasn't the nice, manicured part with the granite monuments and stone borders; this was the back corner, right up against the airport property line where the weeds grew tall and the ground dipped unevenly.
As I poked through the dandelions with my club, looking for the white flash of the ball, something caught my eye on the other side of the wire.
It was a tiny plot, almost hidden by the overgrown crabgrass. There were just two scrawny wooden crosses laid out side by side, weathered gray by the winter snow, and a small, flat metal plaque embedded right in the dry dirt. I leaned my elbows against the chain-link, squinting to read the rusted lettering.
There was a name, and then the dates. Tariq. He’d been born in the early 2000s and died just a couple of years ago. He was barely twenty-two. No inscription. No words of remembrance. No faded plastic flowers or old ribbons left behind by anybody. There was just a tiny, simple wreath stamped right into the corner of the metal plaque—some standard municipal emblem the City of Tashawaga put on all the public markers, just so there was something there. It was spare, but it showed that someone, even if it was just a city worker filling out a form, had cared enough to leave a mark.
I stood there staring at those scrawny crosses, thinking about how someone could just vanish from the earth at twenty-two and leave nothing but a municipal marker behind. Maybe nobody was left to visit him anymore. Just some poor, forgotten kid, and the City of Tashawaga stepping in to bury him in the cheap grass right by the runway. It felt completely wrong that he was just stuck out there alone in the ground while the planes were buzzing overhead and people were out here hitting golf balls.
Something about the sight of him lying there got to me. I’d been alone a lot. I knew what it felt like to have no one around to help you get on your feet. It was real easy to imagine the rest. I stood there, my throat tightening up, just staring at the dirt.
“Hey, Kyle! You find it or what?” Landon’s voice drifted over from the centre of the fairway.
I swallowed hard and looked down. My golf ball was sitting right there in the dirt, wedged against the bottom of the fence, only inches away from Tariq's plot. I didn't want to call out or disrupt the silence. I didn't want Landon coming over here and giving a speech about city cemeteries and public assistance.
I gripped the club, took a short hack in the cramped space, and popped the ball out of the weeds back onto the rough. But as I walked away from the fence, back toward the fairway where Landon was practicing his swing and Josh was standing with his hands in his pockets, the image of those two scrawny crosses stayed stuck right in my head. We were eighteen, running ourselves ragged on the clay every night, feeling like we had all the time in the world. But looking back at that fence, I realized just how quiet and easy the world could slip away from you.
I caught up to them by the eighth tee, still carrying the weight of those scrawny crosses in my chest. I kept my face down and pretended to mess with the zipper on my bag. I didn’t say a word about Tariq or the little plot. I just wanted to shut it out and wrap myself back in the normal rhythm of the game.
Landon was hovering over the scorecard, chewing on the end of a yellow pencil. He was taking the whole thing seriously, charting our scores like it was the Canadian Open.
“Alright, so Landon’s got a bogey, Josh with a bogey, and Kyle...” He looked up, his smile bright and totally oblivious to where I’d just been. “We’ll give you a generous double-par for the scratch, bro. No worries. You’re finding the rhythm. It’s all about muscle memory.”
“Yeah, Kyle’s just pacing himself,” Josh said. He leaned on his club, watching Landon with a lazy, competitive grin. “But don't get too comfortable up there, university guy. I’m only two strokes behind you, and I’m playing with a bent seven-iron.”
Landon just laughed, giving Josh a light punch on the shoulder. “Man, you’ve got the natural torque, I’ll give you that. If you actually learned the proper hip rotation instead of just trying to murder the ball, you’d be killing me. Seriously. That’s what our coach at Western keeps hammering into us. It’s all biomechanics.”
I watched them swatting at the air with their clubs, talking about murder and killing like the words didn't weigh anything at all.
The ninth hole was a long par-four that stretched out alongside the main airport runway fence. The fairway looked narrow from the elevated tee box, flanked by deep patches of rough on the left and the greenside bunker that guarded the right side of the green like a crater.
Josh stepped up to the markers first, his sneakers digging into the dry turf. He didn’t bother with a practice swing. He locked his grip on the driver, his forearms flexing, and looked over at Landon with a wicked grin.
“Watch and learn, London,” Josh said.
He wound up and unleashed a powerful swing. There was no textbook hip rotation or country-club elegance to it; it was just pure, explosive muscle. It looked like a hockey player winding up for a slap shot—the club making a loud thwack against the ball.
For the first hundred yards, the ball looked like a rocket, traveling dead straight.
“Holy shit,” Landon muttered, leaning on his club. “You absolutely murdered that.”
But Josh’s raw power always came with a price. Mid-flight, the ball caught the hot midday breeze and started slicing hard, tilting out of control. It peeled away from the fairway, missing the green, and came down right into the deepest, deadest centre of the bunker. A white puff of sand exploded where it landed.
Josh stood there in his follow-through position for a second, watching the sand settle, before letting out a short chuckle. He swung the driver around and slung it over his shoulder like a baseball bat.
“Well, it’s on the green. Ish. Your turn, Mr. Biomechanics. Let’s see you top that.”
Landon shook his head as he reached into his bag for his own driver. “Man, if you could just control that slice, you’d be dangerous. You’re practically a hazard to aviation out here.”
Landon’s banter faded into the background as he stepped up to take his shot. There was something about the chaotic energy of Josh’s wild swing that jarred against the sad spell I’d been under. But watching the competitive tension crank up between them gave me something else to focus on.
Landon cracked his ball and put it safely on the fringe of the fairway. As we started walking down the hill toward the bunker, the heat didn't feel quite as oppressive anymore. The restless bounce in Josh’s stance told me he was done pretending this was just golf.
The greenside bunker was massive, shaped like a crescent moon with high, steep banks that cut you off from the rest of the course once you stepped down into it. The sand was thick, heavy, and white-hot under the midday sun.
Josh dropped his bag at the lip of the crater and slid down the bank, his sneakers sinking past the laces. I followed him down into the heat of the pit, standing a few feet back as he tracked down his ball, which was buried up to its waist in a deep footprint, and poked at it with his wedge.
“This is fucked,” Josh laughed, looking up at Landon, who was standing on the clean grass above us, looking down like a referee. “I need a ruling, university guy. Can I take a free drop out of a crater?”
“Not a chance, bro,” Landon grinned, crossing his arms. “Play it as it lies. That’s the muni-course code. Let’s see that natural torque get you out of this one.”
“All right, watch the master,” Josh said. He took a wide stance, dug his feet deep into the sand, and brought the club back. But instead of hitting the ball, he deliberately swung short, blasting a massive wave of hot, heavy sand straight up into the air.
It caught me right in the face.
“Hey! You prick!” I yelled, coughing and wiping the grit out of my eyes as Landon let out a roar of laughter from the grass.
“Oh, my bad, Kyle,” Josh chuckled, his eyes flashing with that wild, reckless challenge. He didn't look sorry at all.
A sudden wave of heat rushed up my neck. The playful tolerance I’d been forcing myself to maintain since the eighth tee evaporated, replaced by a hot rush of anger. “For Christ's sake, be more careful,” I snapped, wiping a layer of white grit from my cheek.
Josh’s grin only widened. He stepped back and tapped his club against the sand again, kicking up another little plume. “Looks good on you, bro. Thought I'd wake you up—you've been looking a bit sluggish today. Want another one?”
Up on the grass, Landon let out a whistle. “Oh, he called you out, Kyle. You gonna let him talk to you like that?”
That did it. The sting of Landon’s laugh combined with Josh’s cocky smirk pushed me past the edge. I wasn't out to hurt him, but I needed to shut his mouth and wipe that look right off his face.
Josh saw the shift in my eyes. Before he could even swing the wedge to blast another wave, he dropped the club into the sand and sank his hips low into a wrestling stance.
But I was already moving. I let my bag slip off my shoulder into the dirt, took two explosive steps down into the deepest part of the pit, and lunged for him.
The sand made everything twice as hard. There was no traction. Every time I tried to drive my feet into the ground to blast through his hips, my sneakers just slid and buried themselves deeper. Josh anticipated the shot, dropping his weight and throwing a heavy whizzer over my right arm to stop my penetration.
“Whoa!” Landon shouted from above, his voice echoing in the small crater. “Holy shit, you guys are really going at it!”
We hit the sand with a muffled thud. I used my momentum to press him down, getting side control, my forearm pressing across his throat to lock him down.
“You're stuck,” I gasped, my face only inches from his, my messy hair full of white grit. I tried to shift my weight to press harder, but my sneakers kept slipping in the loose sand. “You got nothing. Give?”
“Don't bet on it,” Josh grunted.
I was heavy, but the shifting sand made me careless. The second I leaned in to tighten my control, Josh exploded. He bridged his hips up with everything he had left, creating just enough space to slide his bottom knee inside and push my chest back. Before I could counter, he threw his legs up, wrapping them around my neck and locking me into a headscissors.
Josh’s thighs were locked tight around my throat, clamping down with a warm pressure. For a second, the gritty white sand beneath my back and the blue July sky above were the only things that existed. Landon’s playful banter from the edge of the pit became a muffled, distant drone.
I felt whipped. Humiliated. Josh's hold had a real intensity to it this time, a crushing certainty that squeezed the fight right out of me. Sand got into my mouth every time I tried to catch a breath.
Then, a booming new voice cut down from right above us.
“What the heck, look at that.”
Josh and I both froze. I squinted up past his hip toward the grassy rim at the top of the bunker. A shadow fell over the sand as an older guy in a bright red polo shirt stepped right up to the edge, leaning over with his hands on his knees, staring down at us in total bewilderment. Behind him, three more golfers were crowding around, peering into the trap.
“That kid’s got that other kid in a headscissors right in the friggin' bunker!” the lead golfer shouted back to his buddies, a grin breaking across his face.
The sudden, close-up audience sent a rush of heat straight to my face. Trapped right beneath the gaze of four strangers, I tapped Josh’s thigh twice. “Okay, okay—I give. You win. Let me up.”
Josh didn't panic at all. In fact, looking up at the old guys grinning down at us, he held the grip for one more lingering, wicked second—proudly letting them see the absolute certainty of his hold—before slowly opening his thighs and pulling me up by my arms.
He grabbed his wedge, looked up at the rim of the bunker, and flashed his easy smile. “Just blowing off some steam before school, sir,” he called up, unbothered as he brushed the white sand off his calves. “Sorry to make you wait.”
The lead golfer threw his head back and laughed. His face was all old and saggy, but he looked like he could throw a good punch if he had to. “Holy, looks like WWF on the fairway. I love it! Make it a new sport—like those X Games things, a golf-wrestling combo. Looks fun. Wanna try that, Charlie?”
The guy next to him shook his head, leaning heavily on his driver. “My back would lock up for a month, Ed. Let the kids have at it.”
“Okay, well, you guys have a nice day, sir,” Landon called out, stepping into the clear and giving them a polite wave.
“You too, boys! Keep it in the rough!” Ed shouted back as the foursome started heading back toward their carts.
We scrambled to grab our clubs, our sneakers sinking into the steep banks as we hauled ourselves out of the pit. But as we walked away toward the tenth tee, the tension had been released. Looking over at Josh, who was shaking sand out of his shoe, I couldn't help but smile. He had owned me—again—but it had loosened things up. The air felt lighter, the heavy weight of the afternoon finally breaking apart.
The high energy from the tenth hole carried us all the way through the rest of the back nine. By the time we tracked down an empty table on the clubhouse patio, the afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the eighteenth green.
We ordered burgers and a round of cold drinks, the physical exhaustion finally settling into our muscles in a satisfying ache. There was an easy rhythm between the three of us now. The tension about Western, carpentry, and the reality of September had been burned off in the sand trap, replaced by the lingering buzz of the afternoon.
“Hey, watch your step, Fred,” a voice chuckled from a large round table near the bar. “You might get suplexed by that one if you're not careful.”
I looked up. Ed, Charlie, and the rest of their foursome were sitting a few tables over, clinking pint glasses.
“Oh, great,” Josh muttered under his breath. “Our fan club found us.”
“Look out, here come the UFC guys,” Ed called out to the rest of the patio, raising his glass to us with a wink. “Seriously, boys, that was the best entertainment we’ve had on a Saturday all season. You should charge admission for the sand trap.”
Landon laughed and gave them a mock salute from our table. “We’re thinking about taking it to the X-Games, sir.”
Ed, the guy who looked like he could still throw a decent punch, just shook his head. He looked at the three of us with a quiet expression. “I’ll tell you what, I envy you kids,” he murmured, a smile breaking through his saggy features. “Man, those were the days. Oh, to be young.”
A sudden blush crept over my cheeks, and when I glanced at Josh, his face was a faint pink under his summer tan, too. Even Landon looked down into his drink with a quiet smile.
Oh, to be young. The old guy didn't know the half of it. He didn't know about the midnight runs on the track, the bruised ribs, or the heavy quiet of Josh's basement. He just saw three kids who thought they were invincible, squeezing the last few drops out of a summer that was already slipping through their fingers.
I looked over at Josh, the July sunlight catching the edge of his jaw, and felt a sharp ache in my chest. But right here, under the fading heat of the patio, we were still exactly where we belonged.
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