1st 5 Pages July Workshop - Lollis Rev 2

Name: Dan Lollis

Genre: Middle Grade Sports

Title: Scratch

Scratch - Pitch

Twelve-year-old Win Moore lives and breathes mini-golf, but his real dream is to ditch the putter and master “real” golf at the exclusive local country club. Short in stature, but big in imagination, Win scores a summer caddying job that turns from dream to nightmare as he’s fired by the country club’s snobby president.

With his access to the course and opportunity to practice gone, Win is given a second chance to learn and play when the country club’s bitter and washed-up greenskeeper, Mr. Boozer, a disgraced ex-golf pro, hires him as an assistant.

Win works with Mr. Boozer, on the course and off, to prepared for his ultimate goal — the annual end of summer Junior Club Championship. As Win learns and questions the crazy techniques, ideas, and strategies Mr. Boozer shares with him, he discovers that things aren’t as they seem. Like, maybe Mr. Boozer isn’t washed up, and maybe being short isn’t that big of deal, and maybe every shot, even the little putts, count.

Scratch - Revision 2

Ladies and gentlemen, it all comes down to this putt.

I looked down at the golf ball, licked my lips, and spread my feet.

If he can make this putt, Win Moore, the pint-sized 6th grader, will become the youngest champion in golf history.

I lined up the putter and tightened my grip.

The hushed crowd waits in anticipation.

I let my mind go blank, pulled back my putter in one smooth motion, and then brought it forward. The putter made a satisfying PING as the ball jumped off the turf and shot towards the hole 25 feet away.

And the putt is away. Moving a little left-to-right. This ball has a shot.

I loosened my grip and leaned to the right — willing the ball to move in that direction.

Win Moore likes his putt. But does it have enough speed?

“Come on. Get legs,” I whispered under my breath.

Almost there! But will it make it? The—ball—is—

The ball slowed to a stop, froze on the edge of the hole, and seemed to debate whether to move another fraction of an inch and fall in.

“Drop,” I whispered.

The ball shifted slightly and then—CLINK.

It’s in the hole! He made it, ladies and gentlemen! Win Moore has won the championship with that amazing putt!

I jabbed my putter toward the sky and karate chopped the air in front of me, as I ran to the hole and grabbed my ball. After kissing it, I held it up for all to see.

“Hey, kid? Are you done yet?” asked a dad with two little kids.

I turned around mid-celebration, mouth open and golf ball held high, and snapped back into the real world.

“We paid for the 18-hole early bird special.” He leaned against the rainbow-colored windmill and crossed his arms while his two bratty kids swung their mini-golf putters like swords and hit each other.

I swallowed. How long had they been standing there? Was I so into my game that I didn’t notice them? I wanted to crawl behind the fake rock surrounding the hole and hide.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” I mumbled and ran away without making eye contact. I gripped my putter, crawled under the fence, and ran into the clubhouse. The bell on the door jingled as I went inside. Mom sate behind the cash register — head buried in a book. The phone rang once, and she grabbed it.

“Good morning. Thanks for calling Putt Putt Palace, home to 36 holes of putt-erifc miniature golf and the best—”

Mom stopped mid-sentence, frowned, and half-slammed the phone back on the counter.

“They hung up,” she said. “Guess they didn’t want to hear about the free ice cream cones today.” Mom smiled at me, took a gulp of coffee, and shoved her nose back in one of her battered mini-golf maintenance manuals. “You’re out practicing early today. How’s the course?” I never understood how Mom could read and talk at the same time.

I glanced around the clubhouse. At the duct tape holding together part of the cash register. At the piece of cardboard over the broken front window. And at the flickering neon sign above the golf ball dispenser that read “PRESS BUTT    FOR BALL”. The letters O and N burned out last summer, and Mom said that they were super-expensive to replace. I wish she would just turn it off.  Do you know what teenagers do when they see a sign like that?

“The windmill isn’t spinning — again. And something is wrong with the fountain on number three. Instead of nice blue water, it’s spewing brown foam that smells like sewage.” I gagged a little at the memory. “I know you love this place, Mom, but it’s old and you can’t fix it all yourself.”

Mom plopped her book the counter. “I know it’s old and seen better days,” she said. She scanned the clubhouse and scratched her chin. “It just needs a little—work.” Mom nodded and changed the subject. “How did you putt this morning?”

She never wanted to talk about the million things wrong with Putt Putt Palace. I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay—I guess.”

“Did you win your championship?” Mom asked with a smile.

My face reddened, and I pulled my cap down low.

“Oh come on, Edwin! I see you talking to yourself out there and jumping around like a maniac when you make a long putt. You think you’re the only one that ever pretended to be a sports star?”

“It’s stupid,” I said as I shoved the putter back in the rack and threw my ball into the giant “PRESS BUTT” ball dispenser. “Besides, it’s just putt-putt. It’s not even a real sport.”

“Gold is a real sport,” Mom said. She grabbed a screwdriver and tightened the heads of a few putters that had seen better days. “ And any professional golfer would tell you that putting —”

“Putting is part of a real sport,” I interrupted. “And not even the fun or cool part. Smashing a ball 300 yards off the tee is exciting. Tapping a putt three feet into a hole is a game for little kids.” I waved my hand toward the window so Mom could see the two screaming, putter-sword fighting kids on hole nine. “See?”

Mom frowned and squinted her eyes. “Those kids are not getting their free ice-cream cone.” She turned her attention back to me. “Every shot counts, Edwin. The three-foot putt is as important as the 300-yard drive. It’s not always about how far you hit it.”

“It is when you’re the shortest kid in school and can’t even drive the ball to the fairway,” I mumbled. Why couldn’t she understand that being good a putt putt was like being the best kazoo player in the orchestra or being the best tricycle rider in a bike race.

I grabbed a water bottle and my sack lunch from the fridge behind the counter. “I gotta go,” I said. Mom tried to reach over and give me a hug, but I ducked under her outstretched arms and shot toward the front door before she could grab me.

“You’re never too old for hugs from your mom,” I heard her shout as I opened the front door and literally ran into two teens and the steps outside. They were thick as a brick wall, and I fell flat on my butt. The door slammed behind me.

“Watch it, munchkin! You almost made me spill my drink,” one of them said as he fumbled with his soda can.

“Uh—sorry,” I said and propped up on my elbows. “I didn’t see you.”

“Short and blind,” the other one sneered and nodded toward the door. “Maybe your mommy can give you a hug and make it all better."

The other one closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around his back like he was hugging himself, and make wet kissing sounds. “Smoochie. Smoochie. My little boy,” he said in baby talk.

Both teens burst into laughter, opened the door, and went inside.

I grabbed my water bottle and smooshed bag lunch. I took a quick peek — PBJ, flattened banana, and crushed chips — delicious. I wanted to follow them and throw my ruined peanut-butter and jelly sandwich at one of their faces. It’s bad enough to get picked on in gym, or on the bus, or in the cafeteria, but now I was getting it at the Putt Putt Palace? That’s just not fair. I imagined for the millionth time what it would be like to be tall. No more teens knocking me down. I would be able to see over the heads in front of me in the movie theatre. And I would be able to hit a golf ball a mile.

I should have followed the teens inside to convince Mom to kick them out, but what good would that do? I knew we needed all the business we could get. This place has been a money pit since Mom took the business over from Grandpa a few years ago.

The alarm on my phone buzzed, and I got a flutter in my stomach. If I was late, Mr. McManus would fire me. I stood, dusted myself off, and looked at the potholes in the parking lot, the beat up orange cones that kept customers from parking in front of the dumpster, and the crooked Putt Putt Palace sign begging customers to “TURN HERE FOR FUN-CREDIBLE, FUN-BELIEVABLE MINI-GOLF.

I closed my eyes and and imagined myself on the tee box at Pebble Beach. Green grass and tall palm trees instead of faded astroturf and fake plastic shrubs I gripped my imaginary club and took a big swing.

And Edwin Moore crushed his drive, ladies and gentlemen! How in the world does the little guy do it?