Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto by Eric Luper Page A

eighties.”
    â€œWell, this isn’t the age of acid-wash jeans, mullets, and Michael Jackson gloves, either.” I grab my club and tramp down into the sand pit. It’s a deep one. My ball is sunk so low in the sand, it looks like a fried egg.
    â€œYou watch too many movies,” he says. “Anyway, brooding about it isn’t going to help any.”
    Brooding. Isn’t that what Veronica said I did?
    â€œYou need to get out and do something to distract yourself,” he goes on. “Your grandfather would have put a shovel in my hand and sent me out back to dig a ditch.”
    â€œThat’s weird.”
    â€œHe used to think sweat was the best way to workoff any kind of emotion. Told me it was cheaper than any shrink.”
    I point at the trap with my sand wedge, at my ball lying there buried past its equator. “Looks like I’ll be digging a ditch soon enough.”
    My father lets me assess the situation. It’s not good. The green sits about eight feet above me. To make matters worse, my ball is on the back slope of the trap, which will give my shot a lower trajectory. I should have taken my mulligan.
    I know it’s hopeless, but I swing.
    Hard.
    White powdery sand poofs into the air. It rains down on the upslope of the trap and onto the fringe of the green. I look for my ball. It’s sitting in the trench I’ve just dug with my club.
    This time, my father doesn’t say a word about the string of nasty words that spews from my mouth.
    â€œTake another stroke,” he says. “Hit behind the ball.”
    I line up again, wiggle my feet into the sand, and swing. My club comes down and pops the ball into the air. I scramble up the hill to see where it rolls. I get there just in time to see it take a hard turn to the left, away from the hole.
    Shoot, I forgot to account for the slope of the green.
    I’m sitting three strokes with no less than a forty-foot putt.
    â€œGood up,” my father says. He tosses me my putter and drives the cart around to the other side of the green.
    He’s farther away, so it’s his shot.
    â€œI guess things are different today,” he says. He lines up as I pull the flag and toss it to the side. “When I was your age, we used to date. We didn’t pair off and stay with the same girl for months on end. Maybe some guys did.” He draws back his putter and swings. His ball rolls toward the high side of the green, reaches the ridge, and trickles down to the lower tier. It picks up speed and veers to the right, coming to a stop within three feet of the hole. It’s an amazing shot, considering where he started.
    â€œNice one,” I say.
    â€œDon’t kids casually date anymore?” he asks.
    I want to tell him kids do that all the time, but Veronica and I were different. We were a couple. I also want to point out that clearly nothing has changed with him since his high-school days—that he’s still dating as often as ever—but I keep my mouth shut on that one, too.
    â€œI guess I’m more monogamous,” I say.
    â€œNice ten-dollar word.”
    â€œIt’s like cars,” I go on. “Why keep test-driving them? If you know you like BMWs, then why would you go and try out an Acura Integra?” The words come out of my mouth before I have a chance to put them through any sort of filter. I don’t know why I say it. I just do.
    I glance at my father from behind my sunglasses. He makes no indication that he picked up on my dig. He walks to his ball, marks it, and steps away from the hole.
    â€œWant me to tend the flag?” he asks.
    â€œNo, thanks.” I stand over my ball and swing. My ballstarts out on a path that would take it nearly five feet to the left of the hole, but the slope of the green brings it in a gentle rightward arc. Like it’s traveling on a steel track, the ball rolls to the edge of the cup and drops in without slowing. Dead center.
    I