The sun is brutal, and as the holes pass, Johnny grows more and more upset with his game. Nothing is going right. Putts come up a turn short, or lip out. His distance control is off. A sweat stain covers the back of his shirt, and he curses himself under his breath. He buries his head in his phone. Actually, it's his roommate's phone, since he broke his. He says he dropped it accidentally, although he's broken multiple phones in anger. To calm down, he leans back in the cart and drapes a green towel over his head, hidden and safe. On the fifth hole, he snaps. He flings a wedge through the air. The club helicopters, spinning so fast it hums, bouncing off the nearby cart path. "F---," he says under his breath.
Paul sees the club toss but doesn't say anything. Not yet, not until he calms his own anger and frustration. Johnny needs to grow up or risk losing his future, and every thrown club, or ill-advised tweet, reminds his father how far they have to go. Paul is scared.
"I don't enjoy playing golf with him because I don't want to see that temper," he'll say later. "I honestly do not. I cringe when he wants to play golf. I don't want to do it, but I know I have to do it. Because he still needs love. He still needs guidance. He still needs to see he's wrong -- and how to control his temper. And if I give up on him, who's gonna take over? The school sure the hell isn't gonna do it."