David Duval

Behind the Glasses: David Duval
Chris Weymouth

They tried to hide the huge needle, of course. He laid with his face planted hard into the sheets.

His father and a nurse held him down by his shoulders and legs.

The needle was pushed in just above his hip. He took it better than most boys his age. He clenched as it

made its way through his skin. It stopped when it met his hipbone.

The doctor had to ratchet it now, hard, to penetrate the bone. He clenched harder. The doctor now rocked

the needle around in every direction now, to break of the thread of marrow that was drawn. The boy's lips

finally opened. His father would never forget the scream that came out. All he did was tighten his grip as the

boy thrashed. It was this, or it was death.

The doctor had all that was needed for now. A sample to analyze before making a final decision.

Tomorrow, if all was good, the needle would have to go in four more times, it wouldn't hurt though, promise.

"Don't worry, David, you'll get anesthesia next time. You'll be numb, you'll never feel a thing."

He stepped out of the car and looked around. Before him he observed a stately building, manicured

flowers, lush green grass. He noticed some men wearing spotless shoes, and neatly creased slacks standing

on the grass observing a small white ball and trading remarks that made them smile. Everyone, everything,

seemed so peaceful, so clean, so perfect at Timuquana Country Club.

David Duval was just nine. He was so short that his bag of clubs almost dragged on the ground.

He was slightly chunky, with freckled skin. His bottle-thick glasses sat on his nose. He carried six bags of

golf balls to the driving range. If you watched how he carried himself, you wouldn't know that he had really

just started playing, or that the bag of clubs was irritating a string of puncture scars on his hips.

He poured the balls out and began sending them flying across the grass.... [continues]

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