Through the Frozen Fairway

By George Barnett

A seasoned golfer confronts the ultimate challenge of playing winter golf on a frosty, unforgiving course. Battling extreme cold and unforeseen obstacles, they navigate gear choices and face biting wind chills. With each swing, they persevere, overcoming melting snow and frozen ponds. Finally, at the last hole, exhausted yet elated, they sank the winning shot, proving their resilience. It's a test of willpower and determination against nature's toughest tests, marking a triumphant victory over adversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350944785

George Barnett

George Barnett is the author of "Through the Frozen Fairway"

Book preview

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 9-798-35094-478-5

Chapter 1

The morning dew still clung to the blades of grass, glistening like a carpet of tiny diamonds as the first rays of sunlight cut through the cool haze. Jordan Bryant stood at the tee, a solitary figure against the sprawling canvas of the local golf course. His short, light brown hair was tousled by a gentle breeze, which also brought the scent of freshly mown fairways to his nostrils. He squinted his blue eyes, focusing on the distant flag that marked the hole.

Perfect day for it, he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of the club in his hands. The sound of crisp impacts echoed around him as other early risers practiced their swings, each thwack a symphony of ambition and leisure intermingling in the open air.

Jordan took a moment to admire the course. It was meticulously cared for, with well-manicured fairways unfurling before him like ribbons of emerald velvet. The greens were smooth and true, promising a fair challenge to any putter’s skill. Around him, bunkers lay in wait, their pristine white sands untouched by the day’s play.

Visualize the shot, he reminded himself, his interior monologue a coach in its own right. He adjusted his grip slightly, aligning his body with the target. The club swung back in a controlled arc, and with a fluid motion, Jordan let it descend. There was a satisfying crunch as the clubhead met the ball, sending it soaring down the fairway with a precision that spoke of countless hours of practice.

Nice swing, Bry! called out one of the groundskeepers who had paused to watch.

Thanks, Rick, Jordan replied, nodding in acknowledgment. But his mind churned with thoughts of the upcoming Winter Golf Tournament. Every stroke, every putt, felt like a step towards something greater, a validation of his dedication.

He walked to where his ball had landed, breathing in the crisp morning air that nipped at his cheeks, invigorating his senses. With each step, his shoes left a temporary imprint on the dew-covered grass, a fleeting signature of his presence. Today was another chance to hone his skills, to edge ever closer to the golfer he aspired to be, and nothing could distract him from that goal—not even the whispers of competition on the horizon.

The sun, now a golden disc climbing the morning sky, cast long shadows across the emerald expanse of the golf course. Jordan Bryant stood on the practice range, a solitary figure against the sprawling greens, meticulously placing another ball onto the tee. His blue eyes were narrowed in concentration, a silent testament to the fire of ambition that burned within him.

Keep your shoulders square, Jordan, he muttered to himself, envisioning the path the ball would take. His muscles coiled like a spring as he drew the club back, every fiber honed through relentless practice.

With the poise of an artist, he painted the air with his swing, the club slicing a perfect arc before making contact. The sound was crisp, clear, and deeply satisfying—a symphony of power and precision. The ball rocketed away, a small white comet against the azure canvas above.

Another one just like that, and you’ll have them shaking in their cleats, a voice called out from behind him.

Jordan turned to find Morgan Snow, his best friend and caddy on this journey of aspirations, leaning casually against a nearby golf cart. His dark hair glinted with hints of auburn in the sunlight, and his green eyes sparkled with the mirth that always seemed to dance just beneath their surface.

Morning, Morg, Jordan said, flashing a quick smile before returning his attention to the next ball. You’re up early.

Wouldn’t miss it, Morgan replied, pushing off from the cart and strolling over with the easy grace of someone utterly at home on the green. Besides, watching you hit these beauties is the best part of my day.

Jordan chuckled softly, feeling a blend of warmth and comfort at his friend’s presence. Despite the calm exterior, his thoughts churned with the driving need to improve, to push beyond his limits. He knew the Winter Golf Tournament loomed large, a mountain to be climbed, and each shot was a step toward its peak.

Let’s see if I can make the next one the second-best part of your day then, Jordan quipped, setting his stance once more. He visualized the trajectory, pictured the ball arcing gracefully towards the distant flag.

Easy there, champ. Remember to breathe, Morgan advised, his tone light but carrying the weight of shared dreams and years of camaraderie.

Breathing’s for when the ball’s in flight, Jordan retorted, though he took a deep breath all the same, letting the tension seep out of his shoulders.

He swung again, the club whooshing through the air, and as the ball took off, slicing through the morning haze, a sense of rightness settled over him. This was where he belonged, between the tees and the greens, with nothing but the hole between him and victory.

Looks like you’ve got this down to a science, Morgan observed, moving to stand beside him, their shoulders almost touching.

Feels more like an art sometimes, Jordan confessed, watching the ball land neatly on the green. Every shot’s a brushstroke, and I’m just trying not to ruin the canvas.

Morgan laughed, a rich sound that echoed lightly across the range. With you painting the strokes, that canvas is going to be a masterpiece.

Jordan felt a surge of gratitude for Morgan’s unwavering faith, a beacon in the sea of his own doubts. He gripped his club a little tighter, steeling himself for the challenges ahead, knowing that with Morgan by his side, anything was possible.

Jordan steadied his stance, the grass beneath his shoes dew-kissed and yielding. Each swing carved an arc into the morning’s breath, a ritual of iron and intent.

Keep that elbow tucked, Morgan’s voice floated over, not intrusive, but like a note in a well-rehearsed symphony. You’re letting it fly out like a seagull on a breeze.

The corner of Jordan’s mouth twitched upward as he realigned his arm. He knew Morgan’s critiques were gems polished by years of observation—a caddy’s wisdom fused with a friend’s concern.

Seagulls get to soar, though, Jordan quipped, his clubhead connecting with the ball in a crisp thwack that sliced through the ambient chorus of other players practicing their craft.

True, but you’re aiming for eagles, not flight, Morgan retorted, his green eyes glinting with shared ambition.

Jordan watched the ball’s trajectory, feeling the thrum of satisfaction when it landed, obediently, near the pin. He glanced at Morgan, whose presence was both grounding and catalyzing. It was easy to forget the weight of the bag on Morgan’s shoulders when he carried it with such effortless grace.

Sam Wheeler’s going to be there, you know, Morgan said casually, as they moved towards the next shot. His words hung between them, laden with unspoken history.

Sam’s always there. The name tightened something in Jordan’s chest, a mixture of anticipation and old scars. She’s part of the scenery now.

Scenery can be distracting. Especially when it swings back, Morgan replied, his tone light but edged with the reality they both understood.

Distractions are just mental tests. Besides, I’ve been acing those lately. Jordan lined up for another shot, trying to keep his mind from wandering to Sam’s fluid drive, her gray eyes fierce with concentration.

Focus on your game, Bryant. Let Sam play hers, Morgan counseled, squinting down the fairway as if he could spot a weakness in its expanse.

Always do, Jordan murmured, though memories of past tournaments—of cheers and whispers, losses and victories—threatened to cloud his vision.

Good. Because she’s tough competition this year. Heard she’s been breaking records in practice rounds. Morgan shifted, the straps of the golf bag brushing against his jacket.

Isn’t she always? Jordan grunted, sending another ball into the air. He didn’t need reminders of Sam’s prowess; it was etched into every leaderboard that mattered.

Which means you gotta be tougher, Morgan stated plainly, handing Jordan a different club, an unspoken command to switch tactics.

Can’t be much tougher without turning into a diamond. A wry smile played on Jordan’s lips, but his grip on the new club was firm, resolute.

Then shine, my friend. Outshine them all. Morgan’s words were a benediction, a spark that lit a fire in Jordan’s belly.

Plan to. Jordan swung again, the rhythm of ball meeting club, of foot pivoting on turf, a dance he’d rehearsed in dreams and daylight. And for a moment, there was no tournament, no Sam Wheeler, just the pure, unadulterated love of the game.

Look, Jor, Morgan began, leaning against the bag and crossing his arms, his own shadow merging with Jordan’s on the ground. You’ve got a history, sure. But this is golf, not ancient Greece. There are no epic poems about grudges—just scores.

Jordan chuckled dryly, then sighed. The clench in his gut wasn’t from exertion, but from memories of tournaments past, laughter shared, and the sting of a friendship that had drifted into rivalry with Samantha Wheeler. I can’t help it, he confessed, staring at a divot he’d made earlier, a small crater on an otherwise pristine surface. Playing against her gets inside my head.

Then don’t let it. Morgan’s tone was firm yet supportive, like a lighthouse beacon through fog. You’re not the same guy you were last year, or the year before. You’re stronger, smarter, and hell, even your short game has improved, he added with a grin.

Thanks to you. Jordan managed a smile, some tension easing from his shoulders.

Exactly. I’m in your corner. And so is every hour you’ve spent turning talent into skill. You’re ready for this.

Jordan picked up his nine-iron, feeling the trusted weight in his hands—a talisman against doubt. He settled into his stance once more, the world narrowing to the gleam of the ball, the target, and the path between.

Remember, it’s just you and the course out there, Morgan continued, stepping back to give Jordan room. Sam’s a competitor, nothing more. Play the greens, read the wind, trust your swing.

Trust my swing, Jordan echoed, the mantra anchoring him as he drew the club back.

Your emotions aren’t what carry that ball, Morgan said, watching Jordan intently. It’s your drive, your precision—you.

Jordan exhaled slowly, the air leaving his lungs like the release of a pressure valve. He swung. The club whistled through the air, a crisp strike sending the ball flying true, a silver streak against the azure sky.

See? Morgan said, satisfaction warming his words. That’s how you answer your doubts. With pure, undeniable skill.

Skill, Jordan repeated, watching the ball land precisely where he intended. The seed of confidence Morgan planted began to sprout, fortified by the solid thump of club on ball, the sight of the dimpled sphere answering his command.

Let’s get a few more like that under our belt, Morgan suggested, moving to retrieve another ball from the bag.

Sounds good. Jordan nodded, focusing on the rhythm of his breath, the feel of the grip in his palms, and the sense of purpose swelling within. This was his battleground, his arena; here, he wielded control, one shot at a time.

The metallic tang of determination hung heavy on Jordan’s tongue as he teed up another ball, the emerald expanse of the golf course stretching before him like an open challenge. He could feel Morgan’s gaze upon him, steady and reassuring—a silent sentinel of support.

Alright, Jordan, Morgan called out, his voice tinged with a conspiratorial edge, envision that shot. Make the air your ally, curve it around the obstacles.

Right, Jordan muttered, more to himself than in response. He narrowed his eyes, picturing the invisible arc of his ambition as it would slice through the crisp morning air.

He adjusted his stance, feet planted firmly against the soft earth, the familiar leather grip of the club grounding him. His heart was a steady drumbeat in his chest, syncopated with the whispering wind that tousled his light brown hair.

Jordan’s thoughts coalesced into a singular focus, a tightrope walk between intensity and the meditative calm he needed to harness. *This is my moment*, he thought, the white of the ball stark against the verdant course. *I’m not just hitting this ball; I’m sending a message.*

With a breath that pulled in the scents of freshly cut grass and morning dew, Jordan swung. The action was a symphony of muscle and intent; his body uncoiled like a spring, power channeled from his core through to the tips of his fingers.

Beautiful! Morgan exclaimed as the ball soared, an elegant arc painting hope across the sky. It landed with precision, nestled close to the pin, a testament to Jordan’s prowess.

Thanks, Jordan said, the word infused with newfound conviction. His blue eyes sparkled with reflections of victory not yet won but felt deep in his bones. *Morgan’s right. I can do this.* The undercurrent of his anxiety had faded, replaced by a flood of adrenaline that lapped at his consciousness, urging him forward.

Keep that up and Sam’s going to be chasing your shadow all over the greens, Morgan remarked, his tone light but his words heavy with truth.

Let her try, Jordan responded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He bent down to place another ball, the motion fluid, born of countless repetitions and relentless practice sessions.

Exactly. Keep that head in the game, Morgan encouraged, fetching the club for the next shot. Remember, every swing is a conversation you’re having with the course. And buddy, you’re quite the conversationalist.

Conversations I intend to win, Jordan replied, a laugh escaping him, surprising in its lightness. The tension that once knotted his shoulders seemed to unravel with each subsequent swing, each thwack of club against ball composing a melody of determination and drive.

As they continued their practice, the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows that danced alongside them. The sound of clubs striking balls punctuated the air, a rhythm to which only golfers could sway. With every drive, every putt, Jordan’s excitement grew, mirrored in Morgan’s approving nods and the occasional whistle of admiration.

Tomorrow, we show them what we’re made of, Jordan declared, watching another ball fly true.

Absolutely, Morgan agreed, his green eyes alight with the fire of shared anticipation. We’ve got this, Jordan. We’ve got this.

And with that affirming echo in his ears, Jordan set about perfecting his craft, each swing a step closer to the tournament, each moment a stitch in the fabric of a friendship woven through trials and triumphs. The chapter closed with two friends, side by side, their laughter mingling with the crisp morning air, their dreams taking flight on the wings of each well-struck ball.

Chapter 2

The frost-kissed blades of grass crunched under the weight of Samantha’s golf shoes as she approached the tee. Her breath, visible in the chilly morning air, mingled with the mist that rose from the winter green. She planted her feet with an assuredness that spoke volumes of her experience on the course, the wavy blonde tendrils peeking out from beneath her cap