Second Shot

They don’t remember the crash. Not the flames, the screams, the sirens. None of it.

They are both forever grateful for that.

Even the weeks after are a foggy blur. Heavy meds. In and out of consciousness. Unfamiliar eyes and voices in blue scrubs. Mom and dad’s teary smiles and squeezing hands. The eventual wondering about Tiago, Travis, Laci, Coach…all the Mustangs.

We just played, didn't we? Why am I here? Is this real or some f'd up nightmare?

When the fog starts to lift and the doctors and parents try to explain—quietly, cautiously, on verbal eggshells—they no longer yearn for answers. They want to go back to not knowing. Back to the fog. Because real is too hard.

***

It’s fall now. Six months after. Black Bear Ridge golf course near Belleville, Ont. One of those flawless stolen October days Canadian golfers devour. The twosome laugh and chirp each other relentlessly as a camera crew tags along. You can tell they have tons of game, even if it’s a little rusty. Their scars, physical and otherwise, are mostly hidden. The camera silhouettes a tee shot. The deep blue sky splashed with the odd cloud makes it all seem perfect.

Sometimes the sky lies.

***

Advance warning: you’ll probably get the boys mixed up while reading this. I still call them by each other’s name sometimes and it’s been 10 months since we met.

Dayton and Hayden. There’s the problem. They sound too much alike. Plus, they have similar personalities, at least on the surface. Kind, smart, funny, always ready to rip you if the opportunity presents. Like when they beat you in a golf pool.

It’s easier in person. Dayton Price is the one with the great lettuce. Hair ‘90s Jagr would envy.  Hayden Underhill’s is shorter, always buried beneath a ball cap. He