"Just hit the damn thing."

Albert Peterson stood on the 18th Green at Valle Vista on a scorching Sunday afternoon of July. For the first time all day he'd made a decent approach and was only a three-foot tap-in away from his first birdie of a long, exhausting round.

It'd been a shitty round - as most every round he played that summer had been and would be. He only played about once every two months and only when no softball games were scheduled. Today his best friend Mike Sanderson and Mike's father Dale were the culprits who'd sprung him out of an afternoon at his apartment cleaning or out running errands with his live-in girlfriend Anne.

He hadn't thought about her all day, but as he stood staring at his ball marker waiting for Mike and Dale to putt out, he remembered that he'd be heading home shortly, with Anne possibly waiting - probably in a sour mood. The thought of fighting with her again as he'd done just before he'd left sent a pang through his stomach and fatigue started to creep into his mind. His countenance suddenly turned downward as the painful images of the morning assaulted his attention.

"Pete!" Mike suddenly shot at Albert, using his single syllabic nickname to break his distant daze. "You gonna putt that shit or stare at it for an hour? I mean you can do what you want but I'd like to get the hell outta here sometime today. And there's people waiting... But hey, by all means take your time."

Albert looked up and forced a laugh as Dale counted scores to see who'd won the bet between he and his son.

The putt was an easy one. As bad as Albert had played, he was normally good for a three-footer. But he'd used his more than ample prep time dreading his arrival at home where his girlfriend probably had her blood boiling on account of the five hour round of 18 that he'd suggested would take about four. The course was busy and the threesome had stopped at the turn for two or three beers while they watched the Cubs and the Reds play a few innings on the clubhouse TV.

Matt Clement didn't have it that day and the Reds were leading 7-1 in the fifth thanks to two Adam Dunn home runs and more than a few free passes. Ordinarily that's enough to ruin an afternoon for Albert, but today he was enjoying the combination of poor golf, sunshine, cold beer and the company of his friends.

He lined up the putt for the first time while standing over it. He thought about striking it enough that it wouldn't fall short. After about six beers and all this sun and heat, it would be easy for him to tap it weakly and end up an inch or two shy of the hole, he thought, which would surely elicit a raucous laugh from Mike. That wouldn't be good.

Sweat dripped from the bill of his blue twill Cubs hat that was completely soaked with sweat on this humid 85-degree Indiana day. A drop hit his ball, (blip!) and another (blip!). Too late to back away now.

"Just hit the damn, thing." he thought.

He moved the putter head back four inches and began his putt. (Tap) he'd hit it cleanly and followed through toward the hole as he'd been taught by his golf-addicted father. The ball rolled for a full second and then reached the cup. It was a little fast, he had time to think before it skipped over the hole hit the back lip of the cup and dropped straight down. (Bupaluhpup!) it rattled around some down in their with the sweet sound a ball makes when it's found the cool confines at the bottom of the hole.

"Nice!" Mike half-shouted. "You got one birdie anyway."

"Good one to quit on," Albert said.

"Let's go have a beer," Dale said. "Watch the end of the game."

"Nah, the game's been over," Albert said. "And I gotta head that way."

"On me," said Dale.

"Come on, Peters," Mike urged. "What the hell do you gotta go do? Nothin."

"Eh, alright," he agreed finally.

He was more than happy to put off that homecoming. But the longer he waited, the more angry and hostile she'd become. He knew that.

When they reached the 19th Hole Lounge, Albert decided to drink water instead. Six beers during the course of a five hour round in severe heat had drained his energy mercilessly and he still had a five-mile drive home. Better he should re-hydrate and cool off before hitting the road.

The game was indeed over as the ticker scrolling across the screen on ESPN explained. But the result was not what Albert had expected. Instead it read: "Reds 10, Cubs 11 F/10... W: Borowski... L: Graves... Sosa CHC: 2 Hr, 4 RBI... Alou CHC: 2B, HR, GW 2-R 1B in 10th..."

"HOLY SHIT!!!" Albert shouted. "The Cubs came back and won that!"

"No shit?" Mike replied. "How?"

"Reds' bullpen blew up I guess. Sosa hit two out and Alou had a walk-off single in the 10th"

"Sweet! How many game back are they now?"

"Two, I think. Depends on what the Shitbirds do tonight."

Yes, the Cubs were in a pennant race in July this season, which was rare in itself, but provided daily respite for Albert as he slogged away at the final two credits required for a BA in journalism at IUPUI. He was working two part-time jobs, one an internship at a library in the Adult Learning Center and one as a shift manager at Quizno's sandwich shop right by his apartment. Some days were better than others with his work, his school, his girlfriend and his Cubbies. But a Cubs win pretty much trumped everything as far as his mood was concerned. And this update was a real shot of double happiness at time when he really could use it.

"Can I have a glass please?" Albert asked the 70-ish woman working the behind the bar.

"You sure can, Honey," she said from behind some tiny little glasses. Her wrinkled aged face was smartly made-up, her hair colored and in-place. One could tell there was a time when she was a fine looking woman. And she was still very personable.

"How bout them Cubbies?" she asked, putting the glass down in front of Albert as Mike pushed the half-empty pitcher of Bud Light his way.

"Yeah! Did you see it?"

"Oh, yes, I saw it. We had a group in here, some Reds some Cub fans, hollering and yelling at the TV. It was a madhouse in here. I love the Cubs. Always have. Shoot, I remember when they were in the series last time. But I know you don't!"

Laughter shot up all around the bar. No. Albert didn't remember 1945. He was born in '76.

After the pitcher was done, the three duffers parted ways and Albert headed to the home he dreaded so. He wasn't thinking about his morning shouting match with Anne or his crummy round of golf -97 with more than a few extra mulligans and balls kicked into more condusive lies.) He was thinking about his beloved Cubbies who had pulled victory out of the jaws of defeat and made a good day into a great one for him.

The beer and the music in his '97 Saturn's CD player was fueling him now. He was no longer weary and no longer afraid of his bi-polar-ish girlfriend's reaction to his long afternoon away from home.

"Heh! That crazy bitch..." he muttered to himself while he nodded his head to J-Rawls' throbbing, jazzy hip hop jam, "Superhero." He believed that he loved hip hop more than any white man alive.

Anne had a full day of shopping and cleaning planned for them but he got the call from Mike to play at about 9 a.m. and agreed before she woke up and told him of her itinerary.

"Tell you what," he said when she first protested. "You go get that shopping done and when I get home I'll clean the house."

It seemed like a fair plan, as he'd offered to pay half of whatever groceries she'd buy. But she wasn't happy. She seemingly never was anymore. The skinny, attractive Vietnamese-American was always carrying on about how little money he made or how he was still in college at age 26 after all their friends had graduated and moved on to real jobs as she had. She was a year younger than him and had graduated from Indiana University with the same degree he was after over three years prior. She was even working at a newspaper now as a business reported. She hated her job, hated her boss, hated her commute, hated the fact that it took her all day to write the dull, ass-kissing business profiles on her publishers' cronies and tennis partners. She had little confidence in her ability to write more interesting stories on subjects that interested her more and never tried to move on to different sections of the newspaper where she could expand her talent and experience as he suggested. In fact she often relied on him to write the first couple of lines to her stories, just to get her started.

"No. Uh, uh," she'd said. "I'm not going to sit here all night while you clean the house. You can't do a good job anyway. You're too fucking lazy. Everything you do, you half ass. Everything! That's why you're still in college! That's why you work at Quizno's! At 27? Don't you feel like a loser? How do you think I feel when people ask me about my boyfriend and what he does for a living?"

"Why don't you just tell them I'm a student?"

"Oh, I do alright! And then they ask me how old you are! When I tell them they give me these weird looks. I hate it!"

That was quite enough.

"Well fuck them then! Fuck all of those motherfuckers! Why the fuck should I care what they think of me? Why should you! GOD DAMMITT! I'm trying to get a degree so I can get another job! What more can I do?"

"Well, I don't know but you should be done by now. You should be working at a paper in a better position than I am. You're the one with all the talent. But you have no fucking drive! You have no fucking pride!"

At that point, he just grabbed his clubs and hat and headed out of the house in his socks. He didn't shower or shave or brush his teeth. He wore the same khaki shorts and tee-shirt he'd slept in. He was going to look like shit today. But he'd do it out of ear-shot from this crazy bitch.

Albert arrived in front of his apartment within minutes, got out of the car, grabbed his clubs from the trunk and slammed it with an oath. He was euphoric. He was buzzed a little from the beer and bolstered by the excellent news of the Cubs' triumph. Time to face the music, he thought, chest out, chin first. Let's go!

He ran up the stairs to the third floor and grabbed the door knob. He heard his dachsand barking on the couch, startled by his rapid, noisey approach. At last he opened the door to find Anne, seated on the couch, arms folded, watching some VH1 program where semi-famous comedians critique semi-memorable acts from the 1980s. Albert hated those shows but if it kept her attention now, it was a Godsend.

He stood his clubs up on the bags retractable leg stand next to the closet where they belong and reached down to greet the dog who was for one, elated at his arrival. He glanced at Anne and she was still staring holes through the televsion screen while some gay looking guy with black hair and horned-rimmed glasses explained why the Golden Girls was the ultimate situation comedy for men of his pursuasion.

After retreating to the bathroom and shutting the door behind himAlbert removed his shirt and fired it overhand into the laundry hamper.

"Stee-ryeeeke!" he mock-yelled under his breath before looking into his box of cassette tapes for a Lone Catalysts mix tape his friend Kennard had made him. He was on a Lone Cata kick today. No sooner had he popped the tape in the deck on a shelf inside the bathroom closet than the bathroom door opened up and hit him in the back a little too hard for his liking.

"What the hell?" he asked spinning around.

"Fuck you!" Anne yelled at him with eyes squinting, nose wrinkled up and mouth halfway open to expose her white teeth. The Tet Offensive had begun in ernest.

"Excuse me?" he replied. He was too keyed up to be brought down by the forthcoming barage of insults. He gave her a half smile to establish that the high ground would be his regardless of her audacious behaviour.

"Don't even get in that fucking shower until we've done these errands and cleanded the house!"

"I'm not going anywhere looking and smelling like this. I told you I'd clean the house and you had all day to run those errands."

"You want me to do EVERYTHING MYSELF! I'm tired of doing things by myself! You're my boyfriend. WHY DON'T YOU EVER DO ANYTHING FOR ME!"

"For you or with you?"

"Shut the fuck up! You're an asshole! I'm fucking sick of you!"

"Fine, then don't talk to me, I'm taking a shower."

"Asshole!"

He laughed and shut the bathroom door behind him.

"I gotta take a piss, leave me alone."

"Don't turn on that fucking water, asshole."

"Heh. That crazy bitch," he said under his breath.

After he finished urinating he removed the rest of his clothes, opened the shower curtain and stepped into the tub. He could feel the salt deposit all over his skin, and the smell from his middle extremities was strong. He stunk and was ready to bathe, shave, listen to the tape he'd chosen. He turned the water on and adjusted it to the temperature he wanted, then walked over and pressed play on the cassette deck.

"Lone to the Cata-Cata to the Lyst!" was the refrain on Albert's favorite jam, conveniently already cued up.

He stepped back into the tub and pulled the curtain then pulled the handle upward to turn on the shower. The water hit him, immediately warm and as the music pulsated through the room, he felt himself getting clean and relaxing for a moment.

But that moment was short lived because the bathroom door flew open with a crash. Albert heard the dog barking at the sudden violent action and small footsteps headed his way. This wasn't good, he thought.

Before he could peer out of the shower curtain, it was suddenly hooked and ripped aside by the head of a seven-iron. (Shriiiing!) it nearly came off of the rings. And there in beside the tub, stood Anne, all Five-Foot-Three of her with straight jet black hair at shoulder's length almond brown eyes squinting at Albert. Her face was turning red with rage. She held Albert's King Cobra seven-iron high like a sword.

"Get the fuck out of there. NOW!" she yelled.

"Huh? Fuck off." he replied a little amused but a little startled by his would-be attacker. And then he did the unthinkable as far as Anne was concerned. He started laughing. The absurdity of the moment surely couldn't be lost on her now, he thought.

It was apparently. Anne reached down quickly and yanked the faucet's knob all the way to the cold side instantly dousing Albert with a deluge of icy water.

"Ahhhhhh!" he yelled, in shock and stepping back from the stream instinctively. Anne saw her opening and swung the club at Albert who reached with his right arm to catch it before it hit him but he missed and the club head struck his right elbow sending pain all the way up his arm.

"AHHHHHH!!!!" he yelled again and grabbed the club, gripping the hossle with his right hand and getting he left midway up the shaft. Anne began jerking the club up and down trying to pry it way from him but she wasn't strong enough. He ripped it out of her hands and the rubber grip burned her as it forcefully scraped out of her palms."

"Owwwww..." she said, through tears now. "Owwww... Albert that hurt!"

"Good," he said and stepped out of the tub. She was now frightened that he'd hit her with the club in retaliation. But he merely poked her in the stomach with the grip and pushed her toward the door. She went willingly and he shut and locked the door behind her. Then he turned his music up full blast, adjusted the water again and stepped in pulling the shower curtain shut.

"Crazy ass bitch," he said to himself and proceded to take his shower uninterrupted.

When it was over he put a towel on and stepped into the bedroom where he dressed, expecting to be acosted once more. But when he reached the family room the TV was silent. The dog was eating his dinner and Anne stood over a pot of rice cooking on the stove.

She wept and looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Albert! Please don't hate me. I didn't mean what I said."

"I know," he replied.

"I'll make you dinner. You don't have to do those errands with me. I'll do it after work."

"Ok." he replied.

He felt very little now but pity for her. He found her pathetic and somewhat hopeless. She'd never find anyone to put up with her if he left her and she obviously needed help. The whole thought of what had just gone on made him tired. He wanted to sleep until morning and try to forget the whole thing. The day was pretty much over now. He had class in the morning.

But then...

"Your dad called while you were in the shower," Anne said. "He said he taped the Cubs game today and he's bringing it over for you to watch."

Albert smiled. Today wasn't so bad, he thought. Nah, it was better than some. Better than yesterday, in fact. Maybe tomorrow wouldn't be so bad. The Cubs were off that day though. So it probably would.