PGA Dreamin'

The starter called, “Cardon,” and the sound hit like a timer.

Cardon stood behind the rope line with his bag open, pretending to check a yardage book while he stared at his driver. Under the glare of early sun, the face showed a thin crack near the toe. It wasn’t a dramatic break. It was worse: the kind of damage that waited for one full, angry swing.

Jets climbed from the airport beyond the range, leaving a hard roar over the thump of practice balls. The air smelled of cut grass and jet fuel. Jules Park, his caddie, had the green yardage book in one hand and a roll of athletic tape in the other. “Your hand,” Jules said. “Before you grip it again.”

Cardon peeled his patched tan glove back. A blister on his right palm had split open, raw and bright. He felt heat crawl up his forearm, the same way it always did when he started thinking about points, starts, and the thin line between being a tour pro and being a guy telling people he used to be.

“This is the fourth event on the swing,” Jules said quietly. “You need a number today. Not a story.”

Cardon looked past the first tee to the fairway. The opening hole was a short par four with deep rough right and a bunker pinching the landing area left. It was built for a choice: take a club that could leave wedge in, or take something safer and accept a harder second shot.

Hayden Rourke stepped up on the next tee time, tall and relaxed, snapping his white glove on like he had all year. He glanced at Cardon’s bag and smiled without warmth. “Hope you found the fairway this week,” he said.

A rules official stood near the starter with a clipboard, watching the tee box and the clock. Miss your time and the penalty came fast; push pace all day and it followed you.

Cardon closed his glove and flexed his fingers until the sting steadied into something usable. He could try to steal distance early and set the tone, or he could keep the round intact and trust he’d earn it later, even if later never showed up.