Golfing on an Onion Grass Course

The air was heavy with late summer humidity and the groaning of lawnmowers across the neighborhood. Airplanes hummed overhead, disappearing behind the leaves of maple trees. The sun was merciless that day. I could smell the pungent odor of the onion grass that grew in wire-like tufts around our property. I used to spend hours pulling them up just to unearth the clusters of mini onions; my hands would reek of onions afterwards. 

My house sat smack in the middle of New Jersey suburbia, a land filled with new housing developments, shopping malls, and Italian delis. Although our house was the smallest in the neighborhood, we had the largest yard. At about an acre, my yard provided endless space to explore, whether it be looking for bugs or collecting sticks for a campfire I constructed but never lit. However, on that day my brothers and I lazily played barefoot in the grass, the mid-afternoon heat slowing our overactive bodies. My six-year-old brother, Augey, had decided to go with a low energy activity: golf. 

“Augey, you can only swing the golf club if you look behind yourself first,” my dad said, holding the metal club far from where my brother could reach. Augey’s baby-blue eyes were wide open as he nodded his bright blonde bowl cut. I saw my dad’s words pass through Augey’s ear and float out the other while his eyes dilated with eagerness. My dad handed over the club, which Augey quickly snatched and proceeded to tap against the dirty golf ball at his feet. 

Oliver, my four-year-old brother, pranced around in the freshly cut grass, singing to himself. Oliver had recently been introduced to the world of Super Mario, and since then, he had begun to act as if he were the avatar of his own video game. His even blonder bowl cut bounced as he spun around and jumped, acting out some scene of his internal video game. 

My dad had begun to walk towards the house, probably escaping the hot, wet air for the air conditioning of our home. I looked over at Augey, who was carefully focused on the golf ball and preparing his swing. Oliver, still stuck in his own world, stood behind him. Augey sharply swung the metal club back with all of his might, his movement aligning perfectly with Oliver’s. The head of the club met the corner of Oliver’s face, the impact creating an audible smack. Augey lowered the club and hit the ball. For a moment, we all remained still. Suddenly, Oliver erupted into screams, pressing his small hand against his eye which was already beginning to swell. Augey dropped the club, standing completely frozen. 

“AUGGEEEYYYY!” My dad came barreling down, his face burning red, beads of sweat gathering at his temples. “WHAT did I tell you to do?!” Augey then followed Oliver’s lead, his frozen face shattering into explosive sobs.

I was eight years old, the oldest of the pack, the one who was always supposed to “keep it real” as my dad would say. Despite my age and “maturity,” I found myself fleeing the scene, running through the onion grass fields, seeking refuge behind a maple tree. I sat down on the rocky ground, then burst into a teary mess. Oliver is gonna die, and then, Dad is gonna kill Augey. I could still hear the madness, my mom now joining the chaotic mix. I took shaky gasps for air between sobs and rubbed my eyes until all the tears had been expelled from my head. I looked back over to the crime scene, and the weapon was the only object still there. 

Oliver lived, Augey lived, and my dad didn’t kill anyone. Oliver’s eye turned the color of a prune, and over time, faded to a brownish yellowish green. Augey was banned from the golf clubs, gaining back the right to use them until the time he accidentally released the club mid-swing, sending it flying over our house into the front yard. We were all okay; the planes kept zooming above us, the lawnmowers kept groaning, and our onion grass fields continued to thrive.