The sun had begun its slow descent beyond the ridges of Bel-Air, painting long shadows across the practice range as James turned to see Mr. Donovan approach.
There was something effortless about the man — calm, precise, and utterly composed, like a retired general stepping back onto the battlefield.
"Adjust your back shoulder," Donovan called out. "You're still collapsing your follow-through."
James turned and offered a faint nod, stepping aside as the older man came to stand beside him.
Dressed in dark slacks and a tucked-in polo that bore the club's crest, Donovan looked unbothered by the day's heat. His aviator sunglasses gleamed under the last kiss of daylight.
"You've been practicing," Donovan said, scanning James' setup. "That's good. Now let's make sure you're not practicing your mistakes."
He raised his own club and took a stance next to James.
"Shoulders square. Hips aligned. You want your body to rotate like a spring, not crumble like a folding chair."
