World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 149: First Practice Session With Mr Donovan (2)

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."

James watched closely, noting the way Donovan moved. It was slow, deliberate and precise. And every motion carried intention.

"Again," Donovan gestured, stepping back.

James set his feet, gripped the iron, and drew a breath.

"Too tight," Donovan said before he even moved. "Relax your grip. You’re not strangling the club — you’re guiding it."

James adjusted slightly, then began the motion. He started with a backswing, then a pivot, and a follow-through.

The club sliced through the air with a smoother arc, and the ball launched, lower than he wanted, but with more control.

"Better. Still raw, but better." Donovan nodded once.

They spent the next fifteen minutes on basic corrections — swing angles, hand placement, stance realignment.

Donovan’s corrections were subtle but very effective. He didn’t shout or scold, as his instructions alone were good enough for James to improve.

"You’re swinging like an athlete," Donovan said as James paused to towel off.

"Power is there. What you lack is rhythm. Golf isn’t a sprint — about the fastest to put. It’s about being calm and making clear shots that actually matters."

James smiled as he grabbed a bottle of water from his bag.

"Let’s get into short game. Approach shots. That’s where you win or lose everything. Drives are sexy but putts are what matter," Donovan said.

They moved to the practice green, where Donovan laid out five balls at various distances.

"Read the green. I’m not telling you how far. Trust your instincts, and let the club do the work."

James stepped to the first. It was roughly ten feet and the terrain was a slight right slope.

He took a breath, lined up the shot, and swung.

The ball curved in gently... and missed by two inches.

Donovan said nothing, as he continued to watch him.

The next four followed — close, close, way off, and one that spun out from the lip.

Donovan walked over and dropped another ball at James’ feet.

"Do it again."

The next hour passed in near silence, save for the thuds of iron and the occasional low correction.

James’ shirt clung to him now, and sweat lined his brow.

But it was clear something had shifted. His focus had sharpened, and in his mind, there was nothing else — just the rhythm of swings, corrections, and more swings, over and over.

And each motion shaved off an imperfection from his play, making him better.

Donovan, true to form, didn’t offer praise unless it was earned. But when James sank a long-range chip shot dead center, he gave a quiet nod.

"There. That’s what I’m talking about."

James took a step back, chest heaving slightly from the heat and effort.

"You’re not bad," Donovan finally said, as they returned to the range. "You’ve got the drive. You learn quickly. And most importantly — you don’t let your ego get in the way of correction."

James nodded, wiping his hands.

"I don’t have time for ego. I just want to get good fast."

Donovan tilted his head and smiled.

"You will get good. But it’s not by rushing. Golf punishes arrogance and respect the pace."

"Got it." James exhaled deeply.

For the next twenty minutes, Donovan had him repeat a full swing routine, correcting posture with the occasional word or gesture.

The sky shifted from pale blue to bruised amber, and the range began to empty, save for a few silent die-hards swinging into twilight.

"That’s enough for today." Donavan said, finally calling it for the day.

James lowered the club, wiped his hands, and rolled his shoulders.

"Thank you. That was... intense."

"And that was just your baseline assessment."

"Wait, that was just the warmup?" James looked at him, bemused.

"You’re not ready for real drills yet. Let’s walk before we run," Donovan said, collecting his gear. "You’ll see how far you’ve come after two weeks of proper training."

James didn’t argue. His muscles ached in places he hadn’t expected. His back, his forearms, even his hips.

As Donovan turned to leave, James paused.

"Mr Donovan," he called, reaching into his bag for his phone. "Can you give me your account details? I want to transfer your fee."

"My secretary will get it to you before the end of the day," Donovan said, and started walking away.

James smiled as he slung his golf bag over his shoulder and began the walk back along the familiar stone-lined path that wound through the club grounds.

The sounds of the evening were gentler now, filled with the soft chirping sounds of insects, the sound of water from distant fountains behind hedges, and the occasional murmur of voices from the clubhouse’s patio.

He reached the lot and found his Range Rover exactly where he left it. He placed his bag in the trunk, closed it gently, and slipped into the driver’s seat.

He couldn’t help but notice the cars that were still at in the lot, and James got the feeling that there was a gathering going on but he wasn’t invited. And he understood why.

He sighed tiredly, as he started the engine and pulled out of the lot and drove on, towards home.