Miracle at St. Andrews

by Patterson, James

  “Listen, maybe you’re right, but overall, when it comes to the important things, I know just how lucky I am, and I wasn’t prepared to mess with that for two strokes on a scorecard. It may sound weird but I am okay with everything that happened this weekend, good and bad. A lot of that has to do with you. What you told me at the restaurant last night means more to me than getting my card. Besides, being a pro athlete is not all trophies and good times. There’s a lot of heartache, too. So maybe it’s good that you got a taste of that as well.”

  “A lot more than a taste. It was a bellyful. I’m just glad I don’t play a sport where you’re expected to call phantom penalties on yourself. In soccer, you do anything you can get away with, including diving in the penalty box.”

  “It wouldn’t work in golf. It’s spread over too many acres. There’s no way to keep an eye on everyone.”

  “Maybe not,” says Simon. “But that was bullshit.”

  “Well, if I didn’t survive Q-School, at least the coyotes did. That’s something, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And speaking of your career for a minute, it’s not going to be easy, Simon. Thousands of people from all over the world will be competing for every spot, and except for the occasional freak of nature, everyone’s pretty even, talent-wise, so you’re going to have to be prepared to fight and claw for everything.” Hearing even an approximation of Lombardi-speak coming out of my mouth is disconcerting, but being a role model is a little like being the best man at a wedding. You have to rise to the occasion, even if you’re not exactly a natural.

  For the rest of the drive, neither of us says a word. Despite what happened on 18, it’s a peaceful quiet, the kind when people are comfortable enough with each other that they don’t feel the need to fill the silence. The traffic is light and the signs for the airport arrive too soon, and as I pull up in front of the departures terminal, I miss Simon already. I hop out first and reach into the trunk and fumble in the dark for his backpack.

  “I’m proud of you, Dad,” says Simon with a gentle smirk. “I could have gone for a different ending, but the weekend meant a lot to me, too. And hopefully, I learned something.” Then he gives me a long hug, shoulders his bag, and heads for the terminal.

  As he pushes through the revolving door, I tap my empty right pocket and smile. The check for $4,533.33, the payout for twelfth place, is no longer there. It’s in the side pocket of Simon’s backpack and endorsed to him. Along with it is a short note scribbled on an envelope in the scorers’ tent after signing for my 77. I might not have it exactly right, word for word, but this is close:

  Dear Simon,

  I can’t tell you how much it meant having you on the bag this weekend. The money, which we won together, is my way of saying thanks and investing in your career. I want you to use it to hire a trainer so that when you go to tryouts in five months, you’ll be in the best shape of your life. Professional soccer is not some quasi-game/skill like golf. It’s the real deal and it’s dangerous, most of all for the goalie. Being stronger and faster and more flexible won’t just make you better, it will keep you safer. So do some research, find the best trainer in the area, and get to work. If you’re reading this, I guess you’ve already found your new money clip, too. That it’s in your hands makes me very happy. It’s your turn now.

  Love you,

  Your old man

  Tucson, 12/7/99

  P.S. Please feel free to spend some of the money on Jane Anne.

  19

  THROUGH THE TALL GLASS windows of the terminal, I watch Simon from behind as he walks up to the Eastern Air Lines counter, picks up his boarding pass, and hustles toward his gate. Unlike him, I’m in no rush. My flight to O’Hare isn’t till morning and for a few minutes—ten, fifteen, maybe more—I sit at the curb with the engine running and sift through the wreckage.

  Instead of reliving the catastrophe on 18 and the botched holes and lousy swings that made the difference between twelfth and eighth, I return to last night’s dinner at Sandy’s, where after wiping the barbecue sauce from his mouth, Simon told me he was turning pro. Rather than tormenting myself about this or that putt that didn’t drop or the dubious thinking down the stretch, I focus on the pleasure I got from turning over the prize money to Simon. Golf figures less in the replay than my recollections of working side by side for four days. And some of my fondest recollections are the least eventful—eating meals together, sitting on our hotel beds catching the highlights on ESPN, enjoying each other’s company and bad jokes, and simply sharing time.

  When I finally pull away from the curb, the sun has set and the sky is streaked with orange. Driving as slowly as the white-haired men and blue-haired women who have just dropped off or picked up their grandchildren, I slip into the easy Sunday-evening procession back toward town. The road that leads to the freeway is lined with small strip malls whose modest businesses are closed for the evening. The only light comes from gas stations, low-budget motels, and the occasional billboard.

  I’m heading with little enthusiasm in the direction of the hotel when a brightly colored food truck catches my eye, along with the impressive line of people waiting to order. Grateful for an option other than room service or a loud antiseptic restaurant, I switch lanes and turn into a dim parking lot sprinkled with beat-up old cars and pickups. The people in line are all men, and based on their sweat-stained shirts and hats, they’ve had a harder and longer workday than me. The fragments of overheard conversation are in Spanish.

  As I’m waiting in line, my cell goes off in my pocket, and although I don’t recognize the number, I answer it.

  “Travis, this is Bob Herbert. I cover golf for the Tucson Gazette, the morning daily out here. Got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “I heard about what you did on eighteen and taking a seven. Can you take me through that decision?”

  “It was pretty simple. I wasn’t sure if the ball hit me and I’m still not. So I had no choice.”

  “Part of the reason I’m asking is that there was a cameraman shooting color for KXP News and he happened to film your shot out of the bunker.”

  “And?”

  “I’m calling from their editing truck. We just went through the sequence frame by frame and it clearly showed that the ball never hit you or any part of your clothing.”

  “You’re absolutely sure about that?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Rather than respond, I gaze above the truck at the orange-streaked sky.

  “Travis, I know this has to be upsetting, but can you share your reaction to this news?”

  “So be it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” I repeat, but what I’m thinking is that after forty-seven years, me and Richie are finally all square. “And thanks for the call. I was going to find out sooner or later and I’d just as soon find out now.”

  I order two quesadillas and a Tecate and hunker down on the curb. The orange has drained from the sky and a dramatic sunset has eased into a chilly desert night, and although the seating is a tad harsh for a bony middle-aged butt, I feel entirely at ease and the food is delicious. If by some miracle I ever make it back to the tour and Tucson, I’ll keep an eye peeled for a red and green truck emblazoned with AQUI CON EL NENE (“here with the baby”) in fat blue script.

  20

  THE BEER DONE, I pull myself off the curb, discard the trash, and walk contentedly toward my car, noticing on the way that one business in the strip mall is open—a little tattoo parlor called The Painted Lady.

  I’m still in no hurry to return to my hotel. The lobby, filled with dazed and damaged golfers of a certain age, will be no picnic, and despite not getting my card, I’m not feeling the same gloom. I know I should feel like the unluckiest golfer on the planet right now but if anything, I’m feeling oddly celebratory. And instead of getting right back on the road, I leave the key in my pocket, roll down the windows, and inhale the cool desert air.

  T
attoo-wise, I’m a fifty-four-year-old virgin and expect to die that way, but as I linger in the parking lot, I consider what, if I were to get one, I might engrave on my skin. I suppose I could get a drawing of Louie, a simple rendering of his distinctive terrier outline. Seeing it would always make me smile, but it seems wrong to honor a pet, however worthy, while he’s still going strong.

  Warming to the assignment, I consider a tattoo suggestive of Tucson and the desert, like a cactus or a wily coyote. As images, I like both, and you could argue that a prickly cactus captures my personality, but they are too ambitious, i.e., painful, to consider even hypothetically. And although the weekend was positive in important ways, do I really want to be reminded every day for the rest of my life of Q-School 2.0? I don’t think so.

  Better to get something directed toward the future. Perhaps I could come up with some eloquent message to self that would exhort me in an appropriately low-key way to carry on and persist in my pledge to myself and my old friends to claw my way back onto the tour. Anything that would help me overcome these recent setbacks and ensure that I don’t turn into one more premature retiree is worth considering.

  Three candidates present themselves. The first is It takes a lot of heart to play this game. That’s something Earl told me my rookie season, and after four years on tour and four days in the desert, I can vouch for its veracity. I also like the fact that it applies to this short life of ours in general and not just golf, which to be honest, I’m pretty sick of at the moment. Then comes a phrase my mother often said to me, O ye of little faith, which is another version of the same message, a reminder to believe in myself and resist the inclination to go dark. I also like the simplicity and directness of my mantra at the driving range, Don’t go away.

  I don’t know what you think, but my favorite is the pithy Don’t go away. I like it so much that without actually deciding to do so, I find myself rolling up the windows, locking the car, and walking toward The Painted Lady, although walking, which suggests free will, is misleading. It’s more like I’m standing on a conveyor belt that is pulling me toward the neon sign.

  As I get close enough to read the OPEN sign dangling on the door, it dawns on me that what I am doing is crazy and impulsive and permanent, the perfect cocktail for regret, but I can’t seem to stop the conveyor belt and soon my hand is twisting the knob and I’m stepping across the threshold.

  The place is small and narrow and tidy. Sitting behind the counter is a pretty gray-haired woman with glasses reading the Tucson Gazette. She is wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and her elegant shoulders are covered with elaborate designs. For some reason the fact that she is reading a newspaper is comforting.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, folding the paper in her lap.

  “I’d like to get a tattoo.”

  “I thought you might say that.” She has a lovely smile. “Have you had one before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “One Tecate to wash down my quesadillas.”

  “Aqui con el Nene?”

  “Yup.”

  “Place is great, isn’t it?”

  “The best.”

  “So you were in the neighborhood and figured you’d drop in and get a tattoo?”

  “Basically.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Just a very simple inscription in simple type on my left forearm.”

  “What’s it going to say?”

  “Sarah.”

  21

  OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN WINDOW a dusting of snow clings to the bird feeder and bare branches. The first storm of the winter turned out to be an overhyped bust, but it was enough to cancel hundreds of flights in and out of the Midwest. By the time I’m back in my kitchen with Sarah and Louie, it’s after midnight. Louie pants at my feet, still recovering from his celebration at the front door, and Sarah looks pretty glad to see me too. “Noah stayed up as late as he could,” she says, and pours us both a glass of red. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Truly? After what happened on Sunday and spending all of today at the airport? I was afraid Louie and I were going to have to put you back together piece by piece like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “I had a great time with Simon, and that helped a lot. Not to mention the fact that I get to return to my wonderful wife and pooch. Despite what did or didn’t happen on eighteen, I’m counting my blessings. And I have major news. Simon is turning pro.”

  “I wonder where he got that idea from.…God, I think I just made you blush.”

  “It’s kind of weird. I never saw myself as a role model.”

  “You’re a good role model, Travis.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “Of course I do.…What’s that on your arm?”

  “Oh, that? A little something I picked up in the desert.”

  “I have some cortisone cream in the cabinet.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that.”

  “A bite from a tarantula? Or a venomous snake?”

  “Even worse. I got bit by you.” I extend my arm.

  “…Travis…I can’t believe you did that. Are you having a midlife crisis?…Again?”

  “Probably. But I’m on top of it.”

  Sarah leans toward me and kisses me. Then she gets out of her chair and joins me on mine. “I have a better idea,” she whispers. “Why don’t I get on top of it?”

  22

  I’M TRYING TO GET off to a strong start but the way the morning sun catches my computer screen is distracting in the extreme. Reluctantly, I push back from my desk and lower the shades. That takes care of the glare but leaves the room dark and dreary, so I return to the window and raise the shades several inches. When that feels too bright again, I split the difference…then lower them a quarter of an inch more…and then another…and then raise them a sliver.

  In the process of all this fine-tuning, I can’t help but notice that my computer screen is filthy. If it weren’t so egregious I’d ignore it and plod on, but it looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for years. In the back of a drawer, I find a never-opened container of iKlear Apple Polish. I spray some onto a shammy and wipe down the screen quadrant by quadrant until every last smudge, streak, and fingerprint has been eliminated.

  What a difference! Now the computer screen sparkles and the scent of cleaning agent hangs in the air. At first, I find it pleasant and bracing, but rather than fading, it grows stronger and more pronounced and maybe even toxic, until in its own way it’s as distracting as the glare or the dust. I crack the windows, then put on a sweater against the chill and get back to work. The sweater is plenty warm. Too warm, maybe, and bulky and cumbersome. I feel like I can barely move my arms. A thinner sweater is not warm enough and a third itchy so I go back to the thin one and wear a blazer over it. Perfect.

  Did I mention I’m writing a book? Sarah’s reaction to my tattoo was more than I had hoped for, and Noah thinks it’s kind of cool too, but the problem with tattoos is that it’s hard to build a life around them and they don’t solve the problem of what to do all day. After reviewing my options, I decided to write a memoir about the rags-to-riches-to…sweaters…story of my career as a pro golfer.

  I know I have some decent material and, after spending twenty-five years in advertising, some experience as a writer, but I underestimated just how difficult it would be to get the working conditions right. Either it’s too bright or dim, there’s too much glare or shadow, it’s too breezy or stuffy, and every day it’s different. And although I rarely get any, I find it very difficult not to keep checking my email or what’s happening on the Senior Tour without me, sometimes following Earl and Stump hole by hole. After two weeks of work, I don’t have much more than a title—Making the Cut and Missing It: The Journey of a Journeyman—and to be honest I had that the first day.

  When the lighting, temperature, and wardrobe issues have been sorted, it’s almost eleven. Not quite time for lunch but I should probably t
ake Louie for his walk. He’s been a little sluggish lately and the fresh air would do him good. Reluctantly, I push away from my desk again. Louie lies on his side on the carpet in a warm circle of sun and I jangle the leash in front of his nose. Normally that’s all it takes, but this time Louie refuses to be roused, perhaps because he’s already been on three walks this morning.

  “Louie, don’t make me beg,” I say, and shake his leash again, but Louie doesn’t so much as blink. “Okay, fine, I’m begging.”

  23

  “HAVE YOU EVER GIVEN any thought to television?” asks Ditkoff.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about those new flat-screens.”

  “I’m not talking about purchasing a television, Travis.” Ditkoff wears a bespoke suit, gleaming tortoiseshell glasses, and, on his arthritic claw of a hand, a Rolex Daytona. While none of those distract from his age, they combine to offset it, so that at eighty-six he is simultaneously stooped, shriveled, and undiminished. Not that I am in any position to be ageist. “I meant being on television.”

  “I’ve been on television already, Bob. It didn’t work out too well.”

  “If you’re referring to McKinley vs. Peters at the Ding Dong Lounge in Honolulu last year, I beg to differ. That little skirmish put you in the conversation, my friend. Introduced you as a colorful and outsized media character. A man’s man. A bro’s bro. Now it’s my turn to step into the ring and help you monetize that.”

  It’s 7:15 a.m., and me and the most powerful agent in television news are sharing a window table in the Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock building. I guess I’ve lived a sheltered life, because this is my first power breakfast. Till now, my breakfasts have been strictly nutritional. If I’m having a little trouble focusing on Ditkoff’s pitch, it’s due in part to the spire of the Sears Tower blinking over his left shoulder and the endless view of Lake Michigan over the other. Then there’s the spectacle of Ditkoff himself.