It was an opportunity for Tony. He worked hard to good effect, and this was noticed. Six weeks later, he was offered promotion and a big pay hike if he would agree to relocate for six months to New York, where the company had set up new temporary offices in Lower Manhattan. ‘It’s too good an opportunity to miss, Holly’, he said, when he told her on the phone. She could tell his mind was made up. ‘It’s only going to be half a year.’
Intuitively Tony knew that, having recently embarked on a new career, and with a lasting aversion to the city that had brutalized her indelibly, his wife might not wish to accompany him there, but he decided to seize the opportunity and go anyway. Their separation, while in a sense accidental, was also partly a choice they each made. Telling themselves it was temporary made it easier. However, Tony did well in New York. The energy and creative versatility he showed at rugby shone through under the challenging circumstances he faced there too. His bosses liked what they saw, and naturally asked him to stay on after the six months was over. There would be another pay rise to help him make up his mind, and extra payments to cover regular transatlantic flights for himself and Holly, or relocation expenses if they wanted.
Holly knew that if she could make herself go across and visit him, perhaps for a weekend every couple of months, there was a still chance they could make the marriage work even now, but she simply could not face the prospect. She started having panicky dreams about men chasing her with knives, and about aircraft exploding in the sky. Tony visited her once. They went to the South of France for a few days; but when, more than a year after the twin tower attacks, Tony told her he had started seeing someone else – Amy, an American economist with a rival company – Holly was not surprised. She cried, but she knew the break-up was inevitable. They were divorced without fuss six months later.
The 13th
Chapter
You can gauge much of what is happening at a Ryder Cup by the noise. There is a permanent background hubbub, then every time a magnificent shot is played or a decent length putt goes in, whenever a hole is won or lost, a great cheer rings out across the course. From the moment Ian Poulter and Bubba Watson galvanized their respective supporters on the first tee, the clamour was always going to be a major factor in the excitement. The huge majority in the thousands strong crowd were American, but the equally vocal Europeans, despite being heavily outnumbered, could still be heard cheering on their players… And it made a difference. Rory McIlroy said later that hearing the US crowd shouting out comments throughout his final round on Sunday, mostly teasing him for his late arrival at the course, helped secure his determination to win. That’s why he bowed to the partisan throng in defiant appreciation after winning his match.
Jamie Royle, conscious of his privileged position following close to the players in the Rose-Mickelson match, had to restrain himself at times to avoid disturbing the players by making a sudden noise. Rose had won the first two holes and looked comfortable with his game, striking his shots sweetly and stroking his putts confidently, but the experienced left-handed American had stayed with him, winning back the fourth and fifth, halving six. Rose went ahead again on the par-five seventh, only to lose the short eighth to a fine birdie two. Rose won the ninth; Mickelson the eleventh, and they were still all-square after thirteen. Then the American eagled the par-five fourteenth to win the hole and go one-up with four to play. As the putt dropped, the crowd went wild. Jamie, knowing – as Rose himself must have done – how crucial it would be for the Brit to get back to even and keep his hope of victory alive, had a brief moment of doubt. This was surely the key match right here.
Jamie’s confidence was shaken again, though, as he followed the players up the par-four fifteenth. Having found the front greenside bunker, Rose then played a dreadful shot. Jamie thought he might be about to collapse. The ball just flopped forward. It not only failed to escape the trap, but dived vertically into the sand, half buried on the up-slope, plugged right under the lip. The next shot looked pretty unplayable to Jamie, who was near enough to see clearly, especially as the American’s ball was only five feet from the cup; but the Englishman stayed cool. Taking an awkward stance, one foot higher than the other, he managed calmly to splash the ball out of its tomb in the sand, the club’s momentum forcing it to rise up in the air, allowing it to land gently on the putting surface from where it dutifully rolled right up close to the hole. Now it was the European fans’ turn to let out a cheer. Surprisingly, Mickelson then missed his five-footer and the hole was halved… But it was still one-up to USA in this match.
Unable to get close to the next tee, Jamie sped ahead alongside the fairway. From his forward vantage point, he watched both golfers hit good drives, and then follow each other with excellent approach shots. Near the green, minutes later, he watched Mickelson putt first from about ten feet, and cursed softly under his breath when the ball disappeared into the hole for birdie. The pressure on Justin was phenomenal, he was thinking, but the Englishman still seemed calm and highly focused, preparing to hit the remaining eight-footer. When his ball followed his opponent’s into the bottom of the cup, unable to hold back, Jamie finally joined the masses and gave out a very loud cheer. Rose was still one-down with only two holes remaining, but Jamie was beginning to feel that something amazing could happen.
Medinah’s seventeenth hole across Lake Kadijah had been lengthened from the previous day, now measuring a hundred and seventy yards. This brought the bunkers, left and right, dangerously into play, and there was a steep slope at the back of the green. To avoid any risk of going in the water, most players hit long. Jamie was not much surprised therefore to see Mickelson hit his ball over the green and onto short grass towards the top of the slope. The pin that day was placed towards the front-right of the green, so Phil was going to have to judge his pitch shot perfectly down the hill to avoid it running on towards the water. He was known for being a genius at that kind of thing, though, so Rose must have known he needed something special to happen if he was going to win the hole… And he knew that he must win the hole; the only option if he was going to succeed in the match.
Jamie knew this too. It was such a pressure tee shot, but to aim at the flag would surely be overly risky. It was too close to the lake and also pretty near the right hand bunker. In a way it was a relief when he saw the ball struck cleanly, flying to the heart of the green and rolling on towards the back. At least it was dry and out of trouble, but it was all of forty feet from the cup. Two putts from there – down the slick slope, curling significantly from left to right – would be good… But would it be good enough?
The crowd behind the green were massed tight. Jamie had to stand up in his golf-cart to see anything, and still had only a partial view of Mickelson, playing his shot. True to form, it was brilliant, almost perfect. Jamie’s heart was in his mouth as the ball nearly dropped; but thankfully missed the hole on the left by a mere half an inch, coming to a stop a foot or so away from the hole … a tap-in, duly conceded.
The pressure back on Rose, he began eying up his putt, still outwardly nerveless. Jamie could only see the top of his head, motionless for the time it took to swing the putter rhythmically back and forward. The crowd were totally hushed as the ball appeared in Jamie’s left view, tracking fast in a right-hand curve towards the hole, and then suddenly diving right into it like a rat up a drainpipe. It was an astonishing birdie two, and a win… Match all square! The noise was deafening. Rose did not give a fist-pump, but instead struck an intensely defiant pose, arms outstretched downwards, face stern. It seemed as if he could not let himself get excited yet. He still had to win the eighteenth.
Mickelson meanwhile, in a supremely sportsmanlike gesture, turned to give Rose a big grin and congratulatory thumbs-up. Jamie saw this and marvelled. ‘I wouldn’t be so happy in his shoes’, he thought. ‘Doesn’t he realize what just happened? Europe could win.’ But, on his way through to the final tee box, he caught sight of a leader-board and saw that Colsae
rts had lost his match to Dustin Johnson at the sixteenth. The American team was ahead again: 11 – 10. ‘Justin’s got to win now’, he thought, more conscious of his bet than worried about European glory. ‘There can be no other way.’
In the end, it came down to a putt. Mickelson’s ball was slightly over the eighteenth green in two shots. Rose was closer, about twelve feet from the hole, facing an uphill putt that was going to curl significantly from right to left, the opposite way to his putt on seventeen. Jamie, back down the fairway some distance, unable to get nearer, could see in the brilliant autumn sunlight, shadows lengthening, that the grandstands were completely filled. The green itself was now ringed by the players from both sides who had already concluded their matches, by the captains of the two teams, the vice-captains, the caddies and the players’ wives… Everyone looked tense, and complete silence descended on the scene as Mickelson rolled his lengthy putt down the hill, finishing close enough to be confident of a par four.
So now it was Rose’s turn again. Everything else was on hold. Time seemed to stand still. There was so much riding on this putt that the pause was agonizing, and again Jamie could only see the top of Justin’s head. He was not aware of the exact moment he hit the putt, but he was instantly aware when it fell into the hole, because the European supporters went wild. Jamie saw Rose turn triumphantly, his fist briefly in the air this time. Then, like a gentleman, he was shaking Mickelson’s hand. Against the odds, somehow, he had won. Right now the teams were level; the score: eleven-all.
For a moment, Jamie felt exhausted, the tension within him giving way. European players all around were smiling and hugging each other, celebrating Rose’s win; but there were six matches still out on the course, and Europe needed to win at least three of them to tie and retain the Ryder Cup.
Jamie was also worried because only victory would be good enough to win his bet with Chuck, which meant getting three-and-a-half points from the six still out there. At that juncture, as it happened, Graeme McDowell was on the point of losing to Zach Johnson, and Swedish player, Peter Hanson, was down to Jason Dufner. Only Lee Westwood looked to be in control of his match.
Studying the leader board, adrenaline taking effect once more, Jamie was trying to decide where to go and which match to follow. The best thing, he thought, would probably be to stay near the green at eighteen, rather than charge back down the course. After handing over the blue official buggy he had been using to a tournament official, he made his way onto the mound at the back, close to where Mickelson had taken his final putt, which is where Chuck Flanagan found him soon after.
Having finished officiating, Chuck was now free to enjoy the finale too. He was still fully confident of a US victory, but Jamie correctly observed that a sea-change had come over the onlookers. After Rose’s stunning triumph, the American supporters were more subdued, and the Europeans in the crowd were much more vocal. It was the kind of thing that could alter the whole momentum of a contest. In the next few minutes, McDowell lost, giving USA a brief lead again, then Westwood won, restoring parity: twelve-all.
The excitement automatically shifted to the Garcia – Furyk match. Sergio had won the second hole and lost the third. Jim Furyk had won the eighth and lost the tenth, won twelve and lost thirteen; then he won fourteen and they halved fifteen. With Sergio now one-down, the sixteenth was going to be crucial. Chuck and Jamie could see these events unfolding on the big screen in front of the clubhouse. After both golfers hit good drives, Furyk hit a magnificent shot up the hill with a fairway hybrid club to about eighteen feet, to the left and just past the flag. Garcia, in contrast, hit his four-iron second shot poorly, the ball finishing in the right hand front bunker. On the screen, Jamie could see that Luke Donald was down there, walking alongside Garcia, doubtless doing his best to help his friend stay focused and confident; and the extra support must have worked because Sergio’s next shot, out of the bunker, was majestic, almost going in the hole, stopping at ‘gimme’ distance, less than a foot away. Furyk duly conceded the putt, and now faced a birdie attempt to win the hole.
What happened next shows how exquisitely cruel the game of golf can be or, from the other player’s perspective, how forgiving. Furyk made a lovely stroke. The ball seemed destined, for the whole of its path, to go into the hole. The crowd thought so, starting to cheer. Jim thought so, raising his arms getting ready to celebrate. Jamie thought so, with a sinking feeling in his belly. And Sergio probably thought so too… But the ball, slowing down, veered off line just enough within the last few inches to miss the centre of the cup, running into the left lip with sufficient sideways momentum to make it stay above ground. There were loud groans from some of the US spectators. It was another half, and Sergio remained just one-down.
The forty-two year old Furyk, normally the toughest of proven competitors, might have been slightly rattled by what had occurred, because he hit a poor shot across the lake on seventeen. His ball found the left-hand bunker, a long way from the hole. While Sergio went ahead and made a safe par, Jim could only get his bunker shot down to the front of the green, at least fifteen feet from the hole, from where he missed the putt, pushing it slightly wide, a couple of inches to the right. As a result, the two men were even.
Hitting first on eighteen, Garcia added to the pressure on Furyk by hitting a fine drive up this, the final fairway. His opponent followed by uncharacteristically again miss-hitting his tee shot, the ball finding another bunker, this one on the right side. Furyk’s second shot then flew towards the back of the green, slightly past the end of the putting surface, close to where Mickelson’s ball had been almost an hour earlier, almost at Jamie’s feet. Unlike Phil, though, Furyk hit his putt a little too hard so that it ran eight feet past the hole on the slick putting surface. Sergio had played a safe second shot to the front of the green, from where he putted up to a few inches. Furyk conceded the four, and it was suddenly left to him to hole his eight-footer. This would halve the hole and tie the match. Just as on sixteen, though, the good-looking stroke veered a touch off line. The ball again hit the lip and stayed out.
By winning the last two holes, Sergio had turned the match around. The match score was now thirteen-twelve, his victory having put the Europeans ahead for the first time since the start of Day One. It was a momentary lead, however, because despite a valiant fight-back from the Swede, Dufner finished off Hanson soon after. The team scores were even again, and there were only two matches left. Not one of the four golfers still playing had won a point over the preceding two days. Which would hold their nerve and which crumble? The excitement was at fever pitch.
***
Back in Sussex, Holly and her father stayed up watching the contest, match by nail-biting match, riveted to the television. You did not need to be a golfer, Holly realized, to get caught up in this thrilling action. She had, for example, developed a soft spot for handsome Luke Donald, and was delighted when he won his singles contest against Bubba. It surprised her how much she now wanted Europe to win.
Her father had explained the emblem on their sleeves on that final day. It was an image of Seve Ballesteros, he told her, in the fist-pumping pose made famous after he sunk a tricky putt on the final green at St Andrew’s in Scotland to win The Open for the second time in 1984, at the age of twenty-seven. He was invincible back then. Beneath the embroidery were his dates: 1957 – 2011. ‘I’ve heard the Europeans say how much they want to win the Ryder Cup in Sevvy’s memory’, Sam added. ‘Some think he is smiling right down on them from heaven, willing them on.’
‘It does look as if something’s helping them’, Holly replied.
‘Rose’s putts on seventeen and eighteen… Furyk missing on sixteen, then bogeying the final two holes… Yes, I think I agree with you… But they still need Lady Luck on their side, don’t they?’
Their conversation was cut short as a commercial break finished. The action from Medinah was resuming with German golfer, Martin Kaymer, about to pla
y his shot from a bunker on the fourteenth. It wasn’t special, but it became good enough when he went on to sink his eighteen-foot putt for a winning birdie and the lead in his match against one of the US Captain’s picks, forty-five year old Steve Stricker. But the German spoiled it on the next green. A lapse in concentration resulted in him taking three putts and losing the hole.
Meanwhile the Italian, Francesco Molinari, a golfer of modest stature in terms of height, but a giant in terms of ability, was managing to hold his own against the colossus called Tiger Woods. He was even briefly in the lead at one point on the back nine, but was soon brought back level again. Sam explained that Molinari might halve his match, but might equally lose it. No-one was expecting the renowned and formidable Tiger to make it easy for him, so it was looking like everything was going to depend on Kaymer. He had to win his match for Europe to tie.
‘That wouldn’t be too bad’, Sam explained. ‘Because Europe won last time, they will retain possession of the cup… It’s not as good as winning, but if you think where they were at the start of the day, it’s still mighty impressive.’
But this was not what Jamie Royle was thinking, greenside at Medinah. He needed Kaymer to win and Molinari to at least halve with Tiger. A lot of money was at stake as, down by the sixteenth green, things were hotting up. Like Sergio before him, Kaymer played his third shot to that hole from a bunker, but not as brilliantly as the Spaniard. After the German’s ball finished well past the cup, Stricker made an excellent putt for his par four. Kaymer; absolutely having to sink his long effort; bravely then followed the American in for the half.
On seventeen, it was the American’s turn to make a simple error. Stricker’s chip to five feet was a good one, but he missed the putt, whereupon Kaymer managed to coax his four-footer into the hole for a winning par. It would have been disastrous to miss. Standing on the final tee, he was at last one ahead. Unless Stricker made birdie, all he would need was a par four, but his tee shot went right, into yet another of the course’s treacherous bunkers, the same one Furyk had been in earlier on, with fatal results for the American.
The Red Chairs Mystery Page 18