by James Ross
“Can you give the viewers a more detailed description?” Trent asked.
“Boulders abound. They come in all shapes and sizes, from the size of a basketball to the size of a trolley car and bigger,” Callum said. “But what makes this section of the course so difficult is the depth perception. When the player is on the course the site lines can be very deceiving.”
“What else do the players have to negotiate?”
“Aside from the strategically placed clumps of trees, several abandoned water pits full of stagnant water sit like a crocodile waiting for prey. Knee-high native grass can choke the life out of a golf ball. Bunkers filled with black slag add to the unique look. Factor in a swirling wind that knocks the corn flour out of the ball and a nine-degree rise in temperature inside the quarry walls and this stretch of holes has brought many of the best to their knees.”
“We’re now on the twelfth tee, Callum. Describe this hole for us.”
“The hole is a slight dogleg to the right. One hundred and eighty yards off the tee the golf ball must cross the gorge which is approximately thirty yards wide. But the gorge extends up the right side of the fairway and takes away that route for the long hitters. As the gorge nears the green it forks into two prongs. The left prong travels back across the fairway in front of the green while the right prong winds around in back of the green.”
“So what you’re saying is that the weekend golfer doesn’t have much of a chance playing here,” Trent summarized.
“Not if he or she can’t get the ball airborne,” Callum conceded.
“That’s not much of an endorsement about the average Joe,” Trent followed.
Callum shrugged. “Black-slag bunkers and heather discourage any player thinking about trying to take a shortcut up the right side. Scattered boulders make the landing area perfidious.”
“Why don’t you tell us what it means?” Trent asked.
“Oh,” Callum said feigning surprise, “thanks for reminding me. What I said was that it’s bloody treacherous out there in the landing area.”
“Let’s join the final pairing on the tee,” Trent suggested.
“This hole measures four hundred and ninety-seven yards and is playing down wind today,” Callum said.
“That is opposite from the direction that it has been blowing during the first three days of the tournament. Will that make the hole play shorter?”
“Not necessarily. The wind might bring the gorge in back of the green into play. Especially since this green is baked like a potato in an aga.”
“Tank is the first to hit,” Trent said before breaking off to follow the ball, “and that ball needs to get left.”
“If it stays there, he is going to catch the slag.”
“Chalk it up,” Trent replied. “That’s actually the first mistake that he’s made all day, Callum.”
“He was a little late at contact. This part of the golf course can force you to do that. He’ll have to lay up on the next shot. If not, he could make a real dog’s dinner out of this hole.”
“It looks like J Dub has convinced Opur to hit a 3-wood,” Trent announced.
“That’s a brilliant call with the tail wind. It will take the giant boulders out of play.” They watched as Opur’s ball landed in the fairway.
“An interesting wrinkle on this hole is the positioning of the gallery,” Trent revealed. “Reserved seating is sold for the bleachers to the left of the green. Those patrons must come before play starts and stay until the last golfer walks off the green.”
“If you’re new to this tournament you may ask why,” Callum said. “An expansive, swaying walking bridge is constructed over the gorge. That is the only way into the green.”
“What’s it like crossing the gorge on that?” Trent asked.
“That beastly thing creaks. The wooden planks wiggle. The only thing to hold onto is the rope that serves as a hand rail. If it breaks you’ll fall two hundred feet to a certain death. When the wind blows it takes some goolies just to walk across the ravine.”
Trent chuckled as Tank chipped out of the black slag to a position short of the gorge in front of the green. “What’s Opur’s play here?” Trent asked Callum.
“With the tailwind he needs to lift the shot high in the air and have the ball come down for a soft landing. I look for him to hit a 6-iron.”
After the ball found its way on the green Trent said, “For the first time today, Opur has Tank on the ropes. If he can sink a thirty-five footer he’ll go up by two with six to play.”
“It’s not a makeable putt from there,” Callum said. “He needs to lag it close for a tap-in par.”
“What do you see out of Tank right here?” Trent asked.
“He’s only got fifty yards. I’d be very surprised if he doesn’t get this to within six or eight feet.”
Moments later Callum looked like a soothsayer. Both men accomplished what he predicted. With a pair of pars they were on to the thirteenth tee.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
“I’m worried about him,” Morgan said to Julie.
“He played that hole well.”
“Something isn’t right. I can tell by just watching him.”
“We can ask him if he’d like to get off the course,” Julie suggested. “But I’ve got a feeling that I know what the answer is.”
“I only wonder if it’s all worth it,” Morgan protested.
“Are you kidding?” Julie asked. “If he wins The Classic you two won’t have to worry about finances for the rest of your life.” She consoled Morgan. “But remember, this has been a dream of his for a long time. I’ve known him since he was about this high.” She held her arm straight out. “He won’t quit unless he’s forced to.”
“J Dub, I can’t see anything,” Opur said to his caddy as they stood on the tee.
“What do you mean you can’t see anything?”
“Everything is blurry,” Opur answered. “And my cheek is tingling like it’s falling asleep.”
“Let me look at you,” J Dub said as he looked into Opur’s eyes. The pair was standing in a secluded part of the golf course on the rear of the tee and away from the gallery. He put each hand on Opur’s shoulders. “Now I’m going to move my hand and I want you to follow it with your eyes.” He went through a figure-H movement.
Opur moved his eyes up and down and left and right. When J Dub moved his index finger to the tip of Opur’s nose, the player crossed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t really know,” J Dub said. “That’s what my eye doctor does when I pay him a visit.” He held two fingers up at arm’s length. “How many fingers do I have out?”
“Two, but they’re blurry.”
“Then you can see.”
“Yeah, but I can’t follow the ball in flight. When I’m standing over it getting ready to hit, the ball is distorted like there is a shadow around it. I can’t read the greens,” Opur admitted.
J Dub looked into Opur’s eyes. “The only thing that I can see is that your eyes look dilated.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The pupil looks larger than it should be, like more light is getting in that should be getting in.”
“Will that make everything fuzzy?”
“I’m not a doctor, but it might offer an explanation as to why.” He went into a pouch of the golf bag and took out a pair of sunglasses. “Put these on and see if they help.”
“Do you think I’ve got food poisoning?” Opur put his hand up to his eyes and rubbed them before putting on the shades.
“I don’t know, but as much as you’ve complained, obviously something isn’t right.”
“They seem to ease the strain,” Opur said after putting on the eyewear.
“You don’t want to quit, do you?”
“No,” Opur said adamantly. “Would bad food make my face go numb?”
“You’re asking me things that I’ve got no idea about,” J Dub replied. “Do you want me to get a tournament offic
ial and see if we can get some sort of ruling or medical attendant over here for you?”
“Maybe on the next hole,” Opur said. “Let’s see how these sunglasses work.”
“Hit the green and I’ll read the putt,” J Dub said.
“What’s he doing now?” Morgan asked Julie. She had been watching J Dub move his hands around and saw that Opur was wearing sunglasses.
“Maybe the glare was getting to him,” Julie replied. “With the way these clouds are moving in, there isn’t much of that right now.”
Back in the broadcast booth Trent kept the on-air production moving along. “Tank remains one behind with only six holes left. Why don’t you tell us about this next test, Callum?”
“You mean number thirteen?”
Trent nodded off camera. “Yes.”
“At two hundred and thirty-one yards this is the last par three on the course and perhaps the most challenging,” Callum began. “Anything long will fall into the gorge. A ball hit short could hit the face of a quarry wall and rebound into the water pit for a soggy death.”
“To the player’s eye I understand that visually it causes migraines,” Trent interjected.
“That’s true,” Callum admitted. “The green is shaped like a boomerang which gives the committee many pin positions to choose from. Today the pin is in its traditional Sunday afternoon placement, which is back right. As the players stand on the tee they only see the quarry wall which fronts the inside of the elbow-shaped green and the top half of the flag. Yet they know what looms behind the putting surface.”
“What’s your tip on how to play the hole?”
“Hit the middle of the green, be happy with two putts for a par and get over to number fourteen as fast as you can,” Callum explained. “Anything at the pin is a mistake. Virtually the entire field will aim at the center of the green.”
“Today the wind is in their face,” Trent added.
“And that makes the task even that much more daunting.”
“There have only been two birdies here all day,” Trent commented.
“It has played as the most difficult hole to score on in the final round,” Callum followed.
Each participant found the green, albeit both had long putts for birdie. “Can you give us some insight, Monique, on what each player faces?”
“Opur has approximately forty-five feet remaining. His ball did not catch the tiny ridge that dissects this green and he stayed on the top shelf. He’d welcome a two putt. On the other hand, Tank did catch the ridge and his ball filtered to twenty-five feet.”
“Can it be made?” Trent asked.
“Anytime you have a putter in your hand you have a chance to make a putt. But the hole location is tricky and not too many have gone in during final action this afternoon.”
“Can you see better with the glasses?” J Dub asked Opur.
“I can make things out, but nothing is in sharp focus.”
“We just need a good lag putt here,” J Dub said. Opur was squatting behind the ball and J Dub was bent at the waist with his hands on his knees looking over his shoulder. “It should go left to right, maybe two feet or so. When it catches the ridge it will pick up a little speed. We just want to die it by the hole.” He stood up and took a few steps. “Let me show you what I’m looking at.” The caddy advanced ten steps and pointed to a spot on the green being careful not to step in the line of the putt.
“You think it is out that far?” Opur asked as J Dub returned to his side.
“It depends on the speed, but the ball will fall hard near the hole. We just want a two putt and put a three on the card. Think about speed. That makes as many putts as direction.”
J Dub stepped away as Opur hovered over the ball. He took several practice swings and alternated between looking at the hole and trying to focus on the back of the ball. A second after contact Opur watched the ball roll to its destination. “Okay, I hit your spot. Let’s see what happens.”
“It looks good,” J Dub said as the pairing on the green, the gallery and a nationwide audience watched the ball roll. “The speed is perfect.”
The ball caught the ridge, picked up a small amount of pace and filtered to the hole, stopping twelve inches away. “Good.”
“Mission accomplished,” J Dub said as he raised his fist for Opur to tap. “Go tap it in.”
Opur advanced to the ball and was undecided about marking the ball or tapping in. He looked at Tank, who nodded that his stance would not be in his line. Opur tapped in the putt and received a nice hand from the gallery.
“He did what he had to do,” Monique verified as Opur reached into the cup to retrieve the ball. For an abnormally longer period of time Opur stood in the leaned-over position with his hand in the cup. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four seconds. Time froze. Then he stood up with ball in hand.
“What was that all about?” Trent asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Monique whispered from the fringe. “I know he hasn’t been feeling well and he’s been a bit disoriented.”
“I notice he’s got sunglasses on now,” Callum said. “What’s with that? The storm clouds are moving in.”
“There again, I don’t know.” Monique said as she looked at the clouds. “Now that you mention it, it has gotten a bit darker out here.”
“This one is yours, boss,” Dickie Doo said as the two stalked the line of Tank’s putt. His ball had caught the ridge and released to the back of the green. “What do you see?”
“There’s not much to it,” Tank answered.
Tank walked to the hole and bent over at the waist to examine the grass around the cup. Dickie Doo returned to the ball and squatted behind it. Tank pointed to an area and Dickie Doo shook his head in agreement.
Tank went to the ball and once again squatted behind it as his caddy moved behind him to look over his shoulder. Dickie Doo pointed ahead. Tank cupped his hands and squinted. With all the information programmed into his thoughts he approached the shot. With a committed stroke he started the putt toward the cup.
“It looks good from my angle,” Monique whispered.
Two seconds later the roar from the gallery revealed the outcome. “He’s tied for the lead!” Trent blasted.
“He’s done what only two others have done all day,” Callum added, “on the toughest hole on the course.”
“With five holes to play the match is all square!”
Dickie Doo jumped three feet off the ground before retrieving the flag. Tank’s smile was plastered for the world to see. After tapping hands the two picked up the pace to the next tee. Arms extended from the gallery and reached forward to touch the icon. With a clenched fist Tank tapped as many hands as he could on the walk to number fourteen.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
The crowd rushed to the fourteenth tee. Those that were already close were pushed against the ropes. Brash. Confident. Cocky. Arrogant. All those words fit Tank’s demeanor. After tying for the lead his swagger reappeared for the gallery and television audience to see. He had fought from behind for sixty-seven holes. Now he had climbed into a share for the lead.
The prized fedora with blue plume was within his grasp.
Dickie Doo was all smiles. It was as if finishing the tournament was a mere formality. He joked with the marshals. He and Tank had met the opponent and squashed any attempt for the challenger to snatch victory. It was Tank’s day. The fans were behind him. The media loved the action as viewers flocked to their television sets.
“Do you have any fight left in you?” J Dub asked Opur.
“Heck yes I do, but we need to figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s been getting worse all day,” Opur admitted.
“Let me get an official,” J Dub said.
“I don’t know what he can do,” Opur rationalized. “They’re not going to stop the tournament.”
“Are the glasses helping?”
“I little I guess. I just don’t feel all there. I’m sluggish, out of it, dizzy. A
nd my face is getting numb.”
J Dub motioned for an official. An elderly gentleman dressed in slacks, a long-sleeved shirt with tie and a straw hat approached. “Is there anything you can do for a sick competitor?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Opur has been sliding downhill all day. It started early. We couldn’t figure out what was wrong, but now we think it might be food poisoning.”
“What did he eat?” the official asked. J Dub shrugged. “Let me call someone.” The official got on his walkie-talkie and called central headquarters for the tournament.
J Dub got bottled water for Opur. “Stay hydrated. Maybe we can wash that stuff through you.” Beads of sweat formed on Opur’s brow. His breathing had become more rapid. He kept ticking his head.
Morgan pushed her way to the ropes. “Honey, are you alright?” Opur turned toward the sound of her voice.
The smile had disappeared from his face. He stepped to the rear of the tee and pushed his glasses to his forehead. A distant, aloof look gazed from his eyes. “Nauseous is a good word for it.” He let his head swivel downward. It was a chore to hold it up. His hair fell in front of his face.
“Honey, we’ve got to get you some help.”
Opur raised his head. “J Dub’s checking on it.”
Morgan brushed his hair back. The bandage was loose. It had almost fallen from his face. She took the bottle of water out of his hand and wet a hand towel that she pulled from her over the shoulder purse. “This will cool you down.” She patted his forehead.
Opur turned his head. “It’s my turn to hit.”
“What are you talking about? You can hardly stand up.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got to finish.” He yanked his arm away from her. “We’re in this together.” Opur stumbled backward until J Dub intervened and caught him.
“Opur! Opur! Calm down,” J Dub yelled.
He yanked his arm from J Dub’s grasp as the tournament official walked up. “Give me my driver.” A gust of wind blew Opur’s hair into his face. He gnawed at his lower lip, took his visor off his head, put his hair behind his ears and slipped the visor back on. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”