by James Ross
On the course J Dub walked on Opur’s left side with his right hand steadying the player. Opur groaned. “How bad is it? Where did it end up?”
“The wind got a hold of it and knocked it down,” J Dub replied. “Let’s hope that it doesn’t do the same to this scraggily old bridge.” The two inched their way over the bridge. Opur held onto the rope railing with his right hand while J Dub held onto Opur’s left triceps. The wind had made crossing the gorge a harrowing adventure.
Opur’s disappointment was apparent when they set foot back on land. “Dammit. We came all this way and had this kind of luck late,” he said.
“The round isn’t over,” J Dub encouraged. “Let’s get up to the ball and see what our options are.” His tone was positive and full of hope. “The last I remember is that we play eighteen holes to completion out here. This is number sixteen. We still have some shots to make.”
The pair approached the ball only to have confirmed what the viewers already knew. “I can’t advance this thing,” Opur said. He looked at the rock and then the ball. His right hand rubbed his brow. Stress and pain were about ready to blow the top of his head off.
J Dub put down the bag. He walked over to the ball, stood behind it and then moved forward to assume a stance. By simulating a practice swing he envisioned a possible outcome. “Even if you could get the ball straight up in the air you’ll snap the club on the follow through.”
“I don’t care about that,” Opur said.
“Let’s think this thing through.” He turned sideways. “We have to get the ball out there.” The caddy pointed to a spot in the fairway.
“How much will that leave us?” Opur asked.
J Dub grabbed his yardage book. He walked to the fairway, figured some numbers and came back to Opur’s side. “It’s two sixty-two from that spot.”
Opur reached down and fetched a high-lofted wedge out of his bag and then went back to the ball. He stood away from the rock and took several practice swings.
“He can’t be trying to go over the top of that thing, can he?” Trent asked skeptically.
“It’s suicide,” Callum replied.
J Dub watched as Opur looked at the rock and back at his ball. The player shook his head at the predicament
“Why bring the thing into play?” J Dub asked. “What have I been preaching to you since you first started the game?”
“I don’t know,” Opur said in an aggravated tone.
“If you’re going to play this game you have to stay patient,” J Dub said.
“It’s too late in the round to stay patient,” Opur complained.
“It’s never too late,” J Dub countered. “We have to do the smart thing.” He walked back over to the rock, assumed a stance and simulated a swing. He moved his hand forward, suggested that the ball could hit the rock and let his eyes travel skyward and behind the two into thick foliage. “One bad decision here and the tournament will be over for us.” He turned his body sideways and practiced a swing to the fairway. With a demanding voice J Dub said, “Take the thing out of play.”
Reluctantly Opur acquiesced. He chipped sideways to the fairway.
“That’s smart decision number one,” Callum said.
“But it could take away any chance to win the golf tournament,” Trent countered.
“An eight or a nine would have done that,” Callum replied.
“That had to be an agonizing decision to make,” Trent commented.
“Are you kidding?” Callum asked. “He’s a competitor. You could see it etched across his body. He was dying to chip the ball over that boulder.” The Englishman paused. “A calmer head prevailed. There is a lot of golf left. He still has hope.”
Chapter Eighty-Five
“Okay, boss. Here’s our chance to put him away,” Dickie Doo chirped. His positive reinforcement was starting to sound like a yapping dog.
Tank stood with his arms folded across his chest. Shouts of encouragement from the gallery penetrated his hearing as he gazed stoically at the green. “Dickie Doo, can you put a lid on it?” Tank whined. “The guy did all he could do.”
“Yeah, but we’re in the driver’s seat right now. Let’s finish this turkey off.”
“Believe me, that’s what I intend on doing,” Tank assured. “But right now we have to figure out how to get a four on this hole.” He looked at the top of the trees. “What’s my yardage?”
The caddy took the pencil that had been resting above his ear and figured some numbers in the yardage book. “You’re two nineteen to the flag.”
“One-club wind or two?” Tank asked.
“It may be a three-club wind,” Dickie Doo joked.
“This is no time to be clowning around,” Tank admonished his caddy. “One or two?”
Dickie Doo got the message. His posture straightened.
“Two,” he answered and under his breath mumbled, “at least.”
Tank looked out the side of his eye and glared at his caddy. Dickie Doo held his chin high and stared straight at the green.
Behind the duo Opur and J Dub were having their own anxious moments. The player had his 3-wood in hand. He was busy taking practice swings in an effort to keep his body limber. “I don’t know, Opur,” J Dub started. “I just don’t think that’s the right move to make.”
“We’ve got to get the ball on the green.”
J Dub paused to let the comment soak in. “No, we have to make a five,” the voice of experience answered. He reached down to grab some grass and threw the blades into the air. “It’s a two and probably a three-club wind.”
“That’s why I’ve got this club out,” Opur declared.
J Dub shook his head back and forth. “I’m going to play devil’s advocate,” the caddy started. “If the wind knocks it down we’ll bring the gorge into play. Then all that work we did by the rock will be wasted.”
“I’ve got plenty to carry that,” Opur insisted.
“Then you bring the greenside bunkers into play. If we don’t get it up and down out of the sand, we’ll take a double.” He looked Opur squarely in the eye. “Your bread and butter is the one hundred yard marker.”
Opur nodded toward Tank. “But he’s going to knock it in there and make a three or four.”
“Don’t worry about him,” J Dub said. “We need to think about our best chance to make a five.” He grabbed the yardage book. “Look where these contours in the green are.” He placed an X on the pin placement sheet. “We want to be right here with an uphill eight or ten footer.”
Reluctantly Opur digested the information.
“The chances of us getting to that spot aren’t as great from the gorge or the sand trap.” He pointed to the club in Opur’s hand. “Or with that thing.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“We’re a little over two sixty. It’s going to play longer, maybe two eighty-five to two ninety,” J Dub encouraged. He went back to the yardage book and pointed to a spot that was short of the gorge that curved in front of the green. “Here’s where we want to come in from. Stay right and get it by that hundred yard marker.”
“That’s not going to get us a par,” Opur whined.
“And neither is a shot from two hundred and sixty,” J Dub explained. The silence was nerve wracking. “Have you ever heard the phrase addition by subtraction?”
“Yeah,” Opur admitted. “What’s that got to do with what we’re trying to do out here?”
“It applies to this situation,” J Dub continued. “We want to give ourselves the best chance of getting a bogey five and take the chance of getting a big number out of the equation.” He stopped to let the statement sink in. “If we’re only one behind with two to play, we’re still in the golf tournament.”
Opur buried his face in his hands. “All this thinking is splitting my head open.”
“You’re experienced enough to know that there’s going to be adversity on the golf course. It’s what you do during those tough times that are going to ma
ke you a winner.”
Opur reluctantly looked in his bag for the right club. “What’s it playing again?”
“I’d play it about one eighty-five to one ninety with the way this wind is blowing. Let’s lay it up there and play for an up and down.”
Opur took J Dub’s advice. “There,” he said after executing the shot, “I hope it works out for us.”
Several yards ahead of them Dickie Doo turned to Tank. “What the heck is he doing?”
“When are you going to stop worrying about them? We’ve got a shot to make,” Tank said irritated.
“I don’t know why they’re giving us the golf tournament,” Dickie Doo said.
“There you go again!” Tank admonished his caddy. “What did you say I was?”
“Two nineteen to the flag,” Dickie Doo recited. “It’s two oh seven to the middle.”
Tank glared at his caddy. “If I wanted the number to the middle I would have asked for it.” He grabbed a club, approached the ball and after setting himself, took a swing.
“Tank’s ball is up in the wind,” Trent shouted through the mic.
“Look at that breeze knock that thing down,” Callum concurred. “That shot is going to come up well short.”
“Is it going to carry the gorge?” Trent asked.
“I would think,” Callum answered as he watched the ball ride straight up into the sky. “If not, it’s surely in the bunker.” The pair watched as the ball settled into the sand trap.
“It may have been coming down backwards,” Trent said. Tank fired his club against his bag that was lying on the ground. Dickie Doo hurried after the divot to escape the wrath of Tank’s stare. The pride of Texas stormed off to cross the last swaying bridge on the course.
J Dub had his hand on Opur’s arm as the two inched their way to the one hundred yard marker. The caddy wasn’t about to say anything about Tank’s shot falling into the bunker, but the picture that was painted was obvious. “Now stick this shot. Keep it right of the pin and give yourself a six-footer straight up the hill.” J Dub leaned the bag over for Opur to select his club.
“One more for the wind?” Opur asked as he took one extra club.
“Sure,” J Dub confirmed. “You can grip it if you want.” J Dub used a term that allowed the player to choke down on the club by a finger or two. “This is your distance, your shot.” He stepped back. “Nail it.”
“Pow!” Callum exploded as the ball hit the green. “Now we know why they chose that way to play the hole.”
“Did you see that ball grab?” Trent exclaimed. “What do you think, maybe eight feet?”
“Right where he needs to be, he’s uphill to the cup,” Callum verified.
“Now the pressure is back on Tank’s shoulders,” Trent said as the heartthrob of American golf eased himself down an incline and steadied himself in the bunker.
“It’s not a long shot,” Callum called out. “The pin is ten to twelve feet above his head. I’m sure that he can only see the top of the flag from his vantage point.”
“The wind is in his face,” Trent said.
“He’ll get a mouthful of the fairy dust after he makes impact,” Callum added as Tank opened the blade of his sand wedge and swung. “Whew! Look at him jerk around.” The Englishman laughed as Tank looked away from the ball as soon as he made contact. Sand covered his head and body. He took his left hand and brushed the sand out of his hair, tossed his club out of the bunker and grabbed his collar with both hands to shakes the granules out of his clothes.
“He’s outside of Opur,” Trent said.
“But only by a foot or two,” Callum added.
“Tank will putt first,” Trent replied as Tank and Dickie Doo walked onto the green. Even in a tense match and a howling wind Tank looked top rate. His slacks still looked like they had just come from the dry cleaner. His hair appeared to be hair-sprayed in place. The sweater vest gave him a dapper appearance.
With putter in hand he bent over, placed a mark behind his ball and flipped it to Dickie Doo. The caddy wiped it clean and then walked to Tank’s side to show him a scuff on the ball. Tank nodded. “We’ll take it out of play on the next hole.” He was intent on the task at hand.
“There are too many scenarios to go through,” Trent hypothesized.
“Big putts for both these players lie lurking on the green,” Callum stated. “The match can be tied or Opur could fall as many as two back.”
The duo stared at the monitor as Tank and Dickie Doo went through their pre-shot routine. Each read the green from both directions. Tank stalked around the ball to be certain of the movement of the green. He placed the ball on the green and removed his mark. As a last minute check, he pointed to a spot on the green and motioned with his hand that he thought it would curl slightly to the left. Dickie Doo shook his head to concur.
Tank stood over the ball, reached down and pulled at his left trouser leg so the material would fall comfortably. Then he set his hands. He took the club back slowly and confidently stroked the ball into the cup.
“We have a new leader at The Classic!” Trent announced as the noise from the gallery erupted. Then he added, “Just your routine par.”
“That makes this putt for Opur a huge one,” Callum added, “to just stay one behind.”
The broadcast pair watched as Opur placed his ball on the green and squatted behind the ball. J Dub did the work reading the putt. Opur was gassed. Just trying to stand steady in the wind sapped his resources. The caddy looked at the green from all angles then returned to Opur’s side. He walked forward, leaned a bit at the waist and pointed to a spot a few inches in front of the ball.
Opur shook his head. “Is that it?”
J Dub nodded. “Roll over that mark and it will go in.”
“I trust you,” Opur said. “I can’t see anything anymore.” The young man approached the putt from the left side and put his unorthodox setup in place. The wind rippled his pants. His hair blew around wildly. He brought the putter back and knocked the ball in the center of the cup.
“The kid is as tough as nails,” Callum said in admiration.
“But Tank goes into the lead by one stroke with two holes to go,” Trent proclaimed.
Chapter Eighty-Six
“We got through Indian Ambush,” Trent said as the competitors walked to the seventeenth tee. “What’s your analysis, Callum?”
“Tank went into that stretch of holes one stroke behind and emerged with a one stroke lead. His experience came to the forefront.”
“Under extremely difficult weather conditions I might add,” Trent stated.
“It doesn’t look like it’s going to get any easier either,” Callum said. “We’ve got a report from Monique.”
“It has started to rain.” Monique spread her hand out for the camera. “In the past few minutes I’ve felt several drops.”
“I wonder if that tragedy on the sixteenth hole will jeopardize the finish of this golf tournament,” Trent said.
“They’ll play golf until the horn sounds,” Callum replied. “These changing conditions might actually favor Opur a bit.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He played in Europe extensively one summer. That was how he got into the tournament,” Callum reminded the audience. “I’m sure that he had an opportunity to play in his share of conditions that included high winds and rain.”
“You would know,” Trent conceded. “What were the most difficult weather conditions that you’ve encountered?”
“Heavy wind and blowing rain is nothing,” Callum answered. “You haven’t lived in England if you haven’t stumbled upon those elements.”
“So playing golf in wind and rain is simply an average walk in the park for you across the pond.”
“You’re bloody right.” Callum took a swig of water off camera. “You pack your rain suit, mittens, stocking hat and umbrella among other things.”
“What else would there be?” Trent probed.
“Maybe a pa
ir of galoshes,” Callum answered with a grin. Then he switched topics. “Well, I’ve been known to put a little bitter shandy in the vacuum flask,” Callum laughed. “A guy has to have a bit of fun, you know, especially in the wind and rain.”
“Is there any weather condition that you won’t play in?”
“Lightning,” Callum stated with conviction. “If I even so hear a little rumble I get off the course. You can always play again tomorrow. There’s no need to take a chance when the bolts are in the area.”
“That’s excellent advice for anyone that plays the game,” Trent agreed. “Do you see any of that moving into the area today?”
“Our weather forecasters don’t seem to indicate that we’ve got lightning around today. But if they don’t hurry up, this final pairing might get soaked before they get off the course.”
“Why don’t you tell the viewers about the seventeenth hole?”
“This is probably the last reasonable chance the players will get at a birdie,” Callum began. “Number seventeen is a reachable par five under normal conditions. Earlier this week when the wind was blowing from a different direction, many players in the field had the green light to go for the putting surface on their second shot.”
“Five hundred and ninety-two yards is reachable?” Trent said in amazement. “These guys play a different game than the average golfer, don’t they?”
“You won’t see them go for the green in two today,” Callum said. “With that wind these players will have to strap it on and reach for their naughty bits.”
Trent laughed on air. “What on earth are you talking about now?”
Callum looked at his partner and with astonishment said, “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Trent chuckled. “Really, I don’t have the foggiest idea what . . .”
“Anyway,” Callum interrupted, “the wind is stiff in their face. They’ll be laying up here. And birdies will be tough to come by.”
“Is there anything else about the hole you’d like to mention?”
“Aside from bunkers in all of the landing areas and around the green, there is dense forest on the left and the players need to avoid two lakes that border the fairway on the right. Other than that it’s your normal par five that bananas to the left.”