“Now be careful,” Fitz said, bending Conner’s ear whether he liked it or not. “The embankment in front of the green just over the water has been cut so short that any ball that lands in front of the green from a distance will roll back and get wet. Trust me on this—I’ve already seen it happen to three players this morning. Hell, Johnnie Walgreen’s ball landed on the green—but it still rolled down into the trap. You need to lay up.”
“Lay up?” Conner repeated, appalled. Laying up meant he would hit the ball part of the way down the fairway, then chip the ball onto the green with his second shot. “That’s not my style. I hate laying up.”
“I know you do. But we aren’t on the playground and this isn’t the time to show what a macho stud you are.”
“Only wussies and sissies lay up.”
“Sissies like Arnold Palmer? Wussies like Jack Nicklaus? Champions lay up, Conner. Strategy is part of the game. That means knowing when to go for it—and when not to go for it.”
“If being a champion means being a sissy, I’d just as soon not.”
“Conner, don’t be such a damned juvenile. Lay up!”
“I don’t like playing it safe. Doesn’t seem right.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Mmm . . . nah.”
“Conner! This is not about proving how big your club is.”
“Thank you, Bagger Vance. I’m going for it.”
Fitz looked as if he might start tearing his hair out at any moment. “Conner—!”
“I’ve made up my mind. Give me some room, okay?” Conner snatched a driver and squared himself before the tee. If he could get the ball all the way to the far side of the green, surely that would be enough. How long could the ball roll?
Conner took a deep breath, focused on the ball, focused on the target, and swung. The ball flew into the air, rocketing upward like a comet.
Gasps emerged from the peanut gallery. The ball was halfway down the fairway and still flying fast. The only question was how close it would get to the green.
The ball started its downward spiral, finally plopping impressively close to the green. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. There was a little bounce as the ball touched down . . . and then it began inexorably rolling downhill. It moved slowly at first, but to Conner’s horror, instead of running out of steam, it picked up speed the more it rolled. The grass was simply too sheer, and his ball had come down too hard . . .
A groan from the spectators followed the little plopping noise that told Conner his ball was in the water. Enraged, Conner whipped off his cap, threw it down on the ground and began stomping on it.
“Don’t take it out on the cap,” Fitz said sharply. “It wanted you to lay up.”
Gritting his teeth, Conner saw that Barry was laughing his head off, bracing himself against a ball washer. “Your balls have been in the water so much,” Barry said, between bursts of hysterical laughter, “you ought to buy them scuba gear!”
No, there was no ambiguity about it now, Conner thought silently. He definitely didn’t like Barry. Definitely.
By the time they reached the seventeenth hole, relations between Conner and Fitz were even more strained. Conner had lost three strokes on the debacle of the fifteenth hole, then two more on the sixteenth. He was over par now, and his chances of making the cut were getting slimmer with every stroke.
The seventeenth hole was a par-five, but Conner knew it was doable in three, possibly even two, if he pushed the ball to the max and didn’t drive into one of the pot bunkers on the fairway.
Given the importance of the matter at hand, Fitz apparently found himself unable to remain quiet any longer. “Use the seven-iron. Go for four. Five, even.”
Conner shook his head. “I need to make up some strokes.”
Fitz clutched his forehead. “Please tell me you’re not going to try to get to the green in two.”
“I am.”
“Are you nuts? Do you not see those pot bunkers out there?”
“I’m over par.”
“What’s done is done. You can’t make up for past mistakes now. The smartest thing to do is just try to play the rest of the holes right.”
“I think I can do this in two.” He reached for a wood.
“You’re delusional! You’re in Fantasyland!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Conner said airily. “I know there’s some risk. But I think I can do this. And I’m not a wussie. So I’m going for it.”
Fitz jammed the seven-iron back in its slot, and kicked the golf bag for good measure. “Why do you bother to keep me around, anyway?”
“Because you’re such a snappy dresser.”
Conner stretched, took several deep breaths, then let it fly. To the surprise of no one other than Conner himself, the ball careened into a pot bunker with such unerring precision that it seemed as if it must have some kind of homing mechanism. Conner had to play out sideways, adding two unwanted strokes to his score. Worse, he missed the green with his next shot, putted poorly as usual, and ended up bogeying the hole.
By the time he finished the eighteenth hole, there was no conversation between Conner and Fitz—and no need for it, either. They both knew what had happened. Conner had crashed and burned. This time, he was the one who blew off the reporters huddled under the spreading maple and headed straight for the locker room. He threw his gear in a locker and headed for the showers. By the time he had toweled off and returned, he found Fitz waiting for him.
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have some . . . caddie stuff to take care of?”
Conner hoped Fitz didn’t wear dentures, because if he did, given the way he was clenching his jaw, they were likely to pop at any moment. “I have something to say, and I want you to listen.”
“It’s over, Fitz. Let it be.”
“I will not let it be, and you will listen!” Fitz grabbed Conner’s still damp shoulder and shoved him down on a bench. “What does it take to get through to you? You’re killing yourself out there, Conner! Committing sports suicide!”
“It’s just a game, Fitz. Don’t blow it all out of proportion.”
“Don’t give me that, ‘I’m so cool I don’t really care’ routine. I know damn well you’d like to be a winner. And I know you could be a winner. But not until you shape up and learn to listen!”
“I listen fine, Fitz. What bothers you is that I don’t always obey.”
“No, what bothers me is that you keep doing things that are so stupid, stupid, stupid!”
“Fitz, take a chill pill.”
“You signed up with me for a reason, remember, Conner? Because you knew I could help you. And I can, too—if you’ll let me.”
“Do you mind if I get dressed? I’m starting to feel a draft.”
“What does it take to get you to listen? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been playing this game? Since 1960, golf’s greatest year. I watched the Masters that year on television—Hogan, Palmer, Nicklaus, all playing their best. It was spectacular. I’d never seen anything like it.”
“You must’ve led a very sheltered life.”
“Yeah,” Fitz shot back. “I didn’t live in a thriving metropolis like Watonga, Oklahoma. For your information, I had a great childhood. But what I saw those men do on television that year—that was magic. I wanted to be a part of their world.”
“So you took up golf?”
“Damn straight. I got my first caddie job when I was twelve, at the Riverside Country Club in New Brunswick. I toted bags for some of the best Canada had to offer. Half the time I didn’t even get paid—but I did get onto the course free, which was all I really wanted. Before long, I got a rep as a player and as a caddie—someone who knew what he was talking about. By the time I was sixteen, I was caddying on a regular basis for the club pro. He started taking me around, introducing me to the courses, the clubs, the pros, and . . .”
“If you were such a hot player, why did you end up caddying?”
Fitz hesitated. “I w
as good . . . but I wasn’t that good.”
“But that’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it? Deep down, you didn’t want to carry bags—you wanted to have bags carried for you.”
Fitz gave him an evil eye. “I was realistic enough to know that I wasn’t good enough to play the pro circuit. But I still wanted to be a part of the action. To me, golf was sacred. Still is, damn it. So I worked as a caddie. And I’ve been working ever since. I’ve worked with some of the great names of the last forty years of golf. That’s why it’s so frustrating for me to see you playing the way you have been.”
Conner grunted. “Yeah, must be a real comedown to be associated with the likes of me.”
“Don’t you get it, you moron?” He grabbed Conner by the shoulders. “I chose you. I had tons of offers, from some of the top men on the money list. But I decided to work with you, because when I first saw you play, I saw something.”
“Manly good looks?”
Fitz ignored him. “I saw the same thing I saw in Gary Player and Ben Hogan and Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. The makings of a champion.”
Conner fell silent.
“You have the stuff, Conner. You could be one of the greats—maybe the greatest. If I could just get you to start taking the game seriously and to listen to me. I know every stroke, every course, every club—”
Conner’s head jerked up. “Every club?”
“Yeah. Every player, every strategy—”
“Wait a minute. Let’s go back to ‘every club.’ ”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Since you’re the expert on players and their clubs—who else uses an Excalibur nine-iron?”
Fitz pondered for a moment. “Excalibur clubs are a bit unusual and rarely used—as I’m sure you already know. That’s probably why you picked them.”
“Yeah, yeah—so who else uses them?”
Fitz answered without missing a beat. “Only three players currently on the tour use Excaliburs. You—assuming you count as a player on the tour—Ernie Korman, who’s out sick this week and safely back in Newark—and Freddy Granger.”
“Freddy? Freddy uses Excaliburs?”
“Right. Has for years. Quite a coincidence, huh?”
“Yeah. Especially since he was the one who lured me away from my clubs Tuesday night.” Conner pressed a finger against his lips. “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him all day.”
“Freddy played early. Probably took off as soon as he was done. He’s got a wedding to get ready for, you know.”
“Right, right,” Conner said, deep in thought. “I heard all about it yesterday. Big wingding. Costing him an arm and a leg. The best little daughter a daddy ever had. Reception at the Magnolia Glade Country Club.”
“You’re smarter than you look,” Fitz replied. “All the players are invited. Are you going?”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Conner murmured, as he reached for his clothes. “But now I may change my plans.”
Chapter 18
* * *
After he escaped Fitz and the locker room, Conner made a beeline for the clubhouse where he knew the results of the day’s play would be posted. He tried to act as if it didn’t matter, tried to tell himself he didn’t care. But the sad truth was, it did, and he did. His stomach was churning over the thought that he might not make the cut. That he might suffer the ultimate humiliation—being sent home packing before the real tournament play began.
When he arrived, Conner saw the bar was packed. Practically every pro in the tournament was there, anxiously awaiting the posting of the results. Despite the crowd, the room was deathly silent. A few scattered whispers, nothing more. It was almost as if no one wanted to breathe, at least not until they learned whether they’d made the cut. He also noticed that Vic the bartender was working overtime; lots of booze was circulating—soothing nerves and calming fears while each player’s fate remained in limbo.
“Psst.” Ace Silverstone waved Conner over to the bar. Conner reluctantly complied, not in small part influenced by the fact that there didn’t appear to be an empty seat in the room. “Have you heard anything about Tiger?”
Conner frowned. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”
Ace shrugged. “Rumor is he tied my score. Maybe even beat me by a stroke. Just wanted to confirm.”
“Relax, Ace. I’m sure you made the cut.”
“Well, yes. Obviously. But I want to know if I’ve got the lead.”
“Whether you’re first or second, you’re going to be sitting pretty for the last two days of the tournament.”
“That’s not the point. I’ve got a film crew dogging me, remember? I don’t want them to report that I came in second, you know? Too humiliating.”
“Oh, right,” Conner said. “I’d be devastated.”
“I wish they’d get those damn postings up. I can’t stand not knowing.”
Conner made a tsking sound. “Success is a cruel master.”
“You can say that again.” A grin crept over his face. “Say, did you hear what Freddy did today?”
Conner’s ears perked up. “No. What?”
“Oh, man. He was a disaster out there. A walking comedy of errors. Truly awful.”
“Like what exactly?”
“I haven’t gotten all the details yet. But I hear he hit every water hole on Amen Corner. Some of them twice.”
Conner shrugged. “Anyone can have an off day. God knows I have.”
“This was more than an off day. This was more like an off lifetime. Word is he finished ten over par.”
Ten? Conner whistled. That had to hurt. “I expect Freddy just has more important things on his mind. His daughter’s getting married tonight, you know.”
“Yeah. You going to the reception?”
“I’m giving it some serious thought. You?”
“I don’t know.” Ace glanced over his shoulder. “Film crew, remember? I hate to make a scene—you know, disrupt the reception. But the camera boys thought it might be nice to have some footage of me showing up at a family celebration for one of the other pros. You know, showing that no matter how successful I’ve become, I still have time for the . . . uh . . . the . . .”
Little people? Conner wondered.
“The better things in life. Family. Friends. And they thought if I came, it might help make the event special. For Freddy and his daughter.”
Sort of like the arrival of a visiting dignitary, Conner presumed.
He was distracted by the all too familiar sound of drunken grumbling on the opposite side of the bar. In this mostly quiet room, the raspy words were like a gong sounding at daybreak. Barry Bennett was back on the sauce, and to make matters worse, he’d returned to his favorite subject: why he didn’t like John McCree.
“It iss’t so much whadde did,” Barry said, slurring his words with impunity. “It’ss the way he did it.”
Conner bit down on his lower lip. Don’t start, Barry. Just don’t start.
“Sure,” Barry continued, even louder than before, “they say allss fair’n love and war. But some thingsiss right, and some thingsiss wrong.”
Conner glanced over his shoulder. As he suspected, everyone in the room was listening. The expressions on their faces covered a wide spectrum from the amused to the appalled.
“Mind you, I don’t care ’nymore,” Barry said with a hiccup. “I’m over it. Totally over it. But iss hard to have much respect for a man with no honor.”
“Barry,” Conner said, trying to keep his voice calm and even, “why don’t you just shut the hell up?”
“I gotta right to speak my piece,” Barry said. Unfortunately, it seemed the booze made him both feisty and stupid. “There’s this li’l thing called the First Amendment, see? You can’t censor me.”
“I can censor you with my fist,” Conner said curtly. “And I’m about two seconds from starting.”
“Hey, calm down,” Ace said, laying a hand on Conner’s shoulder.
“Oh, stop playing the
peacemaker,” Conner shot back. “The cameras aren’t on.” He turned toward Barry. “Just listen to me for one second, you sorry inebriate. Did it ever occur to you that there might be something screwy about blaming John? Jodie’s the one who dumped you. She made the choice, not him.”
“It wass’t her fault,” Barry answered. His eyes wavered so Conner thought he might crumble to the floor at any moment. “He manipulated her. Took advantage of her. Bought her.”
“Bought her? Man, you are truly looped.”
“He did. With lossa jewelry and fancy cars and a lotta other crap I couldn’t begin to afford. He didn’t play fair. He jus’ bought her—like he did everything else.”
Conner was about to follow up when he detected some rapid movement behind him. Craning his neck, he saw his good buddy Andrew Spenser entering the room. He was holding a large spreadsheet. And Conner knew what that meant, as did every other pro in the room.
The postings.
Spenser cleared his throat. “First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you for your participation in our tournament. By your noble efforts and stalwart athleticism, you have once again maintained the high standards of excellence that the Masters—”
“Jesus God,” someone in the back of the room groaned. “Just tell us if we made the cut!”
Even Spenser had to smile this time. “As you wish. I’ll post the results next to the bar. For those who will proceed, tee times begin tomorrow morning at nine. And to all of you, my heartfelt congratulations. You’re all winners.”
Conner wondered if that included him; he decided it was probably best not to quiz Spenser on that particular point.
As soon as Spenser had the results thumb-tacked to the bulletin board, the crowd surged forward en masse, pressing forward to see where they stood. Conner stayed at the bar, determined to remain cool, trying to look superior while the other lemmings desperately shoved their way through the throng. It was just a game, for God’s sake. The world would go on spinning regardless of who hit their little white ball the best. It didn’t matter a hill of beans—
William Bernhardt Page 13