Final Round

by William Bernhardt

  “Glad to see you changed your attire,” Fitz muttered, as he and Conner and John approached the third tee.

  Conner grinned. Today he was wearing black golf shoes, purple calf socks, overalls cut off as shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt with cigars stuffed in the pocket.

  “Personally, I like it,” John said, suppressing a smile. “Although I miss the Panama hat.”

  Conner’s eyebrows rose. “You thought it brought out the sparkle in my eyes?”

  “I thought it covered up your bald spot.”

  “I do not have a bald spot.”

  John looked at him nonchalantly. “Thinning, then.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Fine, fine. Have it your way.”

  Conner whirled around. “Fitz, am I balding? Or thinning?”

  Fitz couldn’t have looked less interested. “Relax, Conner. You’re still the macho stud of the PGA. A girl in every port-isn’t that what the sportswriters say? Women drool when they see your handsome visage.”

  “But seriously.”

  “It might be time to start wearing a cap.”

  Conner bounced back to John. “This is an elaborate joke, right? You two cooked this up in advance. Your idea of sick humor.”

  John smiled beatifically. “If it makes you feel more secure to believe that, then fine.”

  Conner folded his arms across his chest. “You guys are just jealous because you can’t wear purple calf socks.”

  “I am not jealous of anything about you, sonny,” Fitz retorted, “but I am worried that you’re going to be sacked from the tournament before you have a chance to play. Which will not only make you look like a fool, but will reduce my earnings to seven percent of nothing!”

  Conner selected a club and approached the tee-off. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not! You think this hasn’t happened before? You think you’re the first smart aleck who ever made it into the PGA? Think again. The Augusta National tossed out Jack Whitaker for referring to the fans as ‘a mob.’ They banned Gary McCord for that stupid remark about the fairway being so smooth it looked bikini-waxed. They yanked Freddie Haas for raising his voice! And you’re working overtime to see if yours can be the next name on that distinguished list.”

  “Excuse me,” Conner said, stepping aside. “I have a game to play.” He took a deep breath of the sweet nandina in the air. “And I’m not going to zombify myself just to please a doddering pack of country-club snobs.”

  “Even though they follow the official golf rankings, participation at the Masters is by invitation only.” Fitz huffed. “You should respect the privilege you’ve been given.”

  Conner raised the head of his club beside his ball. “I’d respect it a lot more if I were making more money.”

  “You’d be making more money if you improved your attitude,” Fitz shot back.

  “No, I’d be making more money if I could get this stupid dimpled ball to go in that tiny hole.” He started to swing.

  “Wait!” Fitz shouted.

  Conner jerked around in mid-swing. The head of his club drove into the grass. “What?” he said through clenched teeth.

  Fitz crouched down and retrieved Conner’s ball from its perch on the tee. “What is this you’re playing, anyway?”

  Conner’s expression did not improve. “As I recall, it’s a Magfli 6.”

  “Magfli 6? I thought you were playing a Pro Z1 Titleist. Titleists are the best golf balls in the world. Each one is precision-tested and balanced for premium performance. I bought you a whole box of them.”

  “Yeah…” Conner averted his eyes. “I, uh, gave those to Barry Bennett, actually.”

  “To Bennett? Why?”

  “Well… I lost a bet and I, uh, didn’t have the cash on hand…”

  “You’re joking.”

  “See, I bet that Tom Kite would three-putt the eighteenth, but wouldn’t you know it, the old shanker ended up pulling it off in two. So…”

  Fitz’s face reddened with fury. “So now you don’t have any balls?”

  “Of course I have balls. Well, a ball, anyway. You’re holding it.”

  Fitz glanced at the palm of his hand. “A Magfli 6? That’s a duffer ball. Where’d you buy this thing?”

  “Didn’t. Found it in a sand trap yesterday.”

  Fitz slapped his hand against his forehead. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

  Conner continued playing his practice round, but the game didn’t improve, not for him or John. Neither of the two pros was in the zone. Conner knocked the ball into the rough so often he wished his bag contained a machete. John had been in the water traps so often he considered investing in scuba gear.

  “Damn this stupid game, anyway,” John groused, as they marched toward the fifteenth tee. “Who’s idea was it to start playing golf?”

  “As I recall, it was the only way we could get out of trig with Mr. Imes.”

  John laughed. “Right, right. Good ol’ Imes-stein.”

  “Just think,” Conner said. “If we’d stuck with him, we might be, like, nuclear physicists.”

  The two men exchanged a long look, then spoke with one voice. “Or not.”

  After the laughter faded, Conner jabbed his friend in the side. “Look. Up ahead.”

  Halfway up the fairway, they both spotted another pro on the tour: Abel “Ace” Silverstone. Ace was the sobriquet awarded by the sports press after Abel racked up an impressive series of titles his freshman year on the tour. Now, in his fifth year in the PGA, he was still racking them in, creating the biggest buzz in the golf world since Tiger Woods.

  “Why is he moving so slowly?” John wondered.

  “Over there,” Conner answered, pointing just a bit north toward the green. A three-man camera crew was setting up, adjusting lenses and tripods.

  “Why are they shooting him?” John asked. “The tournament hasn’t even begun yet.”

  “Probably doing filler spots,” Conner guessed. “Getting some pregame background material. Possibly doing a profile. After all, he’s favored to win.”

  Conner turned toward his friend. “You know, I hate people who are favored to win.”

  “That’s just as well. Because as I recall, he hates you.”

  “That business at Pebble Beach was a total misunderstanding. How was I to know that girl was his daughter?” He glanced back at the camera crew. They looked ready to roll. “Anyway, I don’t think this glory hog needs any more exposure. So what are we going to do about it?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m just a good ol’ boy from Oklahoma.” John paused. “I count on you to come up with the evil stuff.”

  A malevolent grin infected Conner’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He unzipped a special compartment on the side of his bag and retrieved a single golf ball. “Those camera boys want a show. I say we give them a show.”

  When they caught up to Ace, he was on the lip of the water trap, barely ten yards from the green. Ideally, he could chip the ball over the water onto the green and then one-putt into the hole. With luck, he might even skip the putt and score with his chip shot.

  “Ace, my man. How goes it?” Conner said as he strolled into Ace’s face, hand extended. “How lucky to run into you.”

  The instant Ace saw Conner, his face twisted into a bitter grimace. It was several seconds before he appeared to remember that the cameras were rolling and tried to feign some semblance of cordiality. “Uh, yeah. Lucky.” Ace forced up a smile and shook Conner’s hand. Even if he hadn’t hated Conner’s guts, Conner suspected Ace wouldn’t be all that thrilled to see someone else invading his spotlight, but there wasn’t much he could do about it with the cameras on.

  “Looks like you’ve attracted a bit of attention,” Conner said, winking and jabbing the man in the ribs.

  “What? Oh, them. Right.” Ace shrugged haplessly. “It wasn’t my idea. They’re from CBS. They wanted some background footage on me, just in case… well, you know.” />
  “Of course we do,” John said, taking the man by the shoulder. “And we just want you to know we’re rooting for you.”

  Ace blinked. “You are?”

  “Course we are. You’ve always been our favorite. Of the top dogs, I mean.”

  “Jeez, that’s nice to hear. When a man rises to, well, you know, my place on the money list, he starts to worry that there might be some resentment from… well…”

  “The peons?”

  “No, no, of course not. I just thank God every morning that he made me one of the winners. We can’t all be winners, you know. I learned that back in the first grade, playing dodgeball in gym class. There are winners and losers. It’s true on the tour, too. Winners and losers.”

  “Or,” John said, “taking Conner into account, winners and wieners.”

  Ace laughed. He started to walk on, but John grabbed his shoulder and held him fast. “Say, I’ve been wondering if you could do something for me-”

  Ace’s eyes narrowed. “Jeez, I’m really busy right now. After this shoot, I’ve got a meeting to talk about a cable TV special, then I’m talking to the Ping people about a possible endorsement-”

  “This won’t take a minute. See, I’ve been having this trouble with my backswing, and since everyone knows you’re the master, I thought maybe…” He winked. “Just a few pointers?”

  “Oh. Oh. Sure.” Ace’s face brightened. “Well, you know, the key to the backswing is the grip. I know some people say it’s the stance, but let me tell you-it’s the grip. It’s really simple. See, most people hold the club like they’re swinging a baseball bat upside down. But what you want to do…”

  While Ace gassed on about backswing, behind him, Conner surreptitiously replaced Ace’s golf ball with the ball he had taken from the compartment in his bag. The cameramen picked up what he was doing, but to Conner’s relief, none of them said a word.

  “… then you gotta loosen up, you know? Hold the club firmly, but relaxed. Then carefully bring your club back around and-pow!”

  John smiled. “Pow! That’s it, huh?”

  Ace gave his familiar aw-shucks shrug. “That’s it. Pretty simple, huh?”

  “Heck, yeah. I just wish someone had told me before.” He shook Ace’s hand with great vigor. “Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can hit the ball.”

  “Thanks,” Ace said. “Course, I’d love to chat but-you know.” He jerked his head toward the camera crew. “ America is waiting.”

  “Right, right.” Smiling and waving, Conner and John backstepped briskly away from him.

  “Think he saw me make the switch?” Conner whispered, once they were out of earshot.

  “Nah. All he can see is his name in lights.”

  Back at the water trap, Ace made a great show of addressing the ball. He frowned, crouched down, then gazed studiously at the hole in the center of the green. He placed his club on the ground to check the lie of the course, then brushed some leaves and other debris away. He held his thumb forward, as if measuring the distance, then licked a finger to check the wind.

  “Cripes, just hit the ball already,” Conner muttered. John jabbed him in the side.

  Finally, Ace was ready to swing. With a brow creased by fierce concentration, he took his stance, adjusted his grip, gave his ball a steely-eyed look, then swung…

  The instant the club hit the ball, it exploded into a cloud of white talc. Ace cried out-something between “Ahhh!” and “Yikes!”, Conner and John could never agree-and jumped at least a foot in the air. His club flew backwards out of his hands, narrowly missing Conner’s skull. Ace landed off balance and started teetering precariously forward.

  “No,” Conner whispered silently. “This is just too good to be true.”

  Ace flailed his arms madly, trying to recover his balance, but it was not to be. With no means to stop himself, he tumbled face first into the water trap, like a diver belly-flopping. After thrashing about in the water for several seconds, he reared his head up, dripping wet, algae around his neck, a lily pad clinging to the side of his head.

  And of course, every moment of this performance was recorded for posterity by CBS.

  John turned toward Conner. “You think we should help the man out?”

  “I think he’d prefer to be alone right now.”

  “You’re so sensitive, Conner. That’s what I like about you.”

  “Yeah.” The impulsive grin criss-crossed his face. “Let’s see if we can bribe the cameramen for a copy of the tape.”

  Shortly after dark, a head appeared in the rough off the fairway for the eighteenth hole. The eyes scanned the surrounding area. Then, when they were sure no one was in sight, an arm emerged and pushed the body out of the ground. He’d made it!

  He replaced the manhole cover and quickly ducked behind a tree. It had taken hours of crawling through narrow, claustrophobic tunnels, but eventually, he’d found himself inside the Augusta National compound. And no one was the wiser.

  When at last he decided it was safe to move, he stayed low, clinging to the ground. He knew that the Augusta National employed a significant security team, and that their numbers were tripled during the week of the Masters tournament. It was not impossible that someone might be out here, even after dark, even this far from the clubhouse and the cabins.

  He scanned the course and, sure enough, a few moments later, he spotted a man cruising the course in a golf cart. He didn’t appear to be going anywhere special or doing anything in particular. Definitely security. He waited until the guard was well out of the way, then made a break for a thick patch of trees nearby.

  He suppressed a smile, barely able to contain himself. For all he had heard about the much-vaunted ultratight security measures of the Augusta National, he’d made it inside. He wrapped a green flak jacket around his skinny frame, covering his black heavy metal T-shirt. He brushed his long stringy hair away from his face, then checked his pack to make sure he hadn’t lost any of his gear. All the essentials still seemed to be in place. Good. Very good.

  Slowly, he eased out of the rough, checking in all directions for security. He could probably make it to the clubhouse without being spotted. Course, even if someone did spot him, he would just whip out the false credentials he was carrying. According to his wallet card, he was a member of a CBS film crew. Just out for a walk, he would say. Scouting locations.

  As he crested a hill, he spotted for the first time the gleaming white edifice of the Augusta National clubhouse. All the pros would be in there now, he knew, swapping stories, buying drinks. Getting ready for the annual champions dinner later tonight. They would all be there. Including his target.

  And after the dinner, they would all move to their cabins. It would be a simple matter of keeping his eyes open and staying out of sight to determine which cabin was John McCree’s.

  And once he knew that, he would be able to complete his mission with ease.

  He smiled, then headed toward the clubhouse. He zipped up his flak jacket, insulating himself. A strong wind was coming out of the west, and he was beginning to feel a chill.

  John McCree, he thought silently to himself. Soon, he would be face-to-face with the man.

  And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

  4

  Conner and John stood just inside the doorway of Butler Cabin and whistled.

  “Man,” John said, “have you ever seen so many golf pros crammed together? It’s like the audition room for the new Titleist commercial.”

  “Or a meeting of Gamblers Anonymous,” Conner suggested.

  The large banquet room was packed with golf pros of all ages, from all eras. Scanning from left to right, Conner saw a distinguished pantheon of players, the latest and the greatest, everyone he had worshiped as a kid and everyone he envied as an adult.

  The Tuesday night Masters champions’ dinner was a huge affair, possibly the most prestigious event on the pro golf social calendar. Founded by Ben Hogan in 1952, it was the greatest event at th
e greatest of tournaments-small wonder everyone wanted to be there. Beforehand, in accordance with tradition, an autograph session took place in the Champions Locker Room while the past champions enjoyed a pre-dinner cocktail; no autographing was permitted at the formal dinner itself. John, as usual, was immaculately attired in a new sports jacket and tie. Conner was wearing blue jeans with a T-shirt that looked like a tux.

  “Over there,” John said, pointing toward the dais. “Table One.”

  Conner followed John’s finger toward the long rectangular banquet table at the front of the room. It was Table One, all right. All the giants were there, past and present-Ben Crenshaw, Nick Faldo, Fuzzy Zoeller, Tiger Woods, David Duval, Arnold Palmer, Ray Floyd-just to name a few.

  “Check it out,” John said, gazing with awestruck amazement. “Jack Nicklaus!”

  “Really?” Conner started forward. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him. He still owes me from the eighteenth hole at St. Andrews.”

  John grabbed Conner’s arm and held him back. “The man is a living legend. Give him some respect.”

  “It’s hard to respect a living legend who welshes on a hundred dollar bet.”

  “He did not welsh on the bet. There was a difference of opinion about whether your ball moved the first time you swung.”

  “I never even came close to that ball! It was the wind. You know what those Scottish winds are like!”

  “Yeah. So does Jack Nicklaus.”

  Conner frowned, then relented. There would probably be a better time to try to collect the debt. Like maybe when the Golden Bear was giving a press conference. “I don’t suppose we’re sitting at Table One.”

  John glanced at the seating chart. “Not hardly.” He pointed toward another table in a recess against the south wall, the table furthest from the dais. “Table Twenty-Four. That’s us.”

  “Swell.” Conner made his way toward Table Twenty-Four, John just a few steps behind him. He threaded his way through the labyrinth of tables, pausing to chat with the players he knew, who for the most part were not those wearing green jackets. The green jackets were the exclusive attire of the past champions of the Masters tournament. This was their one night of the year to wear them. And no one was allowed to take them home.