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“Be a sport.”
Fitz folded his arms across his chest. “No,” Fitz said emphatically. His full name was Daniel Fitzpatrick, but he’d been caddying forever, and everyone had long ago reduced his name to the single syllable.
“C’mon. For me?”
“Definitely not.”
“What, are you afraid you’ll be fined by the caddies’ union? Look-if you’ll just settle this dispute, I promise I won’t make fun of that silly yellow sweater.”
“What a charmer.”
“Puh-leeze?” Co
Fitz twisted his craggy, weathered face. “I caddied for Gary Player for six years and he never once asked me to settle an argument.”
“Then you’re overdue. Here’s the thing: what do you think they put inside golf balls-Silly Putty, or super-compressed monofilaments?”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “I assume you stand in the Silly Putty camp.”
“I shouldn’t say. It might prejudice your decision.”
“For your information, you dimwits, they put rubber inside golf balls. That’s all it is. Rubber.”
Co
“That’s right,” Fitz said emphatically. “Plain ordinary rubber.”
Co
“He says it’s rubber,” Co
“I heard that,” John replied.
Co
“Definitely not,” John agreed. “No way.”
“Can’t be,” Co
“Agreed,” John said. “If golf balls had rubber inside, they’d bounce all the way down the fairway. Or in Co
Fitz threw up his hands in despair. “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you two reprobates!” He marched past them toward the first tee. “C’mon. If you don’t get your practice round started, you’ll lose your tee time. And if you don’t log enough practice hours, they’ll toss you out of the tournament.”
It was possible, Co
During his three years on the tour, Co
John nudged him in the side. “Smell that?”
Co
John looked at him pitiably. “Honeysuckle.”
Co
“Not much like back home, huh?” John said, gri
Co
After high school, John went off to college in California, while Co
Today was Monday; Co
Co
Fitz stared at him, appalled. “You mean, you want to play golf now?”
“Isn’t that what I normally do on golf courses?”
“Matter of opinion, I suppose.” His eyebrows knitted. “You can’t play golf dressed like that.”
“And why not?” Co
Fitz’s lips tightened. “Co
“I like this outfit,” Co
“I think it says, ‘Here’s a man who’s about to be thrown off the tour.’ ”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m not! You know the PGA has strict rules on decorum and appearance. They don’t even allow pros on the tour to have facial hair, for Pete’s sake. And this club has even more rules than the PGA. You can’t dress like a bum.”
“I’ll dress any damn way I want to.”
“And you can’t swear, either. That’s an automatic $250 fine.”
“Enough chatter,” Co
Fitz pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, as if suffering from a severe migraine. “Great. Just great. Try to remember what I told you, okay? Stance. Swing. You’re putting too much weight on your left foot. And you’re not bringing your backswing high enough.”
“Stop being such a mother hen.”
“Jack Nicklaus paid me big bucks to be a mother hen!”
“Then go cluck in his coop for a while. You’re making me crazy.”
“You were born crazy.”
Laughing, Co
Fitz grabbed his hand. “What do you think you’re doing now?”
“I’m getting a golf club. I know that must seem strange, but the ball goes farther than if I just blow on it.”
“You took out a wood. You can’t use a wood on this hole.”
“I can and I will.”
“The tee markers haven’t been moved back. It’s not that far to the hole. That’s way too much power.”
“I’m warming up, okay?”
“Co
“Stop telling me what I can’t do!”
“But you-”
“Fitz!” Co
Fitz fell silent.
“All right then.” Co
“Stance,” Fitz murmured audibly. “Swing.”
“Fitz!”
“All right, all right.” He buttoned his lip.
Co