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“Aaarghh!” Co
John fell to his knees, convulsed with laughter.
Co
John rolled on the ground, propping himself up with one arm. “What… do… you… think?” he said, squeezing the words out between guffaws and gasps for air. “You.”
“Damn, damn, damn.” In a sudden fit of temper, Co
“I tried to tell you,” Fitz said quietly. “God knows I tried. But would you listen? Nooooo…”
Co
He was interrupted by the rapid advance of a short man with a whistle around his neck. “Excuse me,” the man said, puffing intermittently on his whistle. He was a bit overweight and appeared to have worked up a sweat just crossing the tee. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Excuse me,” Co
“Derwood Scott. I’m the associate tournament director.”
Co
“Mr. Cross, you are in violation of four different tournament regulations.”
“Only four? Jeez, I wasn’t even trying.”
John cleared his throat and tried to look serious. “And which four offenses would those be, sir?”
“One, his embarrassing attire. Two, his indecorous language. Three, his shockingly unprofessional conduct. Four, his destruction of club property.”
John nodded. “That does add up to four, doesn’t it? All right, officer-take him away.”
“This is not a joke!” The more insistent Derwood became, the higher his pitch became. Soon only dogs would hear him. “This is the Augusta National! We will not brook with insubordination!”
“Look,” Co
“I don’t think so!” Derwood snapped. “First of all, you will be charged for replacement of the tee marker you destroyed.”
“Fine, that’s fair…”
“Second, you will receive a formal reprimand for your indecorous behavior.”
“Okay. Consider my wrist slapped.”
“Third, because you moved an immovable obstruction-the tee marker-you must take a two-stroke penalty.”
Co
“You heard me. Two strokes.” He snapped his fingers at Fitz. “Write it down.”
Co
“What’s that, some kind of threat?”
Co
“I’m not afraid of you, you tin cup ruffian.”
Co
“Two strokes,” Derwood repeated firmly. “Plus a third for that shot you lobbed into the storage shed.”
“Three shots?” Co
“All right, all right,” Fitz said, cutting in between them. “Let’s break this up. We’ll take the penalty strokes.”
Co
“What do we care? It’s just a practice round.”
“But it’ll be reported-”
Fitz put his arms around Derwood’s shoulder and steered him away from Co
Derwood frowned. “Nonetheless, he-”
“By the way,” Fitz continued, “may I say that you look particularly distinguished in that snappy green sweater? What is that, cashmere?”
“Uh… no. Camel hair.”
“Well, it looks magnificent on you. Truly magnificent.”
Derwood looked down at his sweater. “Really? You like it?”
“It’s brilliant. Brings out the green in your eyes.”
“I thought my eyes were blue.”
Fitz squinted. “Huh. Must be the light.” He guided Derwood off the course. “Anyway, thanks so much for dropping by…”
Derwood stopped. “He’ll still have to pay for the tee marker.”
“Of course he will.”
“And I’ll have to report this to the tournament director.”
Fitz drew in his breath. “If you must.”
Derwood headed back toward the clubhouse. “And tell him to watch the language.”
Fitz sighed. “I do every day.”
After Derwood had disappeared, Fitz rejoined Co
“Don’t say it,” Co
Fitz folded his arms and sniffed. “This never happened to Arnold Palmer.”
2
“Silly Putty?” Freddy E. Granger said, blinking. “I thought it was a blue glutinous liquid. You know, like the stuff they put in the bottom of Magic 8-Balls.”
“You’re all dead wrong,” Harley Tuttle responded. “It’s BBs, tightly packed and held together with a thin polymer plastic.”
“I thought they were filled with spider eggs,’ Barry Be
“No, no,” John corrected him. “That’s Bubblicious Bubble Gum.”
“Can’t you clowns keep your urban legends straight?” Freddy shot back. “That’s McDonald’s Quarter Pounders. But only if you get the cheese. I read all about it on the Internet.”
“Speaking of spider eggs,” Barry said, “have you seen that weird stars-and-moon logo on the back of Procter and Gamble products? I think it’s satanic.”
Co
After the practice round, Co
Almost all the pros in the tournament were inside at the bar-big names and up-and-comers alike. It was the communal gathering place, the perfect spot to swap stories, tell lies, or drown sorrows.
Co
His challenge was met by a chorus of “You’re crazy!” and “I’m in!”. Co
He didn’t have any better use for it. He’d played a miserable practice round, as Fitz ardently kept reminding him. He’d gotten off to a bad start-the brouhaha with Derwood Scott-but usually he could ig-nore that sort of distraction. Today, his game had gone from worse to worst. Which was bad news in the extreme. Because a score like today’s wouldn’t get him past the Friday night cut. Hell, a score like today’s wouldn’t have earned him a PGA card.
This couldn’t come at a more improvident time. At the moment, he was sixty-seventh on the money list-hardly a stellar showing. He’d managed to scrape together a living by playing every weekend and occasionally placing, but after three years on the tour, he still hadn’t won a tournament, major or minor. Granted, he was only twenty-seven. But golf was not an endeavor in which years of experience were seen as an asset. Golf, like most sports, favored the young. These should be Co
“Can I get a piece of this action?” Harley Tuttle asked quietly.
Co