Final Round

“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.” John shook the man’s hand. “But I’ve been taking a little sabbatical from tournament life this year. How long have you been on the tour?”

“Just since the start of the year.”

“Harley’s a bit on the shy side,” Co

Harley shrugged awkwardly. “Like my daddy always said, Better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

John gri

“All right, this window is closed,” Co

“It’s easy money,” John replied, not batting an eye. “Silly Putty. What a ridiculous idea.”

“Say, Fitz,” Freddy Granger said, shouting across the bar. He had a pronounced Southern accent-a reminder that he was not just a visitor, but a resident of Augusta. “You’ve been around for a while.”

“That would be a nice way of putting it,” Fitz said, not looking up from his beer.

“What do you think they put inside golf balls?”

“As I’ve already told these two coma victims,” he answered, gesturing toward Co

“Rubber?” The five golf pros stared at one another. “Rubber?”

They spoke as one body. “Naaaah.” The verdict was echoed by the assembly: “Can’t be!” and “No way, Jose!”

Fitz shook his head. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

“Hey,” John said. “Change of topic. Top ten things in golf that sound dirty but aren’t.”

Freddy leapt to the occasion. “Nuts-my shaft is bent.”

Barry joined in. “Look at the size of his putter!”

“Or,” Freddy offered, “how ’bout: nice stroke, but your follow-through leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I bet you’ve heard that a lot,” Co

“You boys are amateurs,” John said. “Try: keep your head down and spread your legs a little more.”

Co

“Oh, yeah? I haven’t heard anything from you yet.”

Co

Everyone at the bar burst out laughing.

“Listen up,” Barry said, with the authority of a seasoned pro. “Let’s get back to the serious betting. Fifty bucks says they serve roast beef at the champions di

“No way,” Freddy answered. “Chicken. Has to be chicken.” Dollar bills flew like feathers in the wind.

“How ’bout this,” John said. “Let’s bet on what corporate client Tiger Woods will do a commercial for this week.”

“Nike,” Harley said. “Gotta be Nike.”

“He wears Nike,” Barry said, shaking his head. “I say Ping.”

“ Ping can’t afford him,” Co

“Wheaties,” Freddy suggested.

“Budweiser,” John rejoined.

“Naaah,” Co

Freddy joined in the fun. “I got fifty bucks that says Tom Kite three-putts the eighteenth hole.”

Co

“But intriguing,” John said. “How could we verify? He’s not likely to tell us.”

“We can see it from here,” Freddy said, pointing out the northern bay window toward the eighteenth green.

“I got a better proposition,” John said, winking. “I got three hundred bucks that says Co

The room fell silent. No one took the action.

“Fu

“I was just trying to inspire you,” John said, slugging his friend’s shoulder amiably. “I think it’s about time an Oklahoma boy made good at this tournament. Maybe this will be the year.”

“Maybe so,” Co

Co

Co

Fitz barely looked up. “Are you referring to your occupation or your wardrobe?”

“Occupation,” Co

Fitz shrugged. “You’re better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the people on earth who play the game.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I can’t hold my own against the top players.”

“Correction,” Fitz said emphatically. “You could hold your own. You choose not to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know as well as I do. Your pure golf skills are as good as anyone’s on the tour. Better than most. I don’t know of another player who can drive as long and as hard and as accurately as you can. Hell, you could hit a dime at two hundred yards. These wide-open fairways should give you an edge, just like they did for Tiger Woods in ’97 and ’01. You’ve got tons of promise; that’s why I agreed to take you on in the first place. Your major problem”-he tapped the side of his head-“is up here.”

“My major problem is my putting game,” Co

“Because”-Fitz said, not missing a beat-“that’s when the mental game takes precedence. It isn’t brute force that matters on the putting green. It isn’t strategy; it isn’t style. It’s the mind.” Fitz returned to his drink. “So, naturally, your game falls apart.”

Co

“Listen to me, Co

Co

“Don’t check out on me yet, Co

“I know, I know,” Co

“You don’t need to adjust your swing,” Fitz shot back. “You need to adjust your attitude.”

Co

“Don’t run away,” Fitz said. “Every time I try to tell you something, you either deflect it with some wiseass remark or run away.”

“I’m not ru

Fitz’s eyes drooped wearily. “Does this relate to golf?”

Co

Fitz could only sigh.

Sussy’s Bar and Grill was located about thirty miles from the Augusta National Golf Club, following a series of dirt and gravel roads that no Georgia boy in his right mind would travel unless he was in his Jeep Cherokee or, better yet, his mag-wheel pickup. The neon sign in the window with three letters missing (SUS Y’S BA & G ILL) claimed there was a grill on site, but if any food other than beer nuts and pretzels had ever been served there, it was so long ago that no one living had any memory of it. The place was popular with locals; unfortunately, out here in the middle of nowhere, there weren’t many locals.