William Bernhardt - Final Round

Derwood’s eyes went wide. “He’s shaved his head!”

Indeed he had. Not only buzzed it to the scalp, but created a discernable zigzag pattern across the back, sort of like an Iroquois on speed.

“That is not acceptable!” Derwood shouted. “Someone stop him-”

Too late. Conner swung, and the white dimpled ball flew down the fairway. An instant later, Conner and Fitz had entered the course in pursuit.

Derwood threw his hat down and stomped on it. “You won’t get away with this!” he shouted. “You haven’t heard the last of me.” But in fact, Conner had heard the last of him, at least for the moment, because he was already well out of earshot.

Safely ensconced on the third tee, Conner thought he could slow down and engage in a bit of conversation. “Where’s John, anyway?” he asked Fitz. “Aren’t we playing together?”

Fitz shook his head. “He drew an earlier tee time. Problem is, he didn’t show up.”

“Didn’t show up? That’s not like John.” He paused. “Come to think of it, he never showed up last night.”

“I searched all over the grounds. Couldn’t find him. Even checked his cabin. His wife said she hadn’t seen him since last night.”

“You mean he didn’t come back to the cabin last night? John ? That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Like when? During that languorous stretch between when you got out of bed with your coed and when you appeared at the first tee?”

“Well, sometime.”; Conner dug the head of his club into the ground. “This is totally unlike John. I’m concerned.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“Yeah, but still-”

“Concentrate on your game. We’ll find John later.”

Conner frowned. “I suppose.” He scanned the fairway. “I don’t think I need the wood for this. Hand me my nine-iron.”

“Are you joking? That hole is four hundred and fifty yards away. Plus there’s a water trap. Plus the dogleg left.”

“I like the nine-iron. It’s my best club.”

“You’re making a mistake-”

“Fitz. I’ve made my decision. Pass me the club.”

“Your wish is my command, sire.” Fitz passed the requested club.

Conner shielded his eyes and gazed at the distant green, mentally recalculating the distance. There was a water trap about two thirds of the way up the fairway, but if he hit hard, shot over it, avoided the rough…

He turned to his caddie. “Fitz, how do I get to the green in one?”

“Practice.”

“But seriously.”

“You don’t. Especially with a nine-iron. Lay up.”

Conner groaned. “I hate that cheesy play-it-safe crap. I think I can make it to the green in one. I’m going for it.”

“Conner, don’t be a fool. It’s a sucker pin.” Meaning the pin had been placed such that only a sucker would try to get close to it.

Conner held a finger against his lips. “Please. A master is at work.” Conner shook himself down, adjusted his stance, brought back his club, and fired.

The golf ball flew into the air, taking a tremendous lift and forming a beautiful line right down the center of the fairway… then took a sudden veer to the right, crashing to earth deep in the rough.

“Damn!” Conner swore. “What happened?”

“You swung,” Fitz answered.

The two men tracked down the ball, killing a good ten minutes of course time.

“I could still make the green in two,” Conner opined. “I’m going to blast it out of here.”

“With the nine-iron?”

“It’s my best club.”

“That’s what you said-”

Before Fitz could finish his commentary, Conner had swung. Once again, the ball took off beautifully… and once again, it took a sudden and dramatic turn to the right.

“A fatal slice,” Fitz commented, under his breath. “Fatal for you.”

Conner tried again, on the fourth hole, the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh. Each time, the story was the same. Beautiful launch, followed by a sudden slice to the right.

“What’s going on?” Conner said, as he searched for his ball in the rough off the seventh fairway. “My drive used to be the best part of my game. You said I could hit a dime at two hundred yards.”

“That’s what you get for listening to me.”

“I’m serious. You’re my caddie. You’re supposed to help me out when I’m in trouble.”

Fitz shrugged. “Sorry, Conner. If I could help, I would. But I’m as mystified as you. This is just weird.”

“Thank you, Harvey Penick.”

“Look, this is going to require some study. After you finish, we’ll go out on the driving range and take a look at what you’re doing. Maybe I can figure something out.”

Conner reluctantly agreed. By that time he was already seven over par. During the next ten holes, he managed to make some improvement, but not nearly enough. As he approached the eighteenth tee, he was four over par, and he knew perfectly well that wasn’t good enough to finish in the money in a par-three tournament.

“Fitz, I’m going to try the nine-iron again.”

Fitz closed his eyes. “You know, I was just thinking, ‘How could this boy possibly make things worse than they already are?’ And presto-right on cue-you answered the question. You must be psychic.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Conner snatched the club from his bag. “Don’t give me any crap or I’ll dock your day’s pay.”

Fitz snorted. “As if there’s going to be any pay after this performance!”

Conner ignored him. He placed the ball on the tee, rocked himself into position, and swung. The ball rose into the air and, once again, swerved right, descending into a deep and wide sand trap.

“Goddamn it!” Conner shouted.

“Stop swearing!” Fitz commanded. “Officials are everywhere.”

Conner silently trudged down the fairway, finally finding his ball buried in the sand.

“I know better than to imagine that you might consult your caddie on how to get out of this tough scrape,” Fitz said. “So I’ll ask you. What’s your plan?”

“Thought I’d use a wedge. If I pop it high enough, it might go all the way to the green.”

“Do you see the sheer wall of this trap, Conner? There’s no way-”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

“It would be smarter to just get yourself out of the trap. Get to the green on your third.”

“You always want to play it safe. It’s like golfing with my grandmother.” Conner addressed the nearly buried ball, crouching slightly for his scoop shot. He swung the wedge. The ball bounced up against the high wall of the trap and ricocheted back into the sand.

“God damn it!” Conner shouted, then looked sheepishly at Fitz. “No one heard me,” he grunted.

“I did.”

“I meant no one who would report me.”

Fitz arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Conner squared himself once more before the ball half-buried in the sand. He took a deep breath, said a silent prayer to the patron saint of golfers, whoever that was, and swung. The club ground out in the sand before it hit the ball.

“Did the ball move?” Fitz asked, inching forward from his safe berth outside the trap. “If the ball moved, you have to take a stroke, even if your club didn’t hit the ball.”

“The ball didn’t move,” Conner said. There was an eerie quiet to his voice. “But something else did.” Conner poked the tip of his club into the sand. There was something down there, just below the surface of the sand. Something… blue.

He crouched down for a closer look. Using the handle of his club as a probe, he dug around, brushing the sand off the surface. The blue-something was a piece of fabric. A shirt, he realized. A shirt sleeve, to be precise.