William Bernhardt - Final Round

He felt a tugging at his sleeve. It was Fitz.

“You’re not really going to use that, are you?”

“Who are you-my safe sex counselor?”

“I’m reminding you that your nine-iron play was disastrous yesterday. And we never had a chance to figure out what was causing it.”

“Well, I’ve slept since then. I think it’ll be all right.”

“Don’t be nuts. Use the three-wood.”

“The nine-iron’s my best club.”

“Not yesterday, it wasn’t.”

Conner frowned. “Maybe you’re right.” Reluctantly, he accepted the wood from Fitz.

The first nine holes went reasonably well for Conner, although he was handicapped by not being able to use his nine-iron on the shorter shots, and he still had a nasty tendency to choke on his putting game. Still, he finished the first nine only two over par; not as good as Ace played, but a respectable showing.

Unfortunately, at the Masters it’s the back nine that make all the difference. The eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth holes are traditionally referred to as “Amen Corner”-the famous holes where water can turn the tournament upside-down. Conner weathered the eleventh, over-shooting with a three-wood but still managing to make par.

The twelfth hole was a par three with a tiny green. Conner stood at the tee and gazed out at the smooth sheer green horizon. “Perfect hole for a nine-iron,” he commented.

“For someone else maybe,” Fitz replied. “Not for you.” He held out a club. “Here. Use this.”

Conner hesistated.

Fitz’s face fell. “Oh, damn.”

“What?”

“I can tell by the expression on your face. You’re about to do something stupid.”

Conner put his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon?”

“You will. I know it.” Fitz shook his head back and forth. “You’re not going to use the wood, are you?”

Conner gazed once again at the fairway. “You have to admit, it’s a perfect hole for a nine-iron.”

“Not when your ball slices every time you use it!”

Conner pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m going to give it a try.”

Fitz slapped his forehead in despair. “No, no, no ! Conner-you’re playing a good game. Don’t screw it up.”

“I can’t avoid the nine-iron forever.” He snatched the club from his bag. “Besides, when a man falls off his horse, he’s got to get right back on again.”

“Spare me the cowboy philosophizing.”

“Stand back, Fitz. I’m going to make this one count.” Conner took his position, carefully concentrating on his stance, his grip, his destination. He took a deep breath, held it… then let it fly.

The ball soared beautifully up into the air… and then, as predictably as a heart attack, took a severe turn to the right. The slice cut sideways across the fairway, just short of the green, and rolled into a water trap.

Conner cursed and threw the club back at Fitz. “I’m never using the damn thing again.”

“That’s it,” Barry said, chuckling. “Blame the club.” Barry seemed to be a good deal merrier than he had been when they started the round. Come to notice, Conner thought, his nose seemed a bit redder, too. Did the man have some hooch hidden in his golf bag, or what?

The thirteenth was not much of an improvement. It was a dogleg left, with dogwood, a creek running down one side of the fairway and trees running down the other. The narrow water trap in front of the green was invisible from the crook in the fairway where the players traditionally lay up for their second shot.

Conner used the wood to hit a perfect drive into the sweet spot. He was relieved; that was supposed to be his specialty, after all. He selected his pitching wedge to pop the ball onto the green.

As he took his stance, he felt Fitz lay a hand on his shoulder. “Envision the water trap. Locate it in your mind.”

“How can I locate it in my mind? I can’t even see it.”

“That’s the point, Conner. You can’t see it with your eyes, so don’t try. Close your eyes and see it with your mind’s eye. You know where it is, where it must be. Picture it, and drive the ball across it. Don’t think, do.”

“Thanks, Yoda.” Conner closed his eyes and swung… and the ball plopped down into the water trap.

“May the frigging Force be with you,” Conner grumbled.

The rest of the course went uneventfully, but after the debacle of Amen Corner, Conner was way behind Ace. After they completed the seventeenth hole, they headed for the locker room. By agreement, the pros were playing only seventeen holes; the eighteenth was still roped off by the police.

Before they reached the locker room, Conner and the rest encountered a group of reporters huddled under the giant oak tree just outside the entrance to the clubhouse. Conner knew that was one of only two places on the grounds where the media was allowed to talk to players-the other being Butler Cabin. It was standard procedure; they were all used to it. Today’s questioning, however, was anything but standard:

“What can you tell us about John McCree’s murder?”

“Is it true the eighteenth green is still smeared with blood?”

“Do you think the killer might strike again?”

Before Conner could get himself out of the way, one of the reporters had thrust a microphone under his nose. He saw the red light on the minicam blinking and realized that he was on. “Conner, how are you dealing with the loss of your best friend John McCree?”

What Conner really wanted was tell these people exactly what he thought of this vulturous picking away at John’s death. But he knew it would be fruitless; they’d edit the footage so that he sounded ridiculous, then make a fool of him on the evening news.

Conner tried to stammer out a coherent response. “I’ve known John since I was eight,” he said haltingly. “All that time, I’ve considered him my best friend. Obviously, his death has hit me… very hard.”

The man holding the microphone smirked. “But not so hard you couldn’t play the tournament, right?”

Conner’s head felt as if it were about to boil. He grabbed the man’s shirt and jerked him forward. “Look, you sorry son-of-a-”

Conner froze. The red light was still blinking. This was all being recorded. The man had baited him, and now Conner was giving him exactly what he wanted.

Conner released the reporter. “John McCree’s dream was that one of us Oklahoma boys might one day make good at the Masters tournament. I can’t very well make that dream come true by quitting, can I?”

Conner turned before the reporter could respond and quickly moved out of camera-shot. Behind him, he heard the mob surround Ace, looking for fresh meat.

As always, the mediagenic Ace rose to the occasion. “Although I didn’t know John long or well, I sensed that in his chest beat a heart of purest gold…”

Conner had to stifle his gagging reflex.

“… but now, there’s an empty place in the locker room where John McCree’s blue-and-white bag used to be.” Ace looked as if he might burst out in tears at any moment. “One thing is certain-from this day forward, pro golf will never be the same. He will be missed.”

Conner turned, shaking his head, and made his way down to the locker room. He found Barry was already there, changing out of his golf clothes. Somehow, the man had managed to elude the fourth estate wolf pack altogether. That must’ve been tricky. And totally unlike a PGA golf pro.

A thought occurred to Conner. He strode over to Barry, who was lacing up his street shoes. “Barry, I want a word with you.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

No doubt about it; there was something strong and alcoholic on the man’s breath. Perhaps one reason he didn’t care to be interviewed. “You had plenty enough to say last night when you were in your cups.”