William Bernhardt - Final Round

Fitz jammed the seven-iron back in its slot, and kicked the golf bag for good measure. “Why do you bother to keep me around, anyway?”

“Because you’re such a snappy dresser.”

Conner stretched, took several deep breaths, then let it fly. To the surprise of no one other than Conner himself, the ball careened into a pot bunker with such unerring precision that it seemed as if it must have some kind of homing mechanism. Conner had to play out sideways, adding two unwanted strokes to his score. Worse, he missed the green with his next shot, putted poorly as usual, and ended up bogeying the hole.

By the time he finished the eighteenth hole, there was no conversation between Conner and Fitz-and no need for it, either. They both knew what had happened. Conner had crashed and burned. This time, he was the one who blew off the reporters huddled under the spreading maple and headed straight for the locker room. He threw his gear in a locker and headed for the showers. By the time he had toweled off and returned, he found Fitz waiting for him.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have some… caddie stuff to take care of?”

Conner hoped Fitz didn’t wear dentures, because if he did, given the way he was clenching his jaw, they were likely to pop at any moment. “I have something to say, and I want you to listen.”

“It’s over, Fitz. Let it be.”

“I will not let it be, and you will listen!” Fitz grabbed Conner’s still damp shoulder and shoved him down on a bench. “What does it take to get through to you? You’re killing yourself out there, Conner! Committing sports suicide!”

“It’s just a game, Fitz. Don’t blow it all out of proportion.”

“Don’t give me that, ‘I’m so cool I don’t really care’ routine. I know damn well you’d like to be a winner. And I know you could be a winner. But not until you shape up and learn to listen!”

“I listen fine, Fitz. What bothers you is that I don’t always obey.”

“No, what bothers me is that you keep doing things that are so stupid, stupid, stupid !”

“Fitz, take a chill pill.”

“You signed up with me for a reason, remember, Conner? Because you knew I could help you. And I can, too-if you’ll let me.”

“Do you mind if I get dressed? I’m starting to feel a draft.”

“What does it take to get you to listen? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been playing this game? Since 1960, golf’s greatest year. I watched the Masters that year on television-Hogan, Palmer, Nicklaus, all playing their best. It was spectacular. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“You must’ve led a very sheltered life.”

“Yeah,” Fitz shot back. “I didn’t live in a thriving metropolis like Watonga, Oklahoma. For your information, I had a great childhood. But what I saw those men do on television that year-that was magic. I wanted to be a part of their world.”

“So you took up golf?”

“Damn straight. I got my first caddie job when I was twelve, at the Riverside Country Club in New Brunswick. I toted bags for some of the best Canada had to offer. Half the time I didn’t even get paid-but I did get onto the course free, which was all I really wanted. Before long, I got a rep as a player and as a caddie-someone who knew what he was talking about. By the time I was sixteen, I was caddying on a regular basis for the club pro. He started taking me around, introducing me to the courses, the clubs, the pros, and…”

“If you were such a hot player, why did you end up caddying?”

Fitz hesitated. “I was good… but I wasn’t that good.”

“But that’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it? Deep down, you didn’t want to carry bags-you wanted to have bags carried for you.”

Fitz gave him an evil eye. “I was realistic enough to know that I wasn’t good enough to play the pro circuit. But I still wanted to be a part of the action. To me, golf was sacred. Still is, damn it. So I worked as a caddie. And I’ve been working ever since. I’ve worked with some of the great names of the last forty years of golf. That’s why it’s so frustrating for me to see you playing the way you have been.”

Conner grunted. “Yeah, must be a real comedown to be associated with the likes of me.”

“Don’t you get it, you moron?” He grabbed Conner by the shoulders. “I chose you. I had tons of offers, from some of the top men on the money list. But I decided to work with you, because when I first saw you play, I saw something.”

“Manly good looks?”

Fitz ignored him. “I saw the same thing I saw in Gary Player and Ben Hogan and Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. The makings of a champion.”

Conner fell silent.

“You have the stuff, Conner. You could be one of the greats-maybe the greatest. If I could just get you to start taking the game seriously and to listen to me. I know every stroke, every course, every club-”

Conner’s head jerked up. “Every club?”

“Yeah. Every player, every strategy-”

“Wait a minute. Let’s go back to ‘every club.’ ”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Since you’re the expert on players and their clubs-who else uses an Excalibur nine-iron?”

Fitz pondered for a moment. “Excalibur clubs are a bit unusual and rarely used-as I’m sure you already know. That’s probably why you picked them.”

“Yeah, yeah-so who else uses them?”

Fitz answered without missing a beat. “Only three players currently on the tour use Excaliburs. You-assuming you count as a player on the tour-Ernie Korman, who’s out sick this week and safely back in Newark -and Freddy Granger.”

“Freddy? Freddy uses Excaliburs?”

“Right. Has for years. Quite a coincidence, huh?”

“Yeah. Especially since he was the one who lured me away from my clubs Tuesday night.” Conner pressed a finger against his lips. “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him all day.”

“Freddy played early. Probably took off as soon as he was done. He’s got a wedding to get ready for, you know.”

“Right, right,” Conner said, deep in thought. “I heard all about it yesterday. Big wingding. Costing him an arm and a leg. The best little daughter a daddy ever had. Reception at the Magnolia Glade Country Club.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Fitz replied. “All the players are invited. Are you going?”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Conner murmured, as he reached for his clothes. “But now I may change my plans.”

After he escaped Fitz and the locker room, Conner made a beeline for the clubhouse where he knew the results of the day’s play would be posted. He tried to act as if it didn’t matter, tried to tell himself he didn’t care. But the sad truth was, it did, and he did. His stomach was churning over the thought that he might not make the cut. That he might suffer the ultimate humiliation-being sent home packing before the real tournament play began.

When he arrived, Conner saw the bar was packed. Practically every pro in the tournament was there, anxiously awaiting the posting of the results. Despite the crowd, the room was deathly silent. A few scattered whispers, nothing more. It was almost as if no one wanted to breathe, at least not until they learned whether they’d made the cut. He also noticed that Vic the bartender was working overtime; lots of booze was circulating-soothing nerves and calming fears while each player’s fate remained in limbo.

“Psst.” Ace Silverstone waved Conner over to the bar. Conner reluctantly complied, not in small part influenced by the fact that there didn’t appear to be an empty seat in the room. “Have you heard anything about Tiger?”

Conner frowned. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”