William Bernhardt - Final Round

“All right then.” Conner squared himself before the ball and drew in his breath, preparing to swing.

“Stance,” Fitz murmured audibly. “Swing.”

“Fitz!”

“All right, all right.” He buttoned his lip.

Conner brought back his wood and swung. The dimpled white ball soared beautifully into the air, up, up, up… and well over the green. The ball dropped onto the cart path, bounced over a retaining wall, and fell into the greenskeeper’s storage shed.

“Aaarghh!” Conner shouted at the top of his lungs, thrashing about with his club.

John fell to his knees, convulsed with laughter.

Conner glared at him. “And what may I ask is so damn humorous?”

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, Conner whirled the wood around again and inadvertently pulverized the tee marker-which was a lovely miniature of the Augusta National clubhouse.

“I tried to tell you,” Fitz said quietly. “God knows I tried. But would you listen? Nooooo…”

Conner pivoted. “Fitz, I’m warning you-”

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,” Conner shot back. “Who the hell are you?”

“Derwood Scott. I’m the associate tournament director.”

Conner mouthed a silent oh . Fitz looked as if he’d like to disappear into the rough.

“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,” Conner said, “why don’t we just forget this happened?”

“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.”

Conner’s face became fixed and stony. “What’s that?”

“You heard me. Two strokes.” He snapped his fingers at Fitz. “Write it down.”

Conner stared at the associate tournament director with dead eyes. “Let me remind you, Derwood, that I know where you live.”

“What’s that, some kind of threat?”

Conner took a step closer to him. “Yeah, some kind. The deadly kind.”

“I’m not afraid of you, you tin cup ruffian.”

Conner kept walking until he was practically hovering over Derwood. “I could change that.”

“Two strokes,” Derwood repeated firmly. “Plus a third for that shot you lobbed into the storage shed.”

“Three shots?” Conner growled, his eyes wide and crazed. “I haven’t left the tee yet!” His curled fingers reached for Derwood’s throat.

“All right, all right,” Fitz said, cutting in between them. “Let’s break this up. We’ll take the penalty strokes.”

Conner looked as if he might have a stroke. “But-”

“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 Conner. “This has all been a terrible misunderstanding. You know how it is sometimes. The pressure of playing the world’s greatest golf course. No offense was intended, I assure you.”

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 Conner at the first tee. “I told you-”

“Don’t say it,” Conner said, as he lined up his next shot. “Just don’t say it.”

Fitz folded his arms and sniffed. “This never happened to Arnold Palmer.”

“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 Bennett said, looking puzzled.

“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.”

Conner’s eyes rolled skyward. “And you guys wonder why you don’t get product endorsements.”

After the practice round, Conner and John and Fitz had strolled down world-famous Magnolia Lane to the white-columned Augusta National clubhouse. The grounds were in their most beautiful season. Conner felt bombarded by flowering flashes of pink and white set against the unbroken green backdrop. The warm April wind whispered through the pines, just enough to cool, never so much as to disrupt the game. Conner recalled that the Augusta National had been constructed on an ornamental-tree nursery. When everything bloomed, it was impossible to forget.

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.

Conner pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and plopped a bill on the bar. “Twenty bucks says it’s Silly Putty.”

His challenge was met by a chorus of “You’re crazy!” and “I’m in!”. Conner dutifully recorded the bets on the back of his scorecard.

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.