William Bernhardt - Final Round

“Don’t you have insurance?” Conner asked.

Tenniel seemed taken aback. “Yes. I mean… I suppose we do.” For the first time in Conner’s experience with the man, he seemed unsure of himself. “Of course, that’s not the preferable way to proceed but… now that I think of it, we do have some insurance. Quite a generous policy, as I recall.”

“As you recall ?”

“Haven’t looked at the thing in years.” Tenniel turned abruptly and returned to his desk.

“So,” O’Brien said to Conner, “are you on board?”

Conner looked at her, then at the fax, then back at her. “You’re asking if I’ll risk my neck and go out all by myself to make this drop, possibly facing the killer on my own against impossible odds and getting myself killed in the process?”

“That probably isn’t how I would’ve phrased it, but… yeah.”

“Sure,” he said, handing the fax back to her. “Sounds like fun.”

By one in the afternoon, Conner was ready to tee off for the third-and penultimate-day of the tournament. He spotted Fitz several yards before they actually met. He was running a fast interception course, obviously intending to cut Conner off before he made it to the first tee.

Conner checked his watch. “Almost one, Fitz. We’d better get to the tee-off.”

The caddie’s lips were pursed tight. “I’d like a word with you in private first.”

“I’d love to, Fitz, but see, I’m in this golf tournament-”

“That’s why I want to talk to you.”

“-and if I don’t show up on time, they’ll disqualify me.”

“If you don’t play any better than you have so far, you’d be better off disqualified.”

“That would be humiliating.”

“It would be a mercy killing. Now, listen up, buster, and listen up good.”

Conner scrutinized the stern expression on Fitz’s face. “Is this another trip to the woodshed?”

“You’re damn right. And long overdue, too.”

“Look, Fitz-I’m in no mood for a lecture.”

“Just shut up and listen.”

Conner did precisely that.

“How long have you been on the tour now?”

As if Fitz didn’t already know. “This is my third year.”

“And in that magnificent stretch of time, what exactly have you accomplished?”

Conner tilted his head to one side. “I like to think I’ve developed a sense of personal style.”

Fitz grimaced. “And what exactly has that gotten you?”

“I have a following.”

“Charles Manson had a following. So what? What else has it gotten you?”

Conner frowned. “Hearty chuckles?”

“I’ll tell you what it’s gotten you. Absolutely nothing.”

“I have my own personality, Fitz, and I plan to keep it. I’m not going to turn into one of those PGA zombies.”

“I’m not talking about your attitude, sorry though it is. I’m talking about your game.”

“You said I have one of the best drives in the business. As good or better than Tiger Woods.”

“Yeah, but your putting game stinks. Because putting requires concentration, focus, resolve-all the qualities you’ve held back. And for that matter your driving game is erratic, because it can’t overcome your unfailing tendency to make stupid decisions!”

“Aren’t you being a bit harsh?”

Fitz ignored him. “This tournament is a perfect example. Your performance has been abominable.”

“Now wait a minute. There have been some pretty damn extenuating circumstances, Fitz. My best friend died!”

“I know that. Why do you think we’re having this talk?” His eyes were narrow and electric. “John McCree made a lot of personal sacrifices to get you on the tour. And you’re throwing it all away!”

Conner’s lips parted wordlessly.

“Sorry to be blunt, but that’s the reality of it, kid. John gave you a lot, and you haven’t given him anything in return.” Fitz whipped off his shoeshine boy cap. “Look-I don’t know what it is with you, Conner. I don’t know what made you the way you are. I don’t know if it’s because you lost your mama so early or because your dad was too hard on you. Maybe you’re just some kind of genetic mutant, which is the theory I personally favor. But whatever it is-you need to get over it.”

Conner wanted to defend himself, but there was a distinct catch in his throat. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he finally whispered.

“Stop making excuses. It’s make or break time, pal, you’re a lightning rod, like it or not. If you don’t show these people what you can do today, you might as well hang up your golf shoes for good.”

“What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“Stop wasting your talent. Stop screwing around. Listen to your caddie. Push yourself. Before it’s too late.”

“And you expect me to do all this for you?”

Fitz drew in his breath. “I was hoping you might do it for John.”

Conner felt a distinct itching in the back of his eyeballs.

“His fondest wish was that an Oklahoma boy would make good at the Masters. Why don’t you see if you can make his dream a reality?”

Conner didn’t know what to say.

“Well? Say something! Will you do it?”

Conner pivoted around, his face expressionless. “I think it’s time to start.”

Fitz trailed behind him as they made their way to the first tee. Conner pulled a golf ball out of the zippered pocket in his bag; Fitz selected a club.

Conner gripped the club, his hand just above Fitz’s, then froze. “I-I don’t know what to do,” he said, barely audibly.

“Course you do. What do you mean?”

“I mean-I don’t know how to be any… better.”

“That’s fine. I do.” Fitz pushed the club into Conner’s hand. “Now go hit the damn ball.”

“I was thinking I might use the other-”

“Conner!”

Conner took the proffered club and prepared to shoot. He popped the ball onto the tee and fell into position.

“Loosen your grip,” Fitz said.

Conner frowned-but he did it. He focused, concentrated, then started his backswing…

“Adjust your stance.”

Conner’s teeth ground together-but he did it.

“Now swing.”

Conner let ’er rip. The ball sailed up beautifully, forming a graceful rainbow arc, then landing not five feet from the green.

It was a perfect shot. The spectators applauded with enthusiasm.

Conner gave Fitz a long look, then, at last, smiled. He threw his arm around the older man’s shoulder. “Fitz, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Conner finished each of the first six holes either one or two under par. He established a new personal best, and did a great deal to rehabilitate his previously pitiful standing.

By the seventh hole, a buzz began to circulate throughout the tournament. By the time he was ready to start the back nine, Conner had acquired his own gallery, following him from hole to hole. The word was out-Conner Cross was where the action was.

At first, it was a tough adjustment. Conner was not accustomed to having spectators follow him so attentively. But he had to admit-it was kinda fun.

“Just ignore them,” Fitz said, clamping a firm hand down on Conner’s shoulder. “Block them out of your mind.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Conner said, grinning and waving as he approached the seventeenth. “They love me.”

“They won’t if your game starts sucking again.”

That brought Conner down to earth in a hurry.

“You’re here to play a game, so play it. Focus all your energy, all your attention, on the game. That’s what matters.”

“Right. Got it.” It was tempting to put on a show for the spectators. In fact, his class clown instincts almost demanded it. But Fitz was right. The game was what mattered. He was playing well and he was relishing the moment. He was in the zone, as the sportscasters say. Something had clicked.