William Bernhardt - Final Round

This couldn’t come at a more improvident time. At the moment, he was sixty-seventh on the money list-hardly a stellar showing. He’d managed to scrape together a living by playing every weekend and occasionally placing, but after three years on the tour, he still hadn’t won a tournament, major or minor. Granted, he was only twenty-seven. But golf was not an endeavor in which years of experience were seen as an asset. Golf, like most sports, favored the young. These should be Conner’s prime years. Should be-but weren’t.

“Can I get a piece of this action?” Harley Tuttle asked quietly.

Conner nodded. Harley was having a great debut year on the tour, but seemed reserved about engaging in the social life. Conner was trying to break him in. “Got it. John, have you met Harley Tuttle yet?”

“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.” John shook the man’s hand. “But I’ve been taking a little sabbatical from tournament life this year. How long have you been on the tour?”

“Just since the start of the year.”

“Harley’s a bit on the shy side,” Conner explained.

Harley shrugged awkwardly. “Like my daddy always said, Better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

John grinned, then leaned close and whispered in Harley’s ear. “Always bet against Conner. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to a sure thing.”

“All right, this window is closed,” Conner said, after he collected all the bets. He reviewed his notes with a practiced eye. He was used to this sort of thing. Golf pros, he had learned, love to bet. “Freddy is in for ten. Barry is in for ten. Harley is in for twenty, and”-he glanced up at his best friend-“John-boy is in for a whopping hundred smackers. You must have a passion for pain, pal.”

“It’s easy money,” John replied, not batting an eye. “Silly Putty. What a ridiculous idea.”

“Say, Fitz,” Freddy Granger said, shouting across the bar. He had a pronounced Southern accent-a reminder that he was not just a visitor, but a resident of Augusta. “You’ve been around for a while.”

“That would be a nice way of putting it,” Fitz said, not looking up from his beer.

“What do you think they put inside golf balls?”

“As I’ve already told these two coma victims,” he answered, gesturing toward Conner and John, “it’s rubber. Plain ordinary rubber.”

“Rubber?” The five golf pros stared at one another. “Rubber?”

They spoke as one body. “ Naaaah. ” The verdict was echoed by the assembly: “Can’t be!” and “No way, Jose!”

Fitz shook his head. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

“Hey,” John said. “Change of topic. Top ten things in golf that sound dirty but aren’t.”

Freddy leapt to the occasion. “Nuts-my shaft is bent.”

Barry joined in. “Look at the size of his putter!”

“Or,” Freddy offered, “how ’bout: nice stroke, but your follow-through leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I bet you’ve heard that a lot,” Conner suggested.

“You boys are amateurs,” John said. “Try: keep your head down and spread your legs a little more.”

Conner jabbed him in the ribs. “You are so vulgar.”

“Oh, yeah? I haven’t heard anything from you yet.”

Conner pondered a moment. “How about… mind if I join your threesome?”

Everyone at the bar burst out laughing.

“Listen up,” Barry said, with the authority of a seasoned pro. “Let’s get back to the serious betting. Fifty bucks says they serve roast beef at the champions dinner tomorrow night.” As they all knew, by tradition, the defending champion got to dictate the menu-and pick up the tab.

“No way,” Freddy answered. “Chicken. Has to be chicken.” Dollar bills flew like feathers in the wind.

“How ’bout this,” John said. “Let’s bet on what corporate client Tiger Woods will do a commercial for this week.”

“Nike,” Harley said. “Gotta be Nike.”

“He wears Nike,” Barry said, shaking his head. “I say Ping.”

“ Ping can’t afford him,” Conner opined. “What about American Express?”

“Wheaties,” Freddy suggested.

“Budweiser,” John rejoined.

“Naaah,” Conner said. “Might sully Eldrick’s squeaky-clean image.” That brought a fresh explosion of laughter from all around the table.

Freddy joined in the fun. “I got fifty bucks that says Tom Kite three-putts the eighteenth hole.”

Conner liked Freddy, in part because he didn’t take himself as seriously as most of the men on the tour, and in part because he was one of few players who ranked even lower on the money list than Conner did. “That’s cold, man.”

“But intriguing,” John said. “How could we verify? He’s not likely to tell us.”

“We can see it from here,” Freddy said, pointing out the northern bay window toward the eighteenth green.

“I got a better proposition,” John said, winking. “I got three hundred bucks that says Conner will not win this tournament. And I’m giving five hundred-to-one odds.”

The room fell silent. No one took the action.

“Funny,” Conner said through thin lips. “Very funny.”

“I was just trying to inspire you,” John said, slugging his friend’s shoulder amiably. “I think it’s about time an Oklahoma boy made good at this tournament. Maybe this will be the year.”

“Maybe so,” Conner echoed, but his heart wasn’t in it. Certainly if he continued playing like he had today, it wouldn’t be him. And John had not been playing well all year.

Conner watched as John rose from the table and began circulating around the room. John was extremely friendly and well-liked. He was a social marvel. He never forgot a face, and he could instantaneously recall anyone’s name, their wife’s name, and the names of their kids. Conner was lucky if he could recognize himself in the mirror each morning.

Conner pushed himself away from the bar and joined Fitz at the far table where he was sitting alone. “So,” Conner said, inviting himself into an available chair, “am I wasting my life?”

Fitz barely looked up. “Are you referring to your occupation or your wardrobe?”

“Occupation,” Conner replied, taking a long swig from his Corona. “Golf.”

Fitz shrugged. “You’re better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the people on earth who play the game.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I can’t hold my own against the top players.”

“Correction,” Fitz said emphatically. “You could hold your own. You choose not to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know as well as I do. Your pure golf skills are as good as anyone’s on the tour. Better than most. I don’t know of another player who can drive as long and as hard and as accurately as you can. Hell, you could hit a dime at two hundred yards. These wide-open fairways should give you an edge, just like they did for Tiger Woods in ’97 and ’01. You’ve got tons of promise; that’s why I agreed to take you on in the first place. Your major problem”-he tapped the side of his head-“is up here.”

“My major problem is my putting game,” Conner scoffed.

“Because”-Fitz said, not missing a beat-“that’s when the mental game takes precedence. It isn’t brute force that matters on the putting green. It isn’t strategy; it isn’t style. It’s the mind.” Fitz returned to his drink. “So, naturally, your game falls apart.”

Conner made a snorting noise. “You’re just sore because I don’t blindly follow your instructions like some golf robot.”

“Listen to me, Conner. I’ve been around a long time. I go back to the golden years, before television and big money changed everything. I was around for golf’s greatest year-1960-when Hogan, Nicklaus, and Palmer made golf the phenomenon it is today. I’ve caddied for some of the biggest names in the business. Men who understood the importance of courtesy and honor and decorum.”