William Bernhardt - Final Round

Conner’s expression did not improve. “As I recall, it’s a Magfli 6.”

“Magfli 6? I thought you were playing a Pro Z1 Titleist. Titleists are the best golf balls in the world. Each one is precision-tested and balanced for premium performance. I bought you a whole box of them.”

“Yeah…” Conner averted his eyes. “I, uh, gave those to Barry Bennett, actually.”

“To Bennett? Why?”

“Well… I lost a bet and I, uh, didn’t have the cash on hand…”

“You’re joking.”

“See, I bet that Tom Kite would three-putt the eighteenth, but wouldn’t you know it, the old shanker ended up pulling it off in two. So…”

Fitz’s face reddened with fury. “So now you don’t have any balls?”

“Of course I have balls. Well, a ball, anyway. You’re holding it.”

Fitz glanced at the palm of his hand. “A Magfli 6? That’s a duffer ball. Where’d you buy this thing?”

“Didn’t. Found it in a sand trap yesterday.”

Fitz slapped his hand against his forehead. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

Conner continued playing his practice round, but the game didn’t improve, not for him or John. Neither of the two pros was in the zone. Conner knocked the ball into the rough so often he wished his bag contained a machete. John had been in the water traps so often he considered investing in scuba gear.

“Damn this stupid game, anyway,” John groused, as they marched toward the fifteenth tee. “Who’s idea was it to start playing golf?”

“As I recall, it was the only way we could get out of trig with Mr. Imes.”

John laughed. “Right, right. Good ol’ Imes-stein .”

“Just think,” Conner said. “If we’d stuck with him, we might be, like, nuclear physicists.”

The two men exchanged a long look, then spoke with one voice. “Or not.”

After the laughter faded, Conner jabbed his friend in the side. “Look. Up ahead.”

Halfway up the fairway, they both spotted another pro on the tour: Abel “Ace” Silverstone. Ace was the sobriquet awarded by the sports press after Abel racked up an impressive series of titles his freshman year on the tour. Now, in his fifth year in the PGA, he was still racking them in, creating the biggest buzz in the golf world since Tiger Woods.

“Why is he moving so slowly?” John wondered.

“Over there,” Conner answered, pointing just a bit north toward the green. A three-man camera crew was setting up, adjusting lenses and tripods.

“Why are they shooting him?” John asked. “The tournament hasn’t even begun yet.”

“Probably doing filler spots,” Conner guessed. “Getting some pregame background material. Possibly doing a profile. After all, he’s favored to win.”

Conner turned toward his friend. “You know, I hate people who are favored to win.”

“That’s just as well. Because as I recall, he hates you.”

“That business at Pebble Beach was a total misunderstanding. How was I to know that girl was his daughter?” He glanced back at the camera crew. They looked ready to roll. “Anyway, I don’t think this glory hog needs any more exposure. So what are we going to do about it?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m just a good ol’ boy from Oklahoma.” John paused. “I count on you to come up with the evil stuff.”

A malevolent grin infected Conner’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He unzipped a special compartment on the side of his bag and retrieved a single golf ball. “Those camera boys want a show. I say we give them a show.”

When they caught up to Ace, he was on the lip of the water trap, barely ten yards from the green. Ideally, he could chip the ball over the water onto the green and then one-putt into the hole. With luck, he might even skip the putt and score with his chip shot.

“Ace, my man. How goes it?” Conner said as he strolled into Ace’s face, hand extended. “How lucky to run into you.”

The instant Ace saw Conner, his face twisted into a bitter grimace. It was several seconds before he appeared to remember that the cameras were rolling and tried to feign some semblance of cordiality. “Uh, yeah. Lucky.” Ace forced up a smile and shook Conner’s hand. Even if he hadn’t hated Conner’s guts, Conner suspected Ace wouldn’t be all that thrilled to see someone else invading his spotlight, but there wasn’t much he could do about it with the cameras on.

“Looks like you’ve attracted a bit of attention,” Conner said, winking and jabbing the man in the ribs.

“What? Oh, them. Right.” Ace shrugged haplessly. “It wasn’t my idea. They’re from CBS. They wanted some background footage on me, just in case… well, you know.”

“Of course we do,” John said, taking the man by the shoulder. “And we just want you to know we’re rooting for you.”

Ace blinked. “You are?”

“Course we are. You’ve always been our favorite. Of the top dogs, I mean.”

“Jeez, that’s nice to hear. When a man rises to, well, you know, my place on the money list, he starts to worry that there might be some resentment from… well…”

“The peons?”

“No, no, of course not. I just thank God every morning that he made me one of the winners. We can’t all be winners, you know. I learned that back in the first grade, playing dodgeball in gym class. There are winners and losers. It’s true on the tour, too. Winners and losers.”

“Or,” John said, “taking Conner into account, winners and wieners.”

Ace laughed. He started to walk on, but John grabbed his shoulder and held him fast. “Say, I’ve been wondering if you could do something for me-”

Ace’s eyes narrowed. “Jeez, I’m really busy right now. After this shoot, I’ve got a meeting to talk about a cable TV special, then I’m talking to the Ping people about a possible endorsement-”

“This won’t take a minute. See, I’ve been having this trouble with my backswing, and since everyone knows you’re the master, I thought maybe…” He winked. “Just a few pointers?”

“Oh. Oh. Sure.” Ace’s face brightened. “Well, you know, the key to the backswing is the grip. I know some people say it’s the stance, but let me tell you-it’s the grip. It’s really simple. See, most people hold the club like they’re swinging a baseball bat upside down. But what you want to do…”

While Ace gassed on about backswing, behind him, Conner surreptitiously replaced Ace’s golf ball with the ball he had taken from the compartment in his bag. The cameramen picked up what he was doing, but to Conner’s relief, none of them said a word.

“… then you gotta loosen up, you know? Hold the club firmly, but relaxed. Then carefully bring your club back around and- pow !”

John smiled. “ Pow ! That’s it, huh?”

Ace gave his familiar aw-shucks shrug. “That’s it. Pretty simple, huh?”

“Heck, yeah. I just wish someone had told me before.” He shook Ace’s hand with great vigor. “Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can hit the ball.”

“Thanks,” Ace said. “Course, I’d love to chat but-you know.” He jerked his head toward the camera crew. “ America is waiting.”

“Right, right.” Smiling and waving, Conner and John backstepped briskly away from him.

“Think he saw me make the switch?” Conner whispered, once they were out of earshot.

“Nah. All he can see is his name in lights.”

Back at the water trap, Ace made a great show of addressing the ball. He frowned, crouched down, then gazed studiously at the hole in the center of the green. He placed his club on the ground to check the lie of the course, then brushed some leaves and other debris away. He held his thumb forward, as if measuring the distance, then licked a finger to check the wind.