William Bernhardt - Final Round

“Cripes, just hit the ball already,” Conner muttered. John jabbed him in the side.

Finally, Ace was ready to swing. With a brow creased by fierce concentration, he took his stance, adjusted his grip, gave his ball a steely-eyed look, then swung…

The instant the club hit the ball, it exploded into a cloud of white talc. Ace cried out-something between “Ahhh!” and “Yikes!”, Conner and John could never agree-and jumped at least a foot in the air. His club flew backwards out of his hands, narrowly missing Conner’s skull. Ace landed off balance and started teetering precariously forward.

“No,” Conner whispered silently. “This is just too good to be true.”

Ace flailed his arms madly, trying to recover his balance, but it was not to be. With no means to stop himself, he tumbled face first into the water trap, like a diver belly-flopping. After thrashing about in the water for several seconds, he reared his head up, dripping wet, algae around his neck, a lily pad clinging to the side of his head.

And of course, every moment of this performance was recorded for posterity by CBS.

John turned toward Conner. “You think we should help the man out?”

“I think he’d prefer to be alone right now.”

“You’re so sensitive, Conner. That’s what I like about you.”

“Yeah.” The impulsive grin criss-crossed his face. “Let’s see if we can bribe the cameramen for a copy of the tape.”

Shortly after dark, a head appeared in the rough off the fairway for the eighteenth hole. The eyes scanned the surrounding area. Then, when they were sure no one was in sight, an arm emerged and pushed the body out of the ground. He’d made it!

He replaced the manhole cover and quickly ducked behind a tree. It had taken hours of crawling through narrow, claustrophobic tunnels, but eventually, he’d found himself inside the Augusta National compound. And no one was the wiser.

When at last he decided it was safe to move, he stayed low, clinging to the ground. He knew that the Augusta National employed a significant security team, and that their numbers were tripled during the week of the Masters tournament. It was not impossible that someone might be out here, even after dark, even this far from the clubhouse and the cabins.

He scanned the course and, sure enough, a few moments later, he spotted a man cruising the course in a golf cart. He didn’t appear to be going anywhere special or doing anything in particular. Definitely security. He waited until the guard was well out of the way, then made a break for a thick patch of trees nearby.

He suppressed a smile, barely able to contain himself. For all he had heard about the much-vaunted ultratight security measures of the Augusta National, he’d made it inside. He wrapped a green flak jacket around his skinny frame, covering his black heavy metal T-shirt. He brushed his long stringy hair away from his face, then checked his pack to make sure he hadn’t lost any of his gear. All the essentials still seemed to be in place. Good. Very good.

Slowly, he eased out of the rough, checking in all directions for security. He could probably make it to the clubhouse without being spotted. Course, even if someone did spot him, he would just whip out the false credentials he was carrying. According to his wallet card, he was a member of a CBS film crew. Just out for a walk, he would say. Scouting locations.

As he crested a hill, he spotted for the first time the gleaming white edifice of the Augusta National clubhouse. All the pros would be in there now, he knew, swapping stories, buying drinks. Getting ready for the annual champions dinner later tonight. They would all be there. Including his target.

And after the dinner, they would all move to their cabins. It would be a simple matter of keeping his eyes open and staying out of sight to determine which cabin was John McCree’s.

And once he knew that, he would be able to complete his mission with ease.

He smiled, then headed toward the clubhouse. He zipped up his flak jacket, insulating himself. A strong wind was coming out of the west, and he was beginning to feel a chill.

John McCree, he thought silently to himself. Soon, he would be face-to-face with the man.

And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

Conner and John stood just inside the doorway of Butler Cabin and whistled.

“Man,” John said, “have you ever seen so many golf pros crammed together? It’s like the audition room for the new Titleist commercial.”

“Or a meeting of Gamblers Anonymous,” Conner suggested.

The large banquet room was packed with golf pros of all ages, from all eras. Scanning from left to right, Conner saw a distinguished pantheon of players, the latest and the greatest, everyone he had worshiped as a kid and everyone he envied as an adult.

The Tuesday night Masters champions’ dinner was a huge affair, possibly the most prestigious event on the pro golf social calendar. Founded by Ben Hogan in 1952, it was the greatest event at the greatest of tournaments-small wonder everyone wanted to be there. Beforehand, in accordance with tradition, an autograph session took place in the Champions Locker Room while the past champions enjoyed a pre-dinner cocktail; no autographing was permitted at the formal dinner itself. John, as usual, was immaculately attired in a new sports jacket and tie. Conner was wearing blue jeans with a T-shirt that looked like a tux.

“Over there,” John said, pointing toward the dais. “Table One.”

Conner followed John’s finger toward the long rectangular banquet table at the front of the room. It was Table One, all right. All the giants were there, past and present-Ben Crenshaw, Nick Faldo, Fuzzy Zoeller, Tiger Woods, David Duval, Arnold Palmer, Ray Floyd-just to name a few.

“Check it out,” John said, gazing with awestruck amazement. “Jack Nicklaus!”

“Really?” Conner started forward. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him. He still owes me from the eighteenth hole at St. Andrews.”

John grabbed Conner’s arm and held him back. “The man is a living legend. Give him some respect.”

“It’s hard to respect a living legend who welshes on a hundred dollar bet.”

“He did not welsh on the bet. There was a difference of opinion about whether your ball moved the first time you swung.”

“I never even came close to that ball! It was the wind. You know what those Scottish winds are like!”

“Yeah. So does Jack Nicklaus.”

Conner frowned, then relented. There would probably be a better time to try to collect the debt. Like maybe when the Golden Bear was giving a press conference. “I don’t suppose we’re sitting at Table One.”

John glanced at the seating chart. “Not hardly.” He pointed toward another table in a recess against the south wall, the table furthest from the dais. “Table Twenty-Four. That’s us.”

“Swell.” Conner made his way toward Table Twenty-Four, John just a few steps behind him. He threaded his way through the labyrinth of tables, pausing to chat with the players he knew, who for the most part were not those wearing green jackets. The green jackets were the exclusive attire of the past champions of the Masters tournament. This was their one night of the year to wear them. And no one was allowed to take them home.

Halfway across the room, Conner saw Ace Silverstone making his way toward them. He grabbed John’s arm. “Detour.”

They steered hard aport, trying to give Ace the slip. Unfortunately, the press of so many bodies made escape impossible. Within a few moments, Ace had caught up with them.

“Conner! John!” Ace called out behind them. “Wait up!”

As flight was now clearly impossible, Conner turned to face the inevitable.