William Bernhardt - Final Round

“No,” Conner insisted, “I read a magazine article about this. It was definitely a guy called Roy. Roy Spam, I believe.”

John rolled his eyes. “Spam is short for spiced ham. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I most certainly do. It was invented by Roy Spam.”

“I’m sure. And you probably think he made it from Silly Putty.”

“I’m telling you, I read about this in some scholarly journal.”

“Like what? The National Enquirer ?”

With each rejoinder, their voices grew louder. Eventually, there were more people listening to the Spam debate than listening to Derwood.

“I’m telling you, this is something I know .”

“Right,” John said. “I remember in the third grade, you knew that babies came from overeating.”

“It was Roy Spam!”

“Baloney!”

Conner scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and flung it across the table at John.

John’s eyes went wide. “You sorry little-“ He grabbed his own spoon and retaliated, sending a clump of potatoes back across the table. Conner fired again, and soon the mashed potatoes were criss-crossing the field of battle. When he ran out of potatoes, John flung his Spam/ham. A big saucy piece slapped Conner on the side of his face.

Enraged, Conner began flinging peas. A few of them veered off and hit Jodie, who then picked up her own spoon and began slinging away. Before long, all of Table Twenty-Four had joined in the warfare. A full-fledged food fight ensued.

At this point, Derwood was no longer able to ignore the disruption in the back of the room. “Excuse me,” he said, pounding his gavel. “If I could have your attention.”

Derwood didn’t get anyone’s attention. Conner was under the table, ducking his head to avoid food fire from both directions.

“Excuse me!” Derwood said, pounding even louder than before. “Please come to order.”

From Conner’s vantage point, half the room appeared to be in culinary combat. Young and old alike crouched beneath their tables, flinging asparagus spears and mushy peas halfway across the room. Someone found the Jell-o dish that was going to be served for dessert, and then the battle really got messy.

Conner looked back at John, who had an asparagus spear in each nostril. “Now this is an exhibition of excellence.”

John nodded. “In the name of brotherhood.”

“Naturally.” Conner removed the ladle from the gravy boat. “Now watch this.”

“People !” Derwood shouted, desperately trying to regain control. “We can’t do this! This is the Masters. The Masters ! We must-”

He had more that he wanted to say, but what it was no one ever knew, because he stopped talking for good after the fistful of gravy splatted him in the face.

Conner was not entirely surprised when he received his summons to the chairman’s office. Given the way Derwood had stomped out of the champions’ dinner, some attempt at reciprocity seemed inevitable. The only questions in Conner’s brain were when and how. When turned out to be that very night. How turned out to be a command performance in the vice-principal’s office.

It was impossible for Conner to predict what would happen next, because the Masters-and its powers-that-be-were like no other. The Masters was neither connected with, nor accountable to, any professional association or organized league. It was administered by a private fraternity-virtually a secret society-of well-heeled, conservative duffers. They did not discuss the inner workings of the Club; what had been described as the Augusta National omerta was always maintained. And at the Masters, their word was the law.

Two tournament officials escorted Conner back to the clubhouse. Without even allowing him to pause at the bar, they led him downstairs, past the public areas into the inner catacombs of the building. Conner trailed them down a long hallway where the staff offices were located. The hallway seemed enormous; Conner wondered why they hadn’t installed an airport people-mover. Only as they approached the end of the dimly lit corridor did Conner realize there were doors there. Two dark mahogany, magnificently carved doors.

As they approached, the doors swung open, as if moved by a higher power.

“Please come in.”

Following the instructions of the voice from within, Conner and his two escorts stepped inside.

The office was magnificent, every corner filled with golf memorabilia and curios. One entire wall appeared to be covered with photos and awards relating to Bobby Jones and Cliff Roberts (always referred to by Club members as Bob Jones and Mr. Roberts), the founders of the Augusta National who oversaw the construction of the golf course (designed by Dr. Alister MacKenzie, M.D.) and carved it out of 365 acres that were once an indigo plantation. The walls were all rich, dark wood, floor-to-ceiling. The furniture reflected the dark motif, right down to the plush upholstered chairs. But the most magnificent piece was the desk-as immense as some conference tables. Behind the desk, leaning back in the chair with his fingers steepled, was a distinguished white-haired gentleman Conner knew all too well: Artemus Tenniel-chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club.

Conner nodded politely. “Evening, Artemus.”

Conner could see the man burn at the casual use of his first name, which of course was exactly why Conner had done it. “You will address your remarks to Mr. Spenser.”

“Ah. Forgive me.” Apparently being summoned by the chairman was akin to having an audience with the queen. You could only speak when spoken to, and then only through an intermediary.

Conner pivoted slightly, enough to take in the middle-aged, middleweight figure of Andrew Spenser, the Masters tournament director. And cowering behind him, his associate Derwood Scott.

“Let me ask you a question,” Spenser said, in a slow, deep Southern accent. He paced around the room, slowly encircling Conner. “You are Conner Cross. A three-year member of the PGA tour.”

“Guilty.”

Spenser continued his slow circles, as if he were trying to recreate the torture and brainwash scene from The Manchurian Candidate . “What do you think the Masters tournament is?”

“A chance to make some really big buckos?”

“No. The Masters tournament is about much more than big… buckos.” He gave a mock shiver. “The Masters tournament is a celebration of mankind’s finest qualities. When the tournament was established in 1937, it was perceived as the pinnacle of-”

“I’ve read the brochure,” Conner said.

“The Masters tournament represents the best of all mankind-”

“If it represents the best of all mankind, how come the Masters didn’t have any African-American players until 1975? How come the Augusta National didn’t have any black members until 1990?”

Spenser studiously ignored him. “Over the years, this tournament has come to represent much more than simply a sports competition. At the Masters, we try to establish an exemplar for athleticism, ethics… and behavior.”

Conner had the distinct feeling that behavior was the exemplar they were going to be discussing tonight. “Aren’t you guys taking this all a wee bit too seriously? I mean, we’re talking about a golf tournament here, not the end of Western civilization.”

Spenser drew in his chin. “What we are trying to do is set a standard-”

“No, what we are trying to do is knock a silly white ball into a tiny hole in the ground. It ain’t international diplomacy.”

Spenser raised a knobbly finger. “Your behavior has been inexcusable.”

“I was strafed with Spam. I had to defend myself.”