Miracle at Augusta by James Patterson Read Free Book Online

steaming mugs. After the shoveler accepts his, the pair chink cups and sip their warm drinks in the winter sun, chatting like old pals. Then the boy hands back the empty, makes a courtly bow, and returns to work.
    “I like Jerzy,” says Noah, back in the kitchen. “He’s good people.”
    “I like him, too.”
    Jerzy shovels for three hours. When he returns to the front door, he holds the plastic bag containing a day-old paper. “An artifact excavated from the base of the driveway,” he says. “Perhaps it will be of some interest.” More conspicuous than his accent is his delight in his new language, as if every word and figure of speech is inherently amusing.
    “Thanks, Jerzy. You did a hell of a job. I’m Travis.”
    “I know who you are, Mr. McKinley. You’re Winnetka’s most notorious professional athlete.”
    “I guess you heard about the suspension.”
    “It struck me as rather draconian.”
    “Ditto. You play?” I ask.
    “Unfortunately not, but I spectate via television.”
    I pull two twenties and a ten from my wallet and, as I hand them over, notice that the acne on his forehead camouflages a nasty gash.
    “This is too much,” says Jerzy.
    “Not at all. You earned it. What happened to your head?”
    “Tripped on the ice. Unfortunately, both my feet are left ones.”
    “Well, good luck getting back. And thanks again.”

20
    I RIP THROUGH THE wet wrapper, and without so much as a glance at the world, local, business, and cultural news, apply myself directly to Sports. An unseemly amount of the first page is devoted to the exploits of Michael Jordan, who led the Bulls to victory last night in Texas, and there’s a photo of him throwing one down over San Antonio’s rookie center, Tim Duncan.
    I’ll get back to that in a moment, but first I want to see how Earl is faring in Tampa. Among the box scores and standings, I find the leaderboard for the GTE Suncoast Classic, where order has been restored. Tied for the lead are Hale Irwin and Gil Morgan, and four strokes back is Earl Fielder. It looks like Earl is going to have to wait another week before getting that first w, but back-to-back 69s are nothing to sneeze at and almost certain to lead to his twenty-fifth top ten in a row. There’s no sign of Stump. Most likely, he took the week off to enjoy his victory and give his face a chance to look more presentable.
    I sip my coffee and study the small type like a tax attorney searching for loopholes. From the box score, I learn that Jordan scored thirty-five points in thirty-three minutes, shooting eight for fifteen from the field, four for nine from three-point range, and seven for seven from the line, and Pippen was one assist and two rebounds short of a triple-double. My scrutiny shifts from the NBA standings to the Blackhawks box score to the college basketball results (Eastern Michigan 68, Northwestern 52) before alighting on “Transactions.” If the agate are the crumbs of the sports section, then “Transactions” are the crumbs of the crumbs. But where else would I learn that the Bears have agreed to a four-year contract with outside linebacker Boswell King and waived (football is even crueler than golf) defensive lineman Simon Briggs and placed Ted Keating on injured reserve? Or that Phil Jackson has been fined $10,000 for criticizing the officials after last week’s loss in Portland, which strikes me as rather draconian?
    What, you may wonder, is so interesting about an endless succession of contrived contests staged day after day, night after night, in gyms, rinks, and arenas? For one thing, they’re easy to digest. Someone won. Someone lost. Someone, like yours truly, screwed up, and someone, like Hank Peters, didn’t. The rest of the paper is never that clear, and even if you learn what happened, you don’t know what it means. Maybe you’ll know in a week or a month. More likely, you never will.
    I spend over an hour of the only life I’ll ever have poring over scores,