Miracle at Augusta by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

off yardages, pulling clubs, and reading greens will be enough of a challenge without engaging in small talk, and I want to make it clear from the outset that I’m not here to hang out but to work.
    Despite my determination to exceed everyone’s low expectations, I narrowly avoid disaster, and it happens on the very first hole, after Earl follows his perfect drive with a crisp 7-iron that leaves him twenty-two feet below the hole. One of the great perks of being a professional golfer, right up there with not having to work for a living, is that eighteen times a round, you get to flaunt your good fortune by performing a simple ritual permissible only for pros—the mark and toss. Upon finding your ball on the green, you saunter up behind it, mark the spot, then toss the ball to your caddy, who wipes it clean with a damp towel.
    Every pro performs this little sequence in his own inimitable fashion, but always with as much nonchalance as he can muster with a straight face. Some players release the ball without even a glance at their caddy, like a look-away pass in basketball. Others lob it like a baby hook. Earl’s signature is to put a bit of air under it, and when he flips it to me, perhaps as a joke or perhaps as a kind of initiation, he puts even more than usual, and the height of the toss gives me way too much time to consider the consequences of booting it.
    Mainly, I’m thinking about the pond, directly behind me at the base of a closely mown slope, and the fact that the surface is coated with opaque green slime. If I yip the catch, not only will Earl’s ball end up in the soup, but there’ll be no way to find it, and based on my rereading on the flight down of that page-turner known as The Rules of Golf, I know that if Earl has to putt out with a different ball than the one he just threw to me, I’ll go down in looping lore as the rookie who cost his player two strokes on his first hole. As a result, I brace myself for this little pop-up as if it were a vicious line drive and, with two hands extended and Earl’s clubs bouncing around on my back, am barely able to corral it.
    “Nice catch,” says Earl.
    Six holes later, I find another way to amuse my new boss. Because it’s a muggy Florida afternoon, I’m careful to stay hydrated, so careful I’m soon in need of a bathroom. I put it off as long as a man of a certain age can, but when there’s a wait at the par-three 7th, I jump at the chance and scurry to the small white stucco structure discreetly tucked among a cluster of shading palms. Unfortunately, a tournament official got there first and tacked a sign to the door: FOR PLAYERS ONLY .
    That leaves the plastic Porta-Potty roasting in the sun ten yards away. “Enjoy the facilities?” asks Earl when I get back.
    “Immensely. Thanks for asking.”

22
    EARL SHOOTS 71 IN the first round and 71 in the second. Then again, Earl’s rounds often mirror each other. That’s why he’s the Joe DiMaggio of senior golf, with twenty-four consecutive top tens and counting. The man doesn’t make bad swings or hit squirrelly shots.
    Earl’s got one of the most repeatable swings on the planet. I’ve always known this, of course, but witnessing it up close and personal is a little disconcerting. Again and again, I pace off the distance to the nearest sprinkler head, do the math, and come up with the same number to the center of the green on Saturday that we had on Friday. Once, I’m quite certain, his ball came to rest on top of his old filled-in divot.
    For his caddy, it’s as frustrating as it is impressive, because despite his otherworldly ball-striking, we’re a whopping two under. He doesn’t make bogeys, but he doesn’t make birdies, either. He’s the human unhighlight film.
    So where does Earl drag me after the second round is in the books? The driving range, of course. Like everyone else, Earl likes to practice what he’s good at. It reminds me of the greasers in high school who would spend all