Miracle at Augusta Read Online Free
Author: James Patterson
either—and we head to 18 exactly as we stepped off 10, with Peters one up on Trevino and two up on me.
9
THE PAR-5 FINISHING HOLE is a gauntlet of palm trees, mined by bunkers, which I avoid and Peters and Trevino don’t. That means they have to lay up, and I have a chance to reach in two.
Johnny A paces off the distance to the nearest sprinkler head and checks his yardage book. “Two fifteen to the center,” he says, “two twenty-nine to the flag.”
As soon as that first number falls out of his mouth, I smile involuntarily, because it’s a number close to my heart, the perfect distance for my new high draw that got me through the winter. Of course, as Earl was unkind enough to point out on the range, the high draw offers no tangible advantage, and since this isn’t figure skating and there are no points awarded for degree of difficulty or artistic expression, there is no sensible reason to pull it out now. Except one. If I go with the high draw, I just might be able to foster the illusion that rather than coming down the stretch with Peters and Trevino on Sunday afternoon at Waialae, I’m back at Big Oaks on a Tuesday morning with Esther Lee. And maybe, with a little luck, I can sustain the illusion long enough not to choke my brains out. Plus, as even Earl concedes, it’s the suavest shot in golf.
When Johnny A hands me my 5-wood and says, “Nice soft cut, center of the green,” I don’t bother to contradict him. Instead, I do what I did all winter…in reverse. Instead of savoring the reality of this Hawaiian paradise, I transport myself eight thousand miles away to a drafty, underheated warehouse in the midst of a brutal Chicago winter. The breeze rustling the palms? That’s traffic whooshing by on Route 38. The waves breaking on the shore? Trucks rattling over the potholes.
I do such a thorough job of conjuring those chilly practice sessions, my biggest fear is that Esther will shank another one in the middle of my backswing. It’s a feat of reverse double psychology that might not impress mental guru Bob Rotella, but when my ball drops softly on the green and settles fifteen feet from the hole, it impresses the shit out of Johnny A.
“I thought we said high cut. But let’s not split hairs.”
It also makes an impression on Trevino. “Golf shot, Travis,” he says, and I swear I’m not making that up.
“Thanks, Lee,” I respond, and I would have been more than happy to carry on back and forth like this for another ten minutes, but seeing as he and Peters have their second and third shots to contend with and I’ve got some work left on the green myself, I reluctantly cut our conversation short and follow Johnny A to the green.
10
WHEN WE GET THERE, I discover I’m even closer than I thought, which is always nice. It’s more like thirteen feet from the hole, and considerably closer than Peters’s twenty-one feet and Trevino’s eighteen. And they’re lying three.
If you watch televised golf—and if you’re reading this, that’s more than likely—you’ve heard that pros never root against their competitors. You believe that, I have a warehouse conveniently located on Route 38 you might be interested in. When Peters attempts his birdie, I’m pulling so hard for it to miss, I may have given myself a hernia. If so, it’s worth a little outpatient surgery, because his putt stops three feet short. Trevino misses too, although I swear, I wasn’t bad-vibing my pal Lee…at least not as much.
Once they tap in, I’ve got those thirteen feet, a McKinley dozen, to force a play-off with Peters. Thirteen feet is no gimme. It’s about three gimmes. But it’s manageable, the kind of putt even I can stand over with a certain level of optimism, if not confidence, and Johnny and I are taking our sweet time / stalling, if only to get my heart rate down. Although our extended deliberations must be boring the crap out of Trevino and Herman, I know Peters is watching. For the first time in
9
THE PAR-5 FINISHING HOLE is a gauntlet of palm trees, mined by bunkers, which I avoid and Peters and Trevino don’t. That means they have to lay up, and I have a chance to reach in two.
Johnny A paces off the distance to the nearest sprinkler head and checks his yardage book. “Two fifteen to the center,” he says, “two twenty-nine to the flag.”
As soon as that first number falls out of his mouth, I smile involuntarily, because it’s a number close to my heart, the perfect distance for my new high draw that got me through the winter. Of course, as Earl was unkind enough to point out on the range, the high draw offers no tangible advantage, and since this isn’t figure skating and there are no points awarded for degree of difficulty or artistic expression, there is no sensible reason to pull it out now. Except one. If I go with the high draw, I just might be able to foster the illusion that rather than coming down the stretch with Peters and Trevino on Sunday afternoon at Waialae, I’m back at Big Oaks on a Tuesday morning with Esther Lee. And maybe, with a little luck, I can sustain the illusion long enough not to choke my brains out. Plus, as even Earl concedes, it’s the suavest shot in golf.
When Johnny A hands me my 5-wood and says, “Nice soft cut, center of the green,” I don’t bother to contradict him. Instead, I do what I did all winter…in reverse. Instead of savoring the reality of this Hawaiian paradise, I transport myself eight thousand miles away to a drafty, underheated warehouse in the midst of a brutal Chicago winter. The breeze rustling the palms? That’s traffic whooshing by on Route 38. The waves breaking on the shore? Trucks rattling over the potholes.
I do such a thorough job of conjuring those chilly practice sessions, my biggest fear is that Esther will shank another one in the middle of my backswing. It’s a feat of reverse double psychology that might not impress mental guru Bob Rotella, but when my ball drops softly on the green and settles fifteen feet from the hole, it impresses the shit out of Johnny A.
“I thought we said high cut. But let’s not split hairs.”
It also makes an impression on Trevino. “Golf shot, Travis,” he says, and I swear I’m not making that up.
“Thanks, Lee,” I respond, and I would have been more than happy to carry on back and forth like this for another ten minutes, but seeing as he and Peters have their second and third shots to contend with and I’ve got some work left on the green myself, I reluctantly cut our conversation short and follow Johnny A to the green.
10
WHEN WE GET THERE, I discover I’m even closer than I thought, which is always nice. It’s more like thirteen feet from the hole, and considerably closer than Peters’s twenty-one feet and Trevino’s eighteen. And they’re lying three.
If you watch televised golf—and if you’re reading this, that’s more than likely—you’ve heard that pros never root against their competitors. You believe that, I have a warehouse conveniently located on Route 38 you might be interested in. When Peters attempts his birdie, I’m pulling so hard for it to miss, I may have given myself a hernia. If so, it’s worth a little outpatient surgery, because his putt stops three feet short. Trevino misses too, although I swear, I wasn’t bad-vibing my pal Lee…at least not as much.
Once they tap in, I’ve got those thirteen feet, a McKinley dozen, to force a play-off with Peters. Thirteen feet is no gimme. It’s about three gimmes. But it’s manageable, the kind of putt even I can stand over with a certain level of optimism, if not confidence, and Johnny and I are taking our sweet time / stalling, if only to get my heart rate down. Although our extended deliberations must be boring the crap out of Trevino and Herman, I know Peters is watching. For the first time in
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