Miracle at Augusta Read Online Free Page B

contact is solid, and the weight feels right. And even though we didn’t grind over the line anywhere near as much as the speed, I got that right, too. Six feet from the hole, as the ball slows, takes the breaks, and swerves inexorably toward the hole, I know it’s in.

12
    WHEN THE BALL CATCHES the high side of the hole, my putter is already in the air. It glints in the sun like a saber as the ball drops from sight, and it’s still pointing heavenward when the ball catches the back edge and comes flying out the low side twice as fast as it went in. (See physics: gravity; centrifugal force; the combination thereof. ) When it stops rolling, I’m ten feet from the hole.
    I appreciate that only Jack Nicklaus has earned the right to lift his putter when the ball is four feet from the hole, but I’ve never hit a better lag in my life. Ever. My only mistake was being too close on the line. Ten inches left or right, I’d have a kick-in par, but because I missed by a fraction, I’ve got ten feet.
    Even worse, I’ve given Peters hope. Now he doesn’t have to make. Despite his dunking his tee ball, two putts will likely extend the play-off, and one could end it. Since I’ve given him such a good read, he steps up and lets it roll while the line is still fresh in his mind. By this point, I’m too exhausted and traumatized to risk another hernia. I just turn away and glance at Johnny A…until the crowd explodes.
    I’ve got to give Johnny credit. He doesn’t bat an eye. “You already hit one good putt,” he says. “We need one more.”
    He’s right as usual, old Johnny, and it’s shorter than the one I just made on 18. But that feels like a year ago, and I’m not the same golfer as the one who sank that putt. I wouldn’t recognize that guy if I were sitting next to him. I tell myself not to hit the putt until I’m ready, but that could take a week and I doubt the networks would go for that. When I can’t put it off any longer, I step up to the ball and give it a roll. It’s not even close. Peters, that son of a bitch, is going to be living in my head for the rest of my life.
    But wait. It’s not over. First I have to watch two beautiful beige-skinned Hawaiian girls in grass skirts prance onto the green, kiss Peters on each jowl, and anoint him with red leis. As I’m enjoying this lovely native ceremony, Dave Marr, the on-course reporter, comes up from behind me, lays a consoling hand on my shoulder, and asks me to tell the viewers “how I feel.”
    “Like puking,” I say. “And please take your hand off my shoulder.”

13
    FOUR HOURS AFTER PETERS hoists his crystal pineapple, Earl and I are lifting filthy shot glasses at the horseshoe bar of the Ding Dong Lounge, a gritty dive on the border of Honolulu’s red-light district.
    “This place is even better than I remembered,” says Earl.
    “That’s the beauty of dives,” I say, “they improve with age.”
    “Just like you and me, my friend.”
    We toss back our shots and chase them with cold beer.
    “To the Ding Dong,” says Earl.
    “Long live the Ding Dong.”
    “Fuck. I’m amazed it lived this long.”
    After Earl heard what happened in sudden death, he felt duty bound to get me hammered as quickly as possible, and after five shots of Jameson and four cans of Primo, which I’m told is the Pabst Blue Ribbon of Hawaii, we’re making solid progress. And since neither one of us sees any benefit in being photographed stumbling onto the curb at closing time, he thought we’d be better off in an obscure hole-in-the-wall than one of the glittering tourist traps near the hotel. Then he remembered the Ding Dong Lounge, first visited almost thirty years ago on an R&R trip during his second tour in Vietnam.
    Despite my gloom, the Ding Dong had me from aloha. From the gentle, murky light to the pleasantly dank aroma to the scarred wood surface of the horseshoe bar, everything about it is imperfectly perfect. Halfway through my fourth Primo, even the name