Fast Greens Read Online Free Page B

blackness where he thought the hole might be.
    As I envisioned the story from my bed in South Austin, I could smell the lantana blooming outside my own window. And in my mind I could see that clubhouse perched on a hill above the Dry Devil’s River.
    March had described the sound of his shot: the simultaneous whoosh and whack vibrating outward only slightly faster than the actual flight of the ball. He told me that the sweet haunting sound of his clubhead making contact with the glowing ball was something that he’d never forgotten. He knew, and would always know, that his own shot had sailed more true than Roscoe’s.
    Finding his ball on the putting surface, March picked up a heavy iron roller and, in the dim light of the coming dawn, he smoothed out the sand between his ball and the cup. That’s right, sand! In a futile attempt to find irrigation water for their new nine-hole course, March and Roscoe had drilled nine more holes, bored ’em deep into the earth; but instead of life-giving water, one by one the wells had come in gushing oil. Each one gave up a daily supply of West Texas crude, good for a growing country but hell on growing greens. With no other choice, they installed putting surfaces made of hard-packed sand. And to keep the sand from blowing away in the constant West Texas gales, they watered with a light mist of oil.
    March’s ball was one sandy putt from victory, but Roscoe’s ball was nowhere to be found. I had witnessed Roscoe Fowler’s perpetual complaining when I carried for March, and now I could picture Roscoe’s increasing bitterness and panic, picture him stooping close to the ground, groping blindly for the ball, searching with desperation in the right rough, the left rough, short and long. I can almost hear him now, Roscoe the original curmudgeon, cursing the sun for coming so slow, the moon for setting so early, and the fog for staying so long.
    â€œOh mama!” Roscoe had cried out as he tripped over a root or a rock or a deaf armadillo, and landed on a prickly-pear cactus. “I’m in a world of shit now!”
    But it was March who was really in a world of shit, because March was about to win control of Roscoe’s life, and that could not be allowed. The senior partner picks the wells to drill while the junior partner picks his nose.
    â€œHey March,” cried Roscoe. “Git out the Bird! Let’s have us a drink!”
    The Bird: Wild Turkey, Kentucky whiskey. March knew Roscoe was stalling but didn’t mind giving his friend time for the light to dawn.
    â€œI moved to the horses and groped in my daddy’s oiled saddlebag for the bottle,” said March, turning to catch my eye. “Those horses were my pride and joy, a necessity born of Roscoe’s leg and my own invention. They liked to carry golfers, and waited untied while we hit our shots. My Appaloosa was born wild. I found her dying of thirst near a wildcat we were drilling in Big Bend; put out water and hay every day for a week till she’d eat right out of my hand. She never let Roscoe ride her either. When it comes Judgment Day and St. Pete wants to know did I have any friends, I’m gonna tell him about that Appaloosa.
    â€œWe huddled together, Roscoe and me, beneath a mesquite tree not much taller than ourselves, and passed the bottle back and forth. The gray-streaked dawn arrived before long, but didn’t reveal Roscoe’s missing ball. He took one last look around, planting his footsteps in the sand of the green in the process, and finally he conceded that the ball was lost.
    â€œFair enough, I thought as I stepped up to stake my claim. Two putts would have won, even three; but hell, I rammed it right in the cup for a birdie and the only key to the executive washroom of that soon-to-be-renowned ground-poking enterprise, March Oil! Hallelujah, brothers and sisters, hallelujah!
    â€œKid, I literally waltzed across ten feet of Texas to fetch my