Miracle on the 17th Green by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson [Patterson, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2011-03-23T00:16:32+00:00

Chapter 20

“Now on the first tee, from Winnetka, Illinois, Travis McKinley.”

Thus spoke the starter at the FHP Health Care Classic in Ojai, California, and at 7:18 on a crisp Southern California February morning, with God, Dale Douglas, and Kermit Zarley as my witnesses, I officially began my Senior Tour career — by hooking my drive into the deep rough, and practically dancing down the fairway after it.

“Try to show a little dignity, for God’s sake,” said Earl, “you’re not supposed to be thrilled with a hook into the bramble. Youre embarrassing me.”

“Anyone ever tell you youre cute when you’re grouchy?” I asked.

“All the time,” said Earl.

I tried to act cool, in a way vaguely befitting my newfound status as a member in good standing of the PGA Tour, but that’s all it was. An act. If Q-School is the Inferno and Purgatory rolled into one, then the Senior Tour is Paradise. As designed by Robert Trent Jones, instead of Dante. And you don’t even have to die to get there. You just have to get old.

Since Earl and I rolled into town on Wednesday morning, tournament sponsors had handed me the keys to a suite at the Marriott and a pearl white Lexus. I was assigned my own roped-off spot on the driving range furnished with a glistening mound of Titleists more pristine than I was used to playing with, let alone practicing with, and in case any of the paying spectators who wandered out to the range to pick up a thing or two from the pros couldnt quite place my swing, there was a large white placard with my name boldly printed on it, propped up in the grass just behind me.

Oh, and on my first day of practice, a rep from Calloway fitted me for a full-custom set of Big Berthas, from a 60-degree wedge to an enormous graphite-shafted, titanium-headed Great Big Bertha driver, with a sweet spot about the size of a frying pan.

And every time I turned a corner, I came face to face with another tanned mug from golf’s Mount Rushmore. The King himself, Arnold Palmer, was hitting balls four spots down on the range. Isao Aoki parked his butt in the cubicle next to mine in the locker room. He turned out to be this incredibly suave, chain-smoking character, kind of like a Japanese Dean Martin. And one morning, when I charged a putt on the practice green, it smacked right into Lee Trevino’s heel. “Sorry about that,” I stammered, as embarrassed as a kid, “my name’s Travis McKinley. Its a real pleasure to meet you.”

“Travis McKinley,” said Trevino with his enormous exploding smile, “glad to meet you, too. I read about you this morning in USA Today. Listen, don’t worry about that ‘Miracle of Q-School’ crap. No one is going to admit it to you, but we’re all miracles out here, every last one of us. Now go work on your putting, son. Based on that last stroke, you need it.”

I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

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