banged it home and gave dirty looks when someone loudly suggested that a certain tee shot made a certain player 'da man.' They accused a putter who did not reach the hole of hitting the ball 'with your purse, Alice.'
Players were constantly playing shots that were ' 'unplayable. ' '
Myron shook his head. All sports have their own lexicons, but speaking golfese was tantamount to mastering Swahili. It was like rich people's rap.
But on a day like today the sun shining, the blue sky unblemished, the summer air smelling like a lover's hair Myron felt closer to the chalice of golf He could imagine the course tree of spectators, the peace and tranquillity, the same aura that drew Buddhist monks to mountaintop retreats, the double cut grass so rich and green that God Himself would want to run barefoot. This did not mean Myron got it he was still a nonbeliever of heretic proportions- but for a brief moment he could at least envision what it was about this game that ensnared and swallowed so many whole.
When he reached the fourteenth green, Jack Coldren was lining up for a fifteen-foot putt. Diane Hoflinan took the pin out of the hole. At almost every course in the world, the 'pin' had a Hag on the top. But that would just not do at Merion. Instead, the pole was topped with a wicker basket. No one seemed to know why. Win came up with this story about how the old Scots who invented golf used to carry their lunch in baskets on sticks, which could then double as hole markers, but Myron smelled the pungent odor of lore in Win's rationale rather than fact.
Either way, Merion's members made a big fuss over these wicker baskets on the end of a big stick. Golfers.
Myron tried to move in closer to Jack Coldren, looking for Win's 'eye of the tiger.' Despite his protestations, Myron knew very well what Win had meant the previous night, the intangibles that separated raw talent from on- field greatness. Desire. Heart. Perseverance. Win spoke about these things as though they were evil. They were not. Quite the opposite, in fact. Win, of all people, should know better. To paraphrase and completely abuse a famous political quote: Extremism in the pursuit of excellence is no vice.
Jack Coldren's expression was smooth and unworried and distant. Only one explanation for that: the zone. Jack had managed to squeeze his way into the hallowed zone, that tranquil room in which no crowd or big payday or famous course or next hole or knee-bending pressure or hostile opponent or successful wife or kidnapped son may reside. Jack's zone was a small place, comprising only his club, a small dimpled ball, and a hole. All else faded away now like the dream sequence in a movie.
This, Myron knew, was Jack Coldren stripped to his purest state. He was a golfer. A man who wanted to win.
Needed to. Myron understood. He had been there his zone consisting of a large orange ball and a metallic cylinder and a part of him would always be embeshed in that world. It was a fine place to be in many ways, the best place to be. Win was wrong. Winning was not a worthless goal. It was noble. Jack had taken life's hits. He had striven and battled. He had been battered and bloodied.
Yet here he stood, head high, on the road to redemption.
How many people are awarded this opportunity?
How many people truly get the chance to feel this vibrant, to reside for even a short time on such a plateau, to have their hearts and dreams stirred with such unquenchable inner passion?
Jack Coldren stroked the putt. Myron found himself watching the ball slowly arc toward the hole, lost in that vicarious rush that so fiercely drew spectators to sports.
He held his breath and felt something like a tear well up in his eye when the ball dropped in. A birdie. Diane Hoffman made a iist and pumped it. The lead was back up to nine strokes.
Jack looked up at the applauding galley. He acknowledged them with a tip of his hat, but he saw nothing. Still in the zone. Fighting to stay there. For a moment, his eyes locked on Myron's. Myron nodded back, not wanting to nudge him back to reality. Stay in that zone, Myron thought. In that zone, a man can win a tournament. In that zone, a son does not purposely sabotage a father's lifelong dream.
Myron walked past the many portable toilets they'd been provided by a company with the semiaccurate name Royal Flush and headed toward Corporate Row. Golf matches had an unprecedented hierarchy for ticket holders.
True, at most sporting arenas there was a grading of one sort or another some had better seats, obviously, while some had access to skyboxes or even courtside seats. But in those cases, you handed a ticket to an usher or ticket collector and took your place. In golf, you displayed your entrance pass all day. The general-admission folk (read: serfs) usually had a sticker plastered on their shirt, not unlike, say, a scarlet letter. Others wore a plastic card that dangled from a metal chain wrapped around their neck. Sponsors (read: feudal lords) wore either red, silver, or gold cards, depending on how much money they spent. There were also different passes for players' family and friends, Merion club members, Merion club officers, even steady sports agents. And the different cards gave you different access to different places. For example, you had to have a colored card to enter Corporate Row. Or you needed a gold card if you wanted to enter one of those exclusive tents the ones strategically perched on hills like generals' quarters in an old war movie.
Corporate Row was merely a row of tents, each sponsored by one enormous company or another. The theoretical intention of spending at least one hundred grand for a four-day tent rental was to impress corporate clients and gain exposure. The truth, however, was that the tents were a way for the corporate bigwigs to go to the toumament for free. Yes, a few important clients were invited, but Myron also noticed that the company's major officers always managed to show too. And the hundred grand rental fee was just a start. lt didn't include the food, the drinks, the employees not to mention the first-class flights, the deluxe hotel suites, the stretch limos, et cetera, for the bigwigs and their guests.
Boys and girls, can you say, 'Chu-ching goes the cash register'? I thought you could.
Myron gave his name to the pretty young woman at the Lock-Horne tent. Win was not there yet, but Esperanza was sitting at a table in the corner.
'You look like shit,' Esperanza said.
'Maybe. But at least I feel awful.'
'So what happened?'
'Three crackheads adorned with Nazi memorabilia and crowbars jumped me.'
She arched an eyebrow. 'Only three?'
The woman was constant chuckles. He told her about his run-in and narrow escape. When he was finished, Esperanza shook her head and said, 'Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.'
'Don't get all dewy-eyed on me. I'll be fine.'
'I found Lloyd Rermart's wife. She's an artist of some kind, lives on the Jersey shore.'
.'Any word on Lloyd Rermart's body'?' +
Esperanza shook her head. 'I checked the NVI and Treemaker Web sites. No death certificate has been issued.'
Myron looked at her. 'You're kidding.'
'Nope. But it might not be on the Web yet. The other ffices are closed until Monday. And even if one hasn't been issued, it might not mean anything.'
'Why not?' he asked.
'A body is supposed to be missing for a certain amount of time before the person can be declared dead,'
Esperanza explained. 'I don't know five years or something. But what often happens is that the next of kin files a motion in order to settle insurance claims and the estate.
But Lloyd Rennart committed suicide.'
'So there'd be no insurance,' Myron said.
'Right. And assuming everything was held jointly between Rennart and his wife, then there would be no need for her to press it.'
Myron nodded. It made sense. Still it was yet another nagging hangnail that needed to be clipped. 'You want something to drink?' he asked.
She shook her head. `
'I'll be right back.' Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo. Win had made sure the Lock-Home tent stocked them. What a pal. A television monitor in the upper. corner had a scoreboard. Jack had just iinished the fifteenth hole. Both he and Crispin had parred it. Barring a sudden collapse, Jack was going to take a huge lead into tomorrow's' final
