After six holes, Buddy said, “Man, I haven’t seen you play this well in a long time. I wish this was the real thing instead of a practice round.”
“It’s kind of funny; you know how I’ve been on edge for a while. Well, I haven’t told anyone this, but I recently made a mental commitment to become a better person, you know, like try to grow up, treat people a little nicer, even you.” Buddy looked at Reid, his face scrunched up in doubt. “I mean it. Being a nice guy can’t be that hard, can it?” “For you? Come on.” “Well, I’m going to try. No guarantees, but hopefully I can do it. Look what it’s doing for my game. Maybe it’s just the answer.” Buddy shrugged. “Maybe?” After Reid played one of the best rounds he had played in months, both men smiled. Each knew the other’s thoughts; if Reid continued to play like he did today, the tournament was his.
Reid had been looking forward to his 6 p.m. massage. He had requested Donna, a beautiful masseuse with the lithe body of a Pilates instructor, her other job. Reid chose her because she was extremely talented with her hands and he had already slept with her. As she kneaded his muscles, he thought through every hole at Augusta, playing each perfectly in his head. His thoughts shifted; Green Jacket, Mom, Jennifer, AllSport, e-mail threats. Immediately his body tensed. Donna asked, “Did I hurt you?” “No, just some nagging thoughts.” “Relax,” she said soothingly. “Let’s see if I can help you forget your problems for a while.” She quickly removed her uniform, rolled him over on his back and pulled off his towel. Then with the flair of a gymnast, she hopped up on the table and onto him. She rode him hard and fast into a sexual frenzy. Afterward, she lay on top of him and asked softly between kisses, “Did that help?” “Absolutely,” Reid moaned, weary with satisfied exhaustion. “Good, now go to sleep,” she whispered. She gently climbed off the table, and covered him with a blanket. She dressed, gave him a kiss and quietly left the room.
When Reid awoke it was almost 8 p.m. He went back to the suite, showered and had Buck paged. “Hey, where are you? Did you have dinner yet?”
“No, I’m on the patio,” Buck said. I was waiting for you. How was your day?”
“Excellent. In spite of everything, I was able to get into the zone; no one bothered me at all. I even had time for a massage.” Reid smiled. “Do you want to eat here or out?” “I don’t care. You decide,” Buck said in a relieved tone. Reid knew the tone well. He knew Buck was pleased that the day had gone by without any confrontations. He knew Buck always worried about him the day before a tournament. It was always possible, even probable, that Reid would snap at someone who was just saying hello.
“Why don’t you get us a table in the pub? I’ll be there in about 15 minutes.” “Fine,” Buck said. Reid dressed and headed to the restaurant. The room had the look and feel of an old English pub: dark ceiling, dark wood paneling, worn leather seating in booths around the perimeter. The big difference was the Guiness on tap here was cold. Reid found Buck in a quiet booth in the back, away from the slowly growing bar crowd. Reid sat down and took a gulp of the Diet Coke that Buck had waiting for him. Buck held out a sealed envelope with Reid’s name on it. A picture of an eagle was in the top left corner. “I met with Carl earlier; Eagle’s lawyers are working on the contract and payment terms. He asked me to give you this as a good-faith payment.” Reid took the envelope, slowly opened it, peeked inside and smiled. “Let me see,” Buck said. Reid looked up with a grin and shook his head as he started to put the envelope in his back pocket. “Real funny. Hand it over,” Buck demanded with an annoyed grin. Reid handed him the check. “Two million…nice,” Buck said. They raised their glasses and clinked them. “Yeah, it’s a good start,”
Reid chuckled. During dinner, Reid was grateful that Buck understood his need to focus inward and keep conversation to a minimum. After dinner, Buck said, “Let’s go out to the patio for a cigar.”
Reid ordered Navan cognac for Buck and a Perrier for himself. He told Buck, “I want you to try this cognac. It’s infused with vanilla and goes great with a cigar. I think you’ll like it.”
“Sounds interesting,” Buck said as he put his legs up on a patio chair next to the one he sat in. He was under the awning at the edge of the slate patio. Reid preferred a lounge chair under the brilliant starry sky. He loved to stare at the night sky and spot shooting stars. The vast power and depth of the solar system always awed him. Reid was pleased that, except for Buck and him, the patio was empty. Buck pulled two Fuente Opus X’s out of his black leather cigar holder. They cut and lit their cigars. A few players approached to say hello. Reid was polite but made no small talk. He wished them luck in the tournament while puffing on his stogie. Some took the hint and moved on. One guy asked Reid’s opinion about a specific hole on the course. Reid just shrugged and let a plume of smoke billow from his lips. The guy walked away mumbling, “Arrogant bastard.” Reid meant no harm; he was just getting focused. Veteran players knew to just stay away.
Having drunk half his cognac, Buck commented, “Hey, you were right about this stuff,” he held up the snifter and twirled it, sending the amber liquid into a spin, “it’s excellent. What’s it called again?” “Navan. It’s made by Grand Marnier.” “I’m gonna order another. You want anything?” “No thanks,” Reid said, “I’m heading up to bed; enjoy the rest of the evening.” Buck replied, “I’ll be up in a little while, I need to get to sleep soon, too, so I can head over to the club early. The press will be all over Carl, and I want to control them as much as possible.”
“Speaking of the press, sorry for blowing it at the conference the other day. I really need to bite my tongue when I’m with them. They just get me so damn mad. It’s like they try to piss me off.”
“Of course they do. A story about a Reid Clark tirade sells newspapers and helps ratings. They’re going to continue to provoke you. You just have to learn to let it go. Let’s not discuss it right now. Go on up and get some sleep.”
Chapter 7
Reid ran to catch the closing elevator. As he entered, chatter from the other players already aboard silenced.
He looked at each face. They all avoided eye contact. It was so blatant, Reid couldn’t help laughing. “Okay guys, what were you talking about? Let me guess.” He looked up and scratched his chin. “How quickly will Reid blow the endorsement deal?” No one said a word. “Well?” Continued silence. “Come on, admit it,” he said grinning. Slowly they all began to laugh. “Am I really the hot topic of the week? Don’t you guys have anything better to talk about, like golf maybe?” The elevator reached their floor and they got out saying, “Good night,
Reid.” “Good night, gentlemen.” As the doors closed he heard them break out in laughter. The message light was blinking when he entered the suite. Thoughts of Jennifer barged into his head. Damn! Not now. Not when he needed to get to sleep.
He got into bed and tossed and turned for a while. The more he tried to prevent it, the more Jennifer consumed his thoughts. His growing frustration and anger created turmoil in his head. The dark thoughts resurfaced. Was something terrible going to happen, or was his mind just playing with him? Whatever it was, now was definitely not a good time for it. Annoyed, he threw off his blanket, got out of bed and went into the living room. He grabbed the remote, turned on the TV and settled onto the couch. Flipping through the channels he stopped at a news report. Alvin Carey was being lead away in handcuffs by police. At least I’m not that bad, he thought. Buck has his hands full with that guy.
The next story was about the Master’s Tournament. The reporter was the one Reid had seen earlier in the day. He was obviously smarter than most; he had not approached Reid for comments and had his cameraman shoot footage from a distance. As the clip ran, the reporter talked about Reid’s endorsement and that he was favored to win the Master’s. Reid mumbled, “You got that right. That jacket is mine.” Next came an interview with last year’s winner. When asked about his chances, he commented, “It depends on how Reid is playing; he looked very good out here today. When Re
id’s in the zone he’s tough to beat. But I’m playing well, too. It should be a close tournament.”
“Well, if this tournament is meant to confirm the master of the game, The ‘Bad Boy of Golf’ better be ready to play his best, because the competition is ready. Everyone here wants the coveted Green Jacket. Till tomorrow at the first tee. I’m Bobby Lee, live from the Master’s Tournament in Augusta, Georgia.”
Reid turned off the TV, walked to the computer and logged onto the Internet to check his e-mail. He smiled as he read messages from his sisters accepting his invitation to Augusta. He shot off quick replies and sifted through the rest of his e-mail. As usual, mostly junk. Previously he received all his fan mail. He got a kick out of responding, and although it had been time consuming, he missed it. Ever since that twisted threat was sent to the ICSF address, all his e-mail was redirected to Buck’s office for screening. Only his personal e-mail was forwarded to him.
He closed his eyes as the thoughts of the threats ignited a fuse in his head. They began to wreak havoc on his brain. Every muscle in his body tightened and his head began to throb. Annoyed, he shoved the mouse across the desk and stood. The mouse fell and swung from its wire; it sent a little bead of infrared light sweeping through the dark room, hitting everything in its path. Watching it, Reid was spooked by the thought, Is that what a snipers infrared sight looks like as it marks its target? He followed the dot with intensity as it moved from object to object: couch, wall, TV, desk, his chest. He actually jumped back to avoid it. His leg hit the chair and he fell backward onto the floor; luckily, he didn’t hit anything as he fell. The only damage was going to be a sore left butt cheek. He put his head back on the carpeted floor and looked up at the dark ceiling. He began to laugh, thinking, What kind of moron am I? I’m just lucky I didn’t get hurt. He laughed harder, wondering how he would have explained it if he had gotten hurt. Getting up, he looked at the clock. 1 a.m. “I have to get to sleep,” he groaned. He went back to bed. Head on the pillow, looking at the ceiling, he chuckled quietly, thinking of the utter absurdity of the whole situation. Exhaustion consumed him and he slowly fell asleep.
The 5:30 a.m. call abruptly, ended another nightmare. Reid lay in bed, almost drifting back to sleep. He knew if he lay there any longer he might doze off and miss his tee time. He got up, shaved, showered and dressed in his standard golf uniform: blue Izod shirt and khaki Izod pants.
He shoveled down his standard game day breakfast of fresh fruit, yogurt and granola, gulped the last drop of lukewarm coffee and headed for the door. Buck stuck his head out his door and said wearily, “Play well. I’ll see you in a little while.”
On arrival at the club, Reid went directly to the dressing room. As he changed into his golf shoes, Buddy approached. “Great day for golf, Boss. Ready to win?”
Reid raised his hand for a high five and said, “Absolutely, it’s our week for the green. That’s why I love you, man. You’re just like me; all you think about is winning. We do make a good team, don’t we?”
“The best,” said Buddy. “What do you want for energy snacks, the usual?” Buddy had built a thermal sleeve into one of the pockets of Reid’s golf bag. He filled it with two diet Cokes, two bottles of water, two bananas and two $100 Grand candy bars on every day of match play. A reporter once asked Reid why he ate only $100 Grand bars. “Because they don’t make million dollar bars,” he had answered.
“Yeah, that’s fine, thanks,” said Reid. “I’ll be out on the practice green.
Hey, who do we tee off with and when?” “We’re up fourth, at eight-thirty, with Kallman.” “Good.” The practice green was packed. Reid squeezed into a small opening and dropped a few balls in spite of a sneer from the adjacent player. He quickly became fed up with the crowded green and went to practice his chipping. His first two chips dropped in. He felt good today. He was very loose and he was chipping and putting well. He had an hour before his tee time. Usually he went to the 1st tee early just to watch. Today was different; he didn’t want to talk to the press or other players before he was up. He decided to go sit at the pool and have another cup of coffee. He asked Buddy and Buck, who had shown up while he was practicing, to join him. They went to the coffee shop, ordered three coffees and moved on to the pool. Reid sat down and started taking off his shoes. “What are you doing?” asked Buck. “I’m gonna put my feet in the water.” Buck laughed. “I can’t believe it. You’re about to tee off in the Master’s and you’re going to go splash your feet in the pool. You’re like a little kid.” “Hey, we’re about to take a long serious walk. My feet might as well feel good. Want to join me, Buddy?” Buddy started untying his laces. “Oh, what the hell,” said Buck as he took off his shoes and rolled up his pants. They all walked to the edge, sat down and enjoyed their coffee with their feet dangling in the cool water.
A reporter walked up, but as he got close, Reid said, “Hey, do me a favor. If you want a quick picture, take one, then please leave us alone. But please, no questions, not now.” The reporter complied. Reid was relieved as he watched him walk away after snapping a shot.
“Wow, a reporter with some brains.” “Yeah, nice for a change,” answered Buddy. “You know, you were right,” said Buck. “This feels great and it will probably help keep you cool on the first few holes.” “Maybe we should make a habit of it. Let’s do it again tomorrow,” said Buddy.
“Why wait, let’s come back before the back nine,” said Reid. After they finished their coffee Buddy found a few towels. They dried off and put their socks and shoes back on.
“Alright guys,” said Buck. “I’ll catch up with you at the turn. I’ve got to go find Carl and keep things smooth with the press. Buddy, take care of him, this tournament is worth a lot to us all.” He turned to Reid and added, “Play well.” “Don’t worry Buck, I’ll keep him out of trouble,” said Buddy. “See ya later,” said Reid as he and Buddy headed towards the 1st tee.
Chapter 8
One twosome had teed off so far. There were two more groups before Reid. He took out a club and used it to stretch before taking some practice swings. He felt good: he was ready to win.
Reid’s name was announced and he tipped his cap to the crowd. The pungent smell of fresh cut grass filled the air. He teed up his ball, stepped back and looked toward the pin. The lush fairway was in perfect condition, blemish free. The short cut of the grass revealed a diagonal striped design. Reid always loved the look of Augusta National’s immaculate fairways on the first day of the Masters. By Sunday, divots would create a pockmarked surface, scarring the magical image that lay before him. Contrasting the gorgeous emerald carpet-like look of the fairway was the deep, dark-green, surrounding rough. A ball finding its way to the depths of the rough could easily cause the difference of a stroke on a hole: a birdie could become a par, a par a bogey, a bogey a double bogey. Reid took a practice swing, then stepped up and focused on the ball. He swung and hit a slight fading shot to a perfect spot on the fairway, just left of a bunker. While the ball was mid-air, yells of, “In the hole, in the hole,” emanated from the crowd. Reid often wondered about those who yelled this. They did it after almost every tee shot, no matter the distance. Was it absurd optimism or just stupidity? Applause erupted as the ball settled and Reid heard, “Alright, Reid,” “Down the middle, baby,” and, “Do it, bad boy.”
Reid couldn’t stand all the banter, even when it came from his own adoring fans. In fact, he regularly tried quieting his audience, putting his finger to his lips and saying, “Shhh.” He was considered overly sensitive, but he despised any noise on the course. Although he felt somewhat responsible for golf’s increasing popularity with rowdy fans, he did not like the new breed of spectators. He remembered going to a golf tournament with his dad when he was a kid. The crowd was absolutely silent until someone hit a good shot or sank a putt; then they would applaud politely. There was no yelling or cheering, just quiet oohs and ahhs. Times had certainly changed; some of the players actually played to the crowd.
Reid’s actions and etiquette on the course were admirable. He was so focused, he rarely paid attention to anyone, except Buddy. He usually walked down the fairway without a word. When he walked with another player, he hoped there would be no small talk. Reid’s concentration was always on the next shot. He had too many things to consider to allow his mind to wander. He had to think about distance to the pin, hazards, the lie of the ball and the speed and direction of the wind, all of which affected his most important decision: club choice.
He was paired with Jon Kallman today. Kallman was a good-looking thin guy about the same height as Reid. He was known to be very long off the tee but also somewhat erratic. In contrast, his short game was one of the best on the tour, helping him finish in the top 10 regularly. After Kallman teed off, they started walking down the fairway. Jon had hit a good shot, not as long as Reid’s, but right in the middle of the fairway, leaving him a simple approach shot. As expected, a huge crowd followed them. Reid was playing well and with each good shot, the same special few continued their yells. They were difficult to ignore, and Reid was getting annoyed. He asked a security guard to quiet the disruptive spectators. The guard failed and after two more holes, Reid was fed up. He borrowed a megaphone and raised it to his lips. “Listen folks, I need some help. I know your intentions are good, but the more you yell, the worse we’ll play. I’m sure you all came out today to watch some good golf. If that’s true, please stop the cheering and heckling. Applause and an occasional ooh or aah is fine, but no more yells, please.”
Sudden Death Page 5
