I fought my way as close as I could, jumping up and down the back of an enormous Sumo wrestler type from Malden so I could at least catch an occasional, deodorized glimpse of the action as seen over the Sumo wrestler's armpits. By now, the situation had become impossible. The rain was falling even harder, and thousands of water-logged golf fans who had neither seen nor heard of Regalado 30 minutes earlier were cheering wildly, as if he had at last consummated Montezuma's revenge. My prediction had been correct: the 17th had been the decisive hole. But Killer had picked the winner--and he had salvaged my own personal victory over the schlock-slingers in the press tent by giving me his exclusive account of the action.

"I carried that bag good this week, I won it all for him," Killer kept saying as the rain poured down still harder, and Victor blithered on in pigeon English, and the fat old schlock-slingers drooled over the very schlock-up-able fact that he was going to give all his prize money (minus a cool $3000 for Killer) to his sixty-year-old grandmother in Chicago. Then two of the schlock-slingers brightened up to who Killer was, and started pumping him with questions. Finally, they got around to asking him his name.

"Killer," he replied.

"What's your real name?" insisted a schlock-slinger with tortoise shell half-moons.

"Sam, Sam Foy, F-O-Y."

"Well, you really killed 'em today, Sam," said the schlock-slinger.

That one was just too much, even for Killer.

"Yeah, yeah, I won it all for him, I told him everything to hit everyday," Killer said with an impatient groan. "But now I got to go."

And he did.