Seven years later, Bogart Jackson lipped his final practice putt before heading to the first tee for yet another attempt to acquire that small card which would permit him to play the pro circuit. He sighed as the ball rimmed the cup and stopped spinning half-an-inch from the hole. This would be his last qualifier, he promised himself. If he didn't make it, he would quit.
As he stepped into the cart for the winding drive to the first hole (a short but tricky par-four, with water on the right), a few of his cohorts wished him well in muted voices. Since he had squandered his lead as an 18-year-old, he had been stamped as bad luck, and most young "rabbits," as they were called, avoided him. He had come close a few times after that initial effort but had choked in the clutch. He hated them in every detail, from pearl-white smiles, to their clone-like personalities. "Thank y'all. 'Preciate it," they would invariably say when congratulated for a good shot. "Well, I jus' try to play one hole at a time," they would slowly explain to sportswriters. No character. They composed a lumpy, mushy group of golfers, with all the sensibilities of a tow truck.
Of course, now he hated Her too. She had drawn his attention away from two-woods and fairway bunkers, and his life had become confused. There is no simple or pleasurable thing that compares to a clean golf shot, yet She had diverted him from practice, pulling him away from his Spalding sweet-spot. And when her esteemed husband, 11th on last year's money list, had discovered her affair, he had waged a personal campaign to disassociate Bogart Jackson from the world of professional golf. Bogart Jackson would return from a long round, and his shoes would be missing. Or his plane ticket. From time to time, his putter would be stolen--anything to upset his concentration or throw off his rhythm, the two essential things a pro requires besides a modicum of skill.
But he put up with his excommunication because he loved the sensation of a pure golf shot. And Bogart Jackson had a dream: he would be lounging around at the Bing Crosby, and a tournament official would inform him he was paired with the Husband. Bogart Jackson knew exactly what he would do. The Husband would be searching the woods for an errant tee shot, and Bogart Jackson would play away. Bogart Jackson would use his three-iron and peg the ball low and hard, curling it into the woods where the Husband would be bent over. Perhaps if the three-iron were perfectly aimed....
"Mr. Jackson is away," barked the TPA marshall. Bogart Jackson sauntered up to the ball, smiling at the memory of all the wayward three-irons he had hit on the practice range. Thwack, and Bogart Jackson was striding down the fairway, grinning at the knowledge that his characteristic fade placed him in an ideal position to go for the flagstick and had avoided the water on the right.
It was an exhausting round of golf in the Florida sun. But as Bogart Jackson approached the 18th hole, he realized he must be among the leaders. A few precision wedges out of the sand had kept his score to 64 with the rigorous par-four 18th still to play. Passing the leader board, he noticed that his name was at the top--five shots ahead of his nearest competitors. This was nothing new, so he shrugged. He had two days remaining in which to lose the tournament.
Cautioning himself against fatalism, he addressed the ball after a round of polite applause. The gallery consisted of a few golf cognoscenti, out to see potential comers on the tour. They all recognized him by now. ("There's Jackson." "He'll be past his prime before he makes the tour.") Bogart Jackson twirled his three-wood and considered the heavily-forested 18th and its narrow fairway. Scanning the three bunkers on the left, he was distracted by a couple of stragglers making their way through the woods. And then, he spotted Her. She was with the Husband. They were about 175 yards from the tee area on the right. She was wearing sunglasses. The Husband was squinting back into the sun.
Bogart Jackson went back to his golf bag and extracted his three-iron.
("I wonder why he's doing that." "Probably wants to stop short of the bunkers." "Nearly everyone else has used a three or four-wood." "Jackson has no confidence." "Yeah, I guess you were right about him being past his prime." "Past his prime? I take it back. If a guy uses a three-iron here, he ain't got no prime."
Bogart Jackson took a practice swing.
("What's taking him so long?" "Jeez, it's getting late. Who does this guy think he is, Jack Nicklaus?")
Bogart Jackson saw the Husband kneeling in the grass, motionless in deference to the golfers on the tee. He had always been polite. Bogart Jackson took aim, and brought his club back slowly, his eye on the ball.
* * *
It had all been quite embarrassing and upsetting for everyone concerned.
Bogart Jackson, the tournament leader, had notched an incredible eagle two on the 18th, with two perfectly crafted three-irons from tee to green. And then, without explanation or justification, the first-round leader had departed, withdrawing from the tournament with nary a word to any of the officials.
("Jackson doesn't have any guts. He knew he would lose.")
He was tooling up U.S. 1 now, heading north, 15 miles over the limit. Soon, he thought, he would be far away from the fake-green lushness of functional golf courses. For a moment, his eye caught the still-soiled golf clubs in the rear-view mirror. He smiled. This December, Bogart Jackson would see snow.