Conner’s lips parted wordlessly.

“Sorry to be blunt, but that’s the reality of it, kid. John gave you a lot, and you haven’t given him anything in return.” Fitz whipped off his shoeshine boy cap. “Look-I don’t know what it is with you, Conner. I don’t know what made you the way you are. I don’t know if it’s because you lost your mama so early or because your dad was too hard on you. Maybe you’re just some kind of genetic mutant, which is the theory I personally favor. But whatever it is-you need to get over it.”

Conner wanted to defend himself, but there was a distinct catch in his throat. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he finally whispered.

“Stop making excuses. It’s make or break time, pal, you’re a lightning rod, like it or not. If you don’t show these people what you can do today, you might as well hang up your golf shoes for good.”

“What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“Stop wasting your talent. Stop screwing around. Listen to your caddie. Push yourself. Before it’s too late.”

“And you expect me to do all this for you?”

Fitz drew in his breath. “I was hoping you might do it for John.”

Conner felt a distinct itching in the back of his eyeballs.

“His fondest wish was that an Oklahoma boy would make good at the Masters. Why don’t you see if you can make his dream a reality?”

Conner didn’t know what to say.

“Well? Say something! Will you do it?”

Conner pivoted around, his face expressionless. “I think it’s time to start.”

Fitz trailed behind him as they made their way to the first tee. Conner pulled a golf ball out of the zippered pocket in his bag; Fitz selected a club.

Conner gripped the club, his hand just above Fitz’s, then froze. “I-I don’t know what to do,” he said, barely audibly.

“Course you do. What do you mean?”

“I mean-I don’t know how to be any… better.”

“That’s fine. I do.” Fitz pushed the club into Conner’s hand. “Now go hit the damn ball.”

“I was thinking I might use the other-”

“Conner!”

Conner took the proffered club and prepared to shoot. He popped the ball onto the tee and fell into position.

“Loosen your grip,” Fitz said.

Conner frowned-but he did it. He focused, concentrated, then started his backswing…

“Adjust your stance.”

Conner’s teeth ground together-but he did it.

“Now swing.”

Conner let ’er rip. The ball sailed up beautifully, forming a graceful rainbow arc, then landing not five feet from the green.

It was a perfect shot. The spectators applauded with enthusiasm.

Conner gave Fitz a long look, then, at last, smiled. He threw his arm around the older man’s shoulder. “Fitz, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

22

Conner finished each of the first six holes either one or two under par. He established a new personal best, and did a great deal to rehabilitate his previously pitiful standing.

By the seventh hole, a buzz began to circulate throughout the tournament. By the time he was ready to start the back nine, Conner had acquired his own gallery, following him from hole to hole. The word was out-Conner Cross was where the action was.

At first, it was a tough adjustment. Conner was not accustomed to having spectators follow him so attentively. But he had to admit-it was kinda fun.

“Just ignore them,” Fitz said, clamping a firm hand down on Conner’s shoulder. “Block them out of your mind.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Conner said, grinning and waving as he approached the seventeenth. “They love me.”

“They won’t if your game starts sucking again.”

That brought Conner down to earth in a hurry.

“You’re here to play a game, so play it. Focus all your energy, all your attention, on the game. That’s what matters.”

“Right. Got it.” It was tempting to put on a show for the spectators. In fact, his class clown instincts almost demanded it. But Fitz was right. The game was what mattered. He was playing well and he was relishing the moment. He was in the zone, as the sportscasters say. Something had clicked.

And he knew what it was, too. For the last many years, he’d been playing for himself-someone who wasn’t all that demanding. But now, for the first time, he was playing for someone else. Now he was playing for John.

And Jodie.

And he wasn’t going to let them down, either.

Conner scanned the fairway. “Do they still have that stupid tree in exactly the wrong place on the left of the fairway? Obstructing the green?”

“They do,” Fitz confirmed.

“Do you think they’d have that thing removed, if I put in a formal request to the Augusta National committee?”

“Let me put it this way, Conner. Back in the Fifties, President Eisenhower put in a formal request that the tree be removed-and it’s still there.”

“Well, sure. But he didn’t have my winning personality.”

“Go around the tree, Conner. Lay up.”

“I hate laying-”

Fitz raised a finger. Conner never finished the sentence. He laid up.

And finished the hole two strokes under par.

Conner finished the day’s play with exuberance. He’d never played so well-and he knew it. He spent half an hour gassing on with the reporters under the spreading maple tree, talking about his game-and how the day’s performance had been for John. He also credited Fitz, which was certainly a new page in his playbook.

By the time he reached the clubhouse, he was sky-high. “Hail the conquering hero!” someone shouted, as he entered, and there was a spontaneous round of applause. Some of the players cheered.

Actually cheered, Conner thought silently. For me.

Vic the bartender slid him a glass of his favorite-on the house. This treatment was so unusual Conner felt he should slug himself just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Everyone swarmed around him; everyone wanted to be his friend. And he had a pretty good idea why, too.

He didn’t need to see the day’s postings to know where he stood. He would still be behind Ace, the leader-but the gap was much narrower. If he played tomorrow-the last day of the tournament-like he had today, he could catch up. He could even conceivably win.

Conner steadied himself against the bar. Just the thought of it made his head reel-literally reel. Conner Cross, champion of the Masters, sipping mint juleps in his green champions jacket.

It was too wonderful to imagine. But it was possible.

“Hey, Conner, way to play, man.” It was Harley Tuttle.

“Thanks, Harley. How’d the day go for you?”

“Oh, ‘bout like always. I think I’m still running fourth or fifth.” He shrugged modestly. “Like my daddy used to say-always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” He took a sip from his drink.

Conner grinned. “I’m sure your luck will turn around soon.”

“Maybe. But the way you played, man-that was spectacular. I saw what you did on the seventeenth on the closed circuit.”

“You mean the cameras were following me?”

“Didn’t you know? Hell, yeah-I think CBS covered your entire back nine.”

Conner didn’t know what to say. He was flabbergasted.

Some of the other pros offered congratulations. Conner chatted with everyone in sight, anyone who came near. Whether they were in the tournament or not. He was feeling generous and egalitarian. He did notice, however, that his chief competition, Ace, didn’t seem to be in the clubhouse.

Probably out on the driving range, Conner mused. When he heard how well Conner was playing, Ace probably panicked and realized he needed some more practice.

Well, it was a nice daydream, anyway.

Fanboy Ed wasn’t anywhere in sight. Did he just leave, since John wasn’t in the tournament anymore? Or was he doing something else? Conner wasn’t sure why he cared, but for some reason, Ed’s absence bothered him.