“Don’t put words in my mouth. You pay me to look after you, and that’s what I’m doing. Every athlete has a tendency to choke when he thinks he’s being watched, and today you’re going to be watched big time.”

“I won’t choke.”

“I also know that you, more than most, crave attention and love to play to a crowd. Especially a crowd that adores you. Especially a female crowd that adores you.”

“I won’t get distracted.”

“There’s going to be a ton of pressure. Those reporters will be badgering you, telling you that Ace just bogeyed the thirteenth or Harley just got a hole-in-one on the ninth. Trying to get your reaction. You have to put all that out of your head.”

“I know this already, Fitz.”

“You have to keep your brain on the game. Ignore the leader board. Concentrate on the game, and nothing but-”

“Fitz, please.” Conner held up his hands. “You can skip the pep talk. I’m ready.”

“You say that, but you-”

“Fitz, I’m telling you-I’m ready.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Fitz.” He laid his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Listen to me. Did you trust Gary Player?”

“Well, of course, but-”

“Did you trust Jack Nicklaus?”

“Well, sure-”

“Did you trust Arnold Palmer?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Good.” Conner looked him firmly in the eye. “Now trust me.”

Conner sailed through the first nine holes of the course, beating his previous day’s score by two strokes. Even his putting, usually the worst part of his game, was perfection itself. The crowd behind the gallery ropes stayed with him the whole distance, but if Conner was aware of their presence, he never indicated it.

Conner showed no signs of letting up on the back nine. He blitzed through the water holes of Amen Corner, all the while staying dry as a stiff martini. He listened patiently as Fitz made recommendations about clubs and tactics. As they finished the fifteenth, no one in the area-including Conner-could miss hearing one of the commentators announce that Conner Cross now had the best score in the tournament.

As they approached the sixteenth hole, one journalist sidled up to Conner and engaged him in a brief whispered conversation. Fitz, who was out of earshot, was clearly not amused.

At the seventeenth hole, Conner set up his tee shot, but hesitated before hitting the ball. He gazed out at the horizon, surveying the fairway, testing the wind. After a few more moments, he waved Fitz over for a consultation.

“C’mon,” Fitz whispered. “We don’t want to pick up a stroke for delay of the game.”

“I won’t be long.” He cast his eyes dreamily toward the fairway. “Fitz, what would you say… if I went for it?”

Fitz didn’t need an explanation of what that meant. “I’d say you’d lost your mind.”

“Well, now, let’s give it some thought.”

“Conner, please don’t blow it when you’re doing so well. I thought you were past all this macho, going-for-it stuff.”

“This isn’t machismo, Fitz. It’s plain strategy.”

“The smartest strategy is to lay up. Take the dogleg left, then get to the green on your second shot.”

“Normally, I would agree, but today…” His eyes turned back toward Fitz. “Today I think that would constitute an extra stroke I can’t afford.”

Fitz’s eyes narrowed. “What did that reporter tell you?”

Conner leaned closer. “It’s Ace. He’s four holes behind us. He dropped two strokes on the first two holes, but after that, he’s been mirroring my performance the whole way. And I’m sure I need not remind you…”

Fitz completed the sentence. “That he started the day two strokes ahead.”

“Which means we’re tied. Or will be, if he continues to play as he has, which seems likely. I need to pick up a stroke.”

“But there’s no straight shot. You think your ball can go through those trees?”

“Over them.”

“Over them! Are you kidding?”

“It’s possible. Theoretically.”

“But it’s so risky, Conner.”

“It has to be. Otherwise, Ace will simply duplicate it. It has to be something so risky he won’t dare try it himself.”

Fitz nodded grimly. “This would certainly qualify. I don’t think anyone’s gotten to the green in one on this hole in the history of the Masters.”

“On the other hand, no one has more experience than me at trying.”

“Trying and failing.”

Conner raised his club. “So what do you say?”

Fitz ruminated for several seconds. “I… I think you should do what you think is right,” he said finally. He paused a moment before adding: “I trust you.”

“Thank you, Fitz.” Conner took the proferred club and strolled calmly to his tee-off spot.

He drew in his breath and tried to remember everything he had ever been told about this game. Loosen your grip. Keep your weight on both legs. Swing smoothly, with a strong follow-through. And he remembered one other piece of advice as well, something his old buddy John McCree had said a million years ago and a million miles from here.

If it isn’t fun, what’s the point?

A tiny smile crept across his face, and he knew what he was going to do.

Conner went for it.

30 The ball climbed into the sky, becoming a tiny dot against the fluffy white clouds overhead, reaching ever higher, passing the water hole, soaring over President Eisenhower’s tree, and not coming down until it was only a few precious feet from the green. Pandemonium erupted. The crowd screamed, and the applause didn’t die for minutes. The commentators went apoplectic, then launched into a spew of hyperbole. Everyone in sight seemed to be pouring out their love and affection, all in Conner’s direction.

Except Fitz. Fitz was remaining notably stone-faced.

As they strolled to the eighteenth and final hole of the course-and the tournament-Conner whispered into Fitz’s ear. “Hear that? They love me.”

Fitz nodded stolidly. “It’s true.”

“They think I’m magnificent.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Everyone!” Conner stopped. “Except you.” He peered at his caddie. “You’re afraid this will go to my head and I’ll blow it on the last hole.”

Fitz averted his eyes. “It’s a sin to tell a lie…”

Conner laughed, then slapped the man on the back. “It’s not going to happen, Fitz.”

“You won’t let the crowd get to you?”

“Crowd? What crowd?” He winked. “I’m here to play golf.”

And after Conner Cross eagled the eighteenth, no one in the world could doubt it.

Conner spent a good half-hour with the reporters under the giant maple tree, then retired to the locker room to change. He’d played fabulously well-the best game of his career. It showed in his score, too. He’d finished at 274-only four strokes above Tiger Woods’s all-time best Masters four-round score of 270. He was definitely a contender. But there were still fourteen players on the course, including Harley Tuttle, who had placed in almost every tournament that year, and Ace Silverstone, who had been leading the pack since the first day. All he could do was cross his fingers-and wait.

He changed into his street clothes and ambled upstairs to the bar. He’d never felt less like drinking in his entire life, but he knew the bar was where the action would be-and the players. When the final scores were posted, the barflies would be the first to know.

A few minutes after Conner sat down, Harley Tuttle entered the bar. He made his way toward Conner.

“Well,” Conner said. “Do I dare ask how you did?”

“I can tell you this,” Harley replied. “I didn’t beat you.”

Conner felt a quickening in his heart, a tightening in his gut. “How much difference?”

“Two strokes. That eagle on the seventeenth nailed it for you. Man, that took some balls.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll probably end up in fourth or fifth place,” he said downheartedly. “I blew it on the fifteenth. Totally underestimated the distance. Should’ve known better.” He shook his head. “Like my daddy always said, Measure twice, saw once.”