“And what would that be?”

Conner’s eyes twinkled. “A lien against the Golden Bear.”

Conner and John finally made it back to their own table. Fitz was seated in a chair just across from Conner; John’s wife, Jodie, was facing him.

Conner made eye contact with Jodie and smiled. “I hope you won’t think me forward if I say that you look radiant tonight.”

Jodie pressed her hand against one cheek. “Conner Cross. You old flatterer, you.”

Conner jerked his head toward John. “You know, this clown really doesn’t deserve you.”

“I know,” Jodie answered. “But someone had to save him from his life of sin and degradation.”

“When was that?” Conner asked.

“When he was hanging around with you.”

Conner smiled. He had known Jodie even longer than he had known John. The three of them had all lived near Watonga. They had spent many a late hour together, chugging beers at Roman Nose State Park, or checking out the flicks at the Liberty Theatre. The Three Musketeers, some of the locals called them. Others favored The Three Stooges. Jodie had originally been Conner’s girl, way back when, and there was a time when he thought…

But it was best to put that out of his mind. She was John’s now, and she had a gigantic diamond ring on her finger to prove it.

“Jodie,” Conner said, “why don’t you dump this chump and run away with me?”

She blushed. “I’d like that, Conner. Really. But to tell you the truth-I’ve kinda grown to like Georgia. I’ve even started to speak Georgian. Listen.” She adopted an exaggerated Southern accent-sort of like Scarlett O’Hara on steroids. “Somebody puh-lese bring me mah grits!”

“That’s all that’s keeping you with this man? A bad accent?” Conner glanced at John; he was barely listening. He was accustomed to Conner and Jodie’s banter; he’d been hearing it for most of his life. “That’s not enough.”

“Well, there’s also the tiny matter of money. I hate to admit it, Conner, but I’ve become a wee bit fond of being rich.”

“What am I, chopped liver? I’ll get you anything-”

“You still living in that trailer park, Conner?”

Conner stopped a beat. “Well…”

“Still gambling away most of your spare dough?”

“Only when I feel lucky.”

“Still trying to pick up every chick who wanders into the bar?”

“Well…” He squirmed. “Certainly not every chick.”

She patted her husband’s hand. “I think I’ll stick with my Johnny.”

After the salad course was served, Derwood Scott rose to the podium. Conner tried not to snarl. “I can’t believe that pissant stuck me with a three-stroke penalty.”

“It was only two,” Fitz hissed back. “You brought the third one on yourself. Actually, you brought them all on yourself.”

Conner frowned. “Have I told you to go soak your head?”

“Not in the last half hour.”

“Then go soak your head.”

Derwood began the proceedings, which of course started with the introduction of every man in the audience wearing a green jacket. Champions running as far back as the 1950s rose and recaptured a brief moment of the limelight. After the roll of champions was completed, Derwood started thanking all the “little people” who made this tournament possible.

“Where does he think he is?” Conner whispered. “The Oscars?”

The thank yous continued for at least ten more minutes. Then Derwood began a panegyric on the “special ambience” of the Masters tournament. “There are many golf tournaments,” he proclaimed, “but there is only one Masters. Here, beneath the shady reaches of the spreading magnolias, men from all walks of life can come together to remember a simpler time, a better time, and to engage in the sport of gentlemen throughout the world.”

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Conner said, sotto voce. John jabbed him in the stomach.

“What is this thing, this grand endeavor we call golf?” Derwood continued. “Yes, it’s a game, but somehow, in the hands of the men in this room, it becomes something much more. It’s an exhibition of excellence, a playing field where men of good cheer can come together in the name of brotherhood.”

“Brotherhood?” Conner said, not quite as quietly as before. “Hell, I’m just trying to make a few bucks.” Fitz and Jodie and John all gave him harsh looks.

While Derwood droned on, the waiters began serving dinner. When Conner’s plate was placed before him, he eyed the mashed potatoes, peas, and asparagus spears encircling a modest pink clump.

“What is this?” Conner said, staring at his plate. “Spam?”

John gave him another shaddup already glare. “It isn’t Spam. It’s baked ham.”

“Looks like Spam to me,” Conner said, oblivious to the distraction he was creating. “You know where Spam comes from?”

John tried to ignore him. “Shhh.”

“It was invented by a guy up in Winnetka. Roy was his name, I think.”

John stopped, obviously torn between his desire to tell Conner to hush and the irresistible impulse to correct another Conneresque line of bull. “It was invented during World War II as a way of preserving and shipping meat for soldiers.”

“No,” Conner insisted, “I read a magazine article about this. It was definitely a guy called Roy. Roy Spam, I believe.”

John rolled his eyes. “Spam is short for spiced ham. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I most certainly do. It was invented by Roy Spam.”

“I’m sure. And you probably think he made it from Silly Putty.”

“I’m telling you, I read about this in some scholarly journal.”

“Like what? The National Enquirer?”

With each rejoinder, their voices grew louder. Eventually, there were more people listening to the Spam debate than listening to Derwood.

“I’m telling you, this is something I know.”

“Right,” John said. “I remember in the third grade, you knew that babies came from overeating.”

“It was Roy Spam!”

“Baloney!”

Conner scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and flung it across the table at John.

John’s eyes went wide. “You sorry little-“ He grabbed his own spoon and retaliated, sending a clump of potatoes back across the table. Conner fired again, and soon the mashed potatoes were criss-crossing the field of battle. When he ran out of potatoes, John flung his Spam/ham. A big saucy piece slapped Conner on the side of his face.

Enraged, Conner began flinging peas. A few of them veered off and hit Jodie, who then picked up her own spoon and began slinging away. Before long, all of Table Twenty-Four had joined in the warfare. A full-fledged food fight ensued.

At this point, Derwood was no longer able to ignore the disruption in the back of the room. “Excuse me,” he said, pounding his gavel. “If I could have your attention.”

Derwood didn’t get anyone’s attention. Conner was under the table, ducking his head to avoid food fire from both directions.

“Excuse me!” Derwood said, pounding even louder than before. “Please come to order.”

From Conner’s vantage point, half the room appeared to be in culinary combat. Young and old alike crouched beneath their tables, flinging asparagus spears and mushy peas halfway across the room. Someone found the Jell-o dish that was going to be served for dessert, and then the battle really got messy.

Conner looked back at John, who had an asparagus spear in each nostril. “Now this is an exhibition of excellence.”

John nodded. “In the name of brotherhood.”

“Naturally.” Conner removed the ladle from the gravy boat. “Now watch this.”

“People!” Derwood shouted, desperately trying to regain control. “We can’t do this! This is the Masters. The Masters! We must-”

He had more that he wanted to say, but what it was no one ever knew, because he stopped talking for good after the fistful of gravy splatted him in the face.