Chapter 17

WHEN HE TEED OFF ON SATURDAY, David had regained consciousness. He noticed things again: a chubby volunteer hoisting a “Quiet” sign and urging silence in a voice louder than any of the fans; a yellow warbler perched in a spruce near the first tee; a man eating a hamburger while his son crouched between his legs and watched the action with an unnoticed dollop of mustard on his head.

He noticed Bobby Rancourt’s lean body, a sinewy coil of muscle. Rancourt arrived last, just moments before tee time, striding through the parted crowd with the practiced indifference of royalty. He acknowledged the applause and the schoolgirl giggles of swooning women of all ages with only a subtle nod, a condescending gesture that seemed to say they couldn’t appreciate his greatness and, thus, shouldn’t have the right to watch him play, but he would tolerate their presence so long as they afforded him the proper respect.

David offered Rancourt his hand warmly, in the manner one would to an old friend. Though they’d never met before and they were competitors, the tradition of the game, as David had been taught, was that one offered a greeting before embarking on a shared round of golf. “Nice to meet you, Bobby,” he said.

Rancourt stared at David as if he were an alien. He pumped once

limply, released, and said, “Play your best, old man.”

Aaron extended his hand to Bobby and said, “Have a good round.” Bobby looked at the hand as if it were infectious and replied, “Try not to slow us up too much.”

Gamesmanship occurred routinely on the tour, but when Rancourt turned away, David noticed Aaron tremble.

The announcer introduced David. For having the previous day’s low score, he owned the “honor”—the right to hit first. As he began his preshot routine, everything felt off. Yesterday, he’d played intuitively. Today, he couldn’t quiet his mind. As he practiced his swing, he became aware of a pull in his sleeve and obsessed about his decision to wear the new shirt that his equipment representative had handed him that morning. The unspoken but clearly articulated message had been that since signing him following his Open near miss, the company had gotten nothing out of their deal, and the least David could do for his first TV appearance in five years was to wear the shirt. Everything about it was wrong. David favored cotton shirts and muted tones. This one was loud and made of polyester, which looked better on television but felt terrible. David complied because he had to admit, though it was hardly the most lucrative endorsement deal, the company had been patient with him. Now, as he felt the shirt pull, he regretted the decision. It seemed poetically just when he pulled his tee shot into the left-hand rough.

Rancourt hit next. Where David did everything from gripping the club to assuming his stance deliberately, Rancourt did it all without apparent thought. He pranced behind the ball for a moment, stepped up to it and coiled. It was all over in an instant—a punitive, atavistic blow. The shot soared as high as a nine-iron but with the momentum of a driver. It landed some twenty yards past where David’s ball finished in the rough, then bounded forward, and finally came to rest in the center

of the fairway, more than fifty yards past David’s shot.

“Nice ball,” said Aaron.

“Beauty,” said David. He’d resolved not to say anything since Rancourt had been such a jerk, but an effort like that demanded to be acknowledged. Rancourt responded with another perfunctory nod of his head, the unspoken message to his competitors being the same as it had been to the gallery: they didn’t belong on the course with him.

Aaron stepped forward and placed his tee in the ground. From behind the ball, he took a single practice swing, then stepped forward and addressed the ball. David could see Aaron’s hands shaking far worse than yesterday—nerves perhaps, or the disease, or both. Aaron masked the trembling by repeatedly re-gripping his club. To the crowd, it appeared only that he couldn’t get comfortable, but David could tell that the problem went far deeper. It appeared that Aaron lacked any feeling in his hands, and David wondered whether he’d be able to draw back the club back. Somehow, Aaron steadied himself, pressed his right knee forward, and made a passable but shaky swing. His ball faded and landed in the right-hand rough about 25 yards behind David’s drive.

Rancourt quit the tee box without delay and strode purposefully down the fairway. David waited for Aaron.

“You okay?”

“Okay’s the word.”

“A little nervous?”

“You noticed the hands?”

“Couldn’t help but.”

“I wish it were nerves. One of the medications messes with my bloodstream. I don’t know which is worse, the disease or the medicine. Sometimes it feels like all my limbs are asleep. There are good days and bad days. Today’s a bad day.”

“You knew that on the range?”

“I knew that when I got out of bed this morning.”

“Why didn’t you pull out?”

“It’s golf. You go with what you got.”

“But if you’re not feeling well, what’s to prove? This is just golf.”

“No, man, this is golf.” Aaron said the word with zeal. “I get to play golf today. How lucky is that?”

It didn’t seem lucky to David. Aaron was walking more slowly than usual. David matched his pace in solidarity.

“Rancourt sure hits it a long way.” “You can play with him,” Aaron said. “Remember, you can’t put it in the hole with the big stick. Just play within yourself and stay in the moment.”

They started to veer off then—David to the left and Aaron to the right. “You can play with him, too.”

“Not today.” Aaron smiled, looked at the cloudless blue sky and added, “But that’s okay.”

Aaron thinned his approach. It hustled to the green but stayed on the bottom of two tiers, leaving a long, curving putt. David gouged a seven-iron from the rough and got more of it than he had any right to expect. It landed on the slope between the two levels and seemed to have enough momentum to continue forward, but then it rolled down to the lower tier, ten feet closer to the hole than Aaron’s ball, on roughly the same line. Rancourt had only a pitching wedge left, which he landed on the top level, approximately fifteen feet from the hole.

Aaron putted first and David could see that this truly wouldn’t be his day. His hands trembled as persistently as they had on the tee, but putting relied exclusively on fine movements and small muscles, and the

shaking didn’t subside when he began his stroke. His putter wobbled at impact and he missed the putt by ten feet to the left.

Though David had almost fifty feet to cover, including a hill that needed to be handled delicately, David felt confident. Errant thought it was, Aaron’s putt had given David valuable information. It confirmed his hypotheses regarding the green’s slope and grain. He thought of Morris Bernley, retracted his right hip, and broke his wrists slightly to give the putt extra pop. David judged it perfectly. With its last ounce of energy, the ball fell over the hill’s apex, and then tumbled downward, finishing six inches from the cup. As the gallery applauded, David tapped in for his par.

Rancourt putted the same way he hit his full shots, quickly and aggressively. He seemed to think nothing of it when he muscled his ball three feet past the hole. Rancourt was blessed with the ignorance of youth. David knew the statistics: even pros missed these putts seven percent of the time, but Rancourt had no such data cluttering his brain. He approached the three-footer as if it were a tap-in, taking his turn ahead of Aaron’s, and knocked it squarely in the back of the hole. Aaron looked as shaky as Rancourt had looked confident. Pros with steady hands were only fifty-fifty from ten feet, and Aaron didn’t have steady hands. He pulled his putt and tapped in for a bogey.

At the tee boxes, Rancourt appeared to be on a mission to emasculate his competitors. On the second hole, he outdrove David by sixty yards and Aaron by eighty. On the third, a dogleg-left par-five, he caught a downslope with his drive, which David had thought out of reach even with a heavy tailwind. The slope accelerated his ball and by the time it came to rest he’d outhit them both by a football field; on a 540-yard hole, he hit only a pitching wedge for his second shot.

David had never been the longest hitter and his swing had only

gotten shorter over the years, but he’d never seen anything like this. Rancourt’s club made a unique noise through the hitting zone, a Doppler-shifting whoosh, as different from the sound of David’s swing as David’s was from an amateur’s. It was tempting to swing harder—David had an extra twenty yards in the bag, but he’d learned in his career that he could never win playing someone else’s game. He might not win playing his own, but he’d certainly never win playing anyone else’s. So he stayed within himself, knocked it out there 280 yards or so, and countenanced the gallery’s smirks. So it went. On the uphill fourth hole, Bobby flew it seventy-five yards past them. On the fifth, a 220-yard par-three into a stiff breeze, Aaron hit a five-wood, David a three-iron and Rancourt a seven.

Around the greens, though, Bobby Rancourt was only ordinary by professional standards. He moved his lower body on chips and his course management skills hadn’t matured. At the third hole, where he’d driven his ball almost 350 yards, he left his wedge shot above the hole. He missed the ten-foot putt and the subsequent ten-footer back up the hill. At the fifth, he attacked the pin, even though it had been set on the narrowest part of the green, just ten paces behind a huge sand trap. It captured his pitch, and his ensuing bunker shot caught the lip. Meanwhile, David hit the center of the green and two-putted for par. Through five holes, Rancourt had made three birdies but was tied with David, who’d parred every hole.

David’s putting was the equalizer. As he settled into the round, he increasingly believed that he could be competitive—not for the long haul, of course; in a few years, Rancourt would be giving David two strokes a side, but for today at least, and perhaps tomorrow, David could play with him.

Still, the kid was a sight to see. As David and Aaron walked down the sixth fairway together, David said, “He’s something, isn’t he?”

Aaron replied, “He’s rough around the edges. The chipping could be better and he doesn’t manage his game well, but that swing is something else.”

“Do you think he has it?”

Aaron understood the question. The pros didn’t have a name for whatever quality separated Nicklaus, Palmer and Hogan from mortals, but they all recognized it when they saw it.

“He’s got a big game—long off the tee, works the ball both ways, hits high irons that bite, like Jack.”

“Lots of guys hit long irons.”

Aaron stole a look at Rancourt, prowling the fairway and said, “He might have it. He’s definitely one of those guys who can block everything out. He doesn’t seem to have any fear of bad consequences. He hits every shot as if it’s the most important thing in the world.”

“Where does that come from?”

“I read that some young players start seeing sports psychologists when they’re eight or nine years old. Maybe a shrink taught him to be fierce.”

“I don’t think any sports psychologist can teach that,” David said.

“Perhaps it was his parents, then. Maybe you can train a kid to believe that golf’s the most important thing in the world.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“So you’re saying you’re either born with it or not.”

“I think it’s probably a bit nature and a bit nurture. You need some things and they have to be cultivated during childhood.”

Aaron nodded. “That sounds right. Let me be the first to subscribe to the David Howard Synthesis Theory of Golf Greatness.”

“That’s why I love you, Aaron. Who else out here talks about synthesis theories?”

“I’ve heard Rabbit say a pretty smart thing or two. You have your share of thinkers out here.”

“How many of them are winning majors?”

“You’re saying you can’t cerebrally play at the highest level?”

“No, Jack, Arnie and Hogan are geniuses. But each had the capacity to make himself believe, at least in the moment, that golf was the only thing that mattered. Everyone else is probably thinking their way out of success.”

“Is that a corollary or a separate new theory?”

“Not sure.” David smiled. “The whole thing’s poignant to me, though.”

“Why? Because Rancourt’s so young or because he has that look in his eye we used to have?”

“I never had that look.”

“Well, you can be sad if you want, but I wouldn’t switch places with that guy for all the money in the world.”

“Really?”

“That kid thinks golf’s the only thing that matters. I wouldn’t trade anything about my life for his.” Aaron smiled. “Except for his blood—I’d make an exception for that.”

They parted ways to walk to their balls and Rabbit said, “Way to feel sorry for yourself and have the guy with cancer cheer you up.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“You pitied yourself and the guy who hits it a hundred yards past you, but not the guy with leukemia.”

“That wasn’t the point.”

“Sure seemed it.”

David tightened his chin, and testily said, “He knew what I meant.”

Rabbit planted the bag to the right of David’s ball and said, “Let’s

play golf.”

At the ninth hole, David holed a twenty-footer for birdie. He made the turn at one-under par for the day and twelve-under for the tournament, one shot behind Rancourt who went out in three-under, and five ahead of Aaron. Rancourt continued to outdrive David by miles, but David could sense a growing frustration in his young rival.

At the par-five eleventh hole, Rancourt hit a daring second shot, a spectacular four-iron over water, which landed fifteen feet past the hole. Playing conservatively, David hit a three-wood off the tee, laid up one hundred yards behind the water, smoothed a wedge to twenty feet and holed the putt for birdie. After Rancourt ran his eagle putt past the hole, he missed the comebacker for birdie and flung his putter against his golf bag. As he stormed off the green, glowering with anger, David perceived an opportunity; he’d seen young players crack in similar situations many times before.

By the time they reached the next tee, Rancourt’s irritation had been bottled up and replaced by grim determination. He withdrew further into himself. Whatever minimal interaction he’d had with the world ended. He thereafter showed no signs of awareness of his competitors, the crowd, or anything other than his ball.

On the fourteenth hole, Aaron drove his ball into the rough. He swung as hard as he could, trying to dislodge the ball, and drove his club into an unseen root. As he fell to the ground, the gallery groaned. They’d already seen Aaron shank two shots, skull a chip, and miss five putts shorter than three feet. They’d already watched a man unravel in full display, and now he was writhing on the ground in pain.

The marshals moved forward. David ran over from across the fairway, but Aaron waved off all offers of help, saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine.” A tour official asked if he wanted to see a trainer or a doctor, but Aaron

said, “No. Let’s play golf. I just want to play golf.”

All the while, Bobby Rancourt stood motionless in the fairway, arms folded, as if Aaron’s fall were an inconvenience The instant the commotion ended, Bobby hit his shot to the green and strode ahead.

At the 605-yard fifteenth hole, he reached the green with a driver and a punished five-iron. At the sixteenth, a dogleg-left par-four, he cut the corner over the trees and reached the green with his tee shot—a drive of nearly 350 yards. He attacked the 210-yard par-three seventeenth hole with a high-arcing eight-iron that defied gravity, landed twenty yards behind the hole, then spun backwards as if on a string.

Only his putter held him back. Rancourt three-putted both the fifteenth and the sixteenth, drawing no blood from the holes despite his colossal blows. His magnificent approach to the seventeenth hole finished eight feet beneath the hole, leaving the easiest imaginable putt. He left it on the lip of the hole. After hitting a ball 210 yards with a club many amateurs couldn’t hit half as far, he had to use another full shot to hit the ball half an inch.

Rancourt had dominated David tee to green, but as they stood on the eighteenth tee, they were tied. At the home hole, all three men drove their balls in the fairway. Rancourt raced to hit his next shot with malice aforethought. David waited for Aaron, who seemed to be wilting in the heat. The back nine had gone worse than the front. He’d managed to par only the tenth, twelfth and fourteenth holes. The rest had been bogeys except the fifteenth, where he’d shanked his lay-up, left a shot in the greenside bunker, and made a seven. He was twelve-over par for the day. He’d go from having played in the last group today to the first group tomorrow.

“You okay?” David asked.

“I’m doing great,” Aaron said.

David looked at him skeptically.

“From the first time I picked up a club, I loved this game, and I love it just as much today,” Aaron said. “I love everything about it—being outside, its honor, playing with friends. That feeling when you hit the ball on the screws makes my soul sing. I don’t care about my score. I just try my hardest every time and hope that I’ll hit one more perfect shot. I live for that. I’ll play until I can’t get out of bed anymore. We’re so blessed, David.”

David nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t.

He watched as Aaron walked to his ball with his head held high and a smile on his face. When he arrived, Aaron approached his shot with determination. He found his line from behind the ball, took his stance, and steadied his trembling body long enough to hit a professional fouriron into the heart of the green. Aaron threw up his left arm and tipped his cap. The gallery applauded. David acknowledged the shot with a thumbs-up, then turned his attention to his own situation.

The pin had been placed on the left, narrower half of the green, between a sharply sloped bunker in the back and a deep sandy bunker in the front. The pin could be attacked, but the required angle left a narrow margin for error and a mistake would mean an almost-certain bogey. The right side of the green was far deeper, almost sixty yards from front to back. Hitting to that side reduced the chance of birdie, but maximized the chance of par.

David’s mind spun unconnected thoughts: The kid needs to be put in his place. Tournaments aren’t won on Saturdays. Aaron has cancer. Tomorrow will be another day. Soon Aaron will be dead, and it won’t make any difference to him if you’re twelve-under par or thirteen. A birdie and you beat Rancourt by one shot. Soon you’ll be dead. Maintain the flex in your right knee.

“What do you think?”

“You could get it back there,” Rabbit said. “A hard five or easy four, turn it over a little right to left. Be nice to have the lead over this punk.”

“But what do you think?”

Rabbit closed the yardage book.

“Been a long day. I think you should get your par and have a beer with Aaron.”

David nodded, took the five-iron and played a safe shot to the right side of the green. He walked forward to watch Rancourt, who’d mishit his drive off the neck and so was only a few paces ahead of David, instead of the usual seventy yards. He confronted the same situation as David had, but Rancourt saw no dilemma.

David carefully watched the young man. The shot meant nothing, really, certainly not in the scheme of life (a birdie wouldn’t save Aaron), but not even in the golf world. It’d mean that he’d have the honor tomorrow and that he’d have beaten two players twenty-five years older than he was, one of whom had cancer. If he were to make a birdie, he’d be slightly more likely to win on Sunday, but he’d probably win whether he made birdie or not, and he’d win many other times for sure.

David carefully watched the crowd. The shot literally meant nothing to them. Their lives would be no better if Bobby Rancourt made birdie and no worse if he made bogey. Surely the act of impelling a golf ball with exceptional momentum could not be of great interest or consequence. But the fans appeared rapt, as they had throughout the afternoon, as if everything this exceptionally handsome and strong young man did mattered very much, including, most importantly, this next shot. Rancourt’s look of steely determination suggested it meant everything. His eyes had glazed over, as if there were nothing else in the world—no observers, no competitors, no man with cancer—just a club and a ball that needed to be beaten to the Stone Age.

David’s thoughts turned to Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall,” a poem he’d read as a teenager. The poem’s speaker meets with his neighbor each spring to repair a stone wall on their common border. The wall serves no purpose, as neither owner has cattle or crops, but the neighbor insists on maintaining the barrier because it’s all he’s ever known. As he replaces fallen stones, the speaker silently wonders what could impel a man to a futile exercise:

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

David saw the same darkness in Rancourt. It was one thing to take the game seriously because it paid the bills or to play because it quieted the demons inside you. But to think for a second that it really mattered, that where that little white ball ended up made one bit of difference, to think that the outcome of a golf match had any meaningful consequence? This required either exquisite self-deception or obliviousness. Perhaps this was the intangible quality that could be nourished but not implanted—the ineffable quality essential to greatness.

Bobby Rancourt took a seven-iron and hit the ball straight at the flag. It cleared the front bunker by no more than a foot and bounded forward, finishing three inches from the cup.

The crowd cheered.