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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497693890 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Distribution |
| Publication date: | 03/08/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 324 |
| File size: | 399 KB |
About the Author
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The Big Tour
By Robert Upton
The Berkley Publishing Group
Copyright © 2011 Robert UptonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9389-0
CHAPTER 1
After winning his first professional golf tournament, Duff Colhane spent the night in a federal jail in Miami.
It wasn't at all what he had expected. He had assumed he'd spend the evening back at the Doral, surrounded by sportswriters and pretty girls, drinking champagne from his silver loving cup while fending off agents with lucrative endorsement offers. Instead he was seated in a hard chair in a bare office fending off questions by a couple of federal agents in New York suits who wanted to know about drugs and an old girlfriend, and no matter how many times he told them he didn't know anything, they just kept asking over and over in different ways. Of course he wasn't under arrest; they just wanted to ask him a few more questions, they kept saying. But it was plain that he might be arrested if he didn't cooperate, so he spent a long night balancing on a thin line between civic duty and personal loyalty to an old girlfriend. When he was finally exhausted and unable to go on answering their questions, they offered to give him a cot so he might get some sleep and maybe remember things a little better when he woke up.
He knew just from watching television that he was free to leave at any time or call an attorney, but doing so might only make him look guilty, so he took the cot. After all, he wasn't guilty of anything just because Gena was fooling around with drugs; the feds knew that. It simply wasn't the sort of thing a PGA player did. He might throw a champagne bottle out of his car after winning a tournament, or cheat on his income tax, or engage in a little insider trading, but not drugs. Never that. It just didn't match the profile of the golden boys of golf, the privileged young men who pal'd around with presidents and CEOs and movie stars. And they knew it. He could see it in their eyes: the envy, the admiration ... He had duped them; they had no idea he wasn't a country-club kid, but rather the son of a Montauk fisherman who in no way matched the public image.
Or had he been found out? he wondered, as he lay on the hard cot, thinking over the questions they had asked him. Is that why I'm here? Am I under arrest for posing as a gentleman? he asked himself, as he closed his eyes tightly against the overhead light.
The sun was lying just above the hill bordering the 18th fairway when the skinny kid in cutoff jeans hauled his bag up onto the tee. He shaded his eyes with one hand and squinted at the sun. Still time to get in the last hole and hit a couple of bags of balls on the range before going home to make dinner for his dad. He pulled his driver from the bag, a beat-up club some twenty years older than himself, and let the torn bag of mismatched irons fall to the ground with a solid clank. When he looked up the last fairway, with the poplar-tree shadows stretching across the grass like broken comb tines, he saw a great crowd assembled around the green, waiting anxiously to see who would be the next United States Open champion: the highly favored Tiger Woods, who had beaten back all his challengers save one over the first three days; or the unknown young amateur from the Montauk Municipal Golf Course who had quietly worked his way — after a disastrous opening-round 76 — to within one stroke of the leader going into the final round.
And what magnificent golf these two players have shown the fans so far today. Coming to the 18th hole, Woods is 5 under par on today's round over this extremely difficult Montauk Golf Course, the first municipal course ever to host a U.S. Open; while the local amateur, who caddies here when not competing in amateur events is — and this, folks, has got to be one of the most amazing feats in golf history — also 5 under par, just one stroke back of the great Tiger Woods! Young Duff Colhane, the son of a local fisherman — that's his proud father right there in the captain's cap, standing beside that beautiful young girl, Gena Hall, whom I'm told is Duff's high school sweetheart....
Wish I'da gone to a school like that.
Don't we all, Ken Venturi. Tell us, Ken — you've watched this young man for three days — what are his chances of overcoming his one-stroke deficit to Woods on the last hole and forcing a playoff?
To tell ya the truth I don't know, but I talked to him this mornin' and I'll tell ya one thing, he's got confidence — ya might even say eeze cocky. And young — this kid did'n even know who I was — heck I don't think he even knows who Tiger Woods is! And ya know what — I don't think he cares! I'll tell ya one thing, if I had to say one thing about him I'd say eeze cocky, and a little cockiness can be a good thing, but too much can be a bad thing.
He's getting ready to hit. Kind of reminds you of Nicklaus, doesn't he, Ken, the way he stands behind the ball, one shoulder hanging down, staring down the fairway?
T' tell ya the truth I don't think he patterns hisself after nobody. Cocky ...
The boy stood behind the ball, right shoulder hanging low, staring intently at an imaginary blade of grass more than 250 yards away, then approached the ball at an oblique angle, like a banderillero moving toward a charging bull, intent on placing the sticks while gliding fearlessly and gracefully over the sharp-tipped horns. He took one practice swing and addressed the ball, his plan firmly in mind: bring the club back slowly, then smoothly down and through the ball, finishing with the hands high and the bellybutton pointed squarely at that blade of grass more than 250 yards down the fairway, then watch it hit and dance another 35 yards before coming to rest on a tuft of grass. But alas, something went awry, the club struck the earth a split second and a fraction of an inch before the intended time and place, and the ball squirted up weakly and landed softly in the right rough, at a place far short of its intended destination.
He's popped it up, Ken, he's popped it up!
That's what I was sayin'; that's the thing about confidence, sometimes ya don't have enough, sometimes ya got too much, and havin' too much can be worse 'n not havin' enough! I'll tell ya one thing though, right about now Tiger's smellin' the blood of a tender young amateur.
Tiger's about to hit — there it goes — the crowd loves it!
Is 'at any good!
No, it's going left, Ken, it's hooking into the trees!
Uh-uh, look out ...
Unlike life, in golf you get a second chance, the boy said to himself, as he approached his ball. A cynical attitude for one so young, the priest had chided when Duff let slip this despairing sentiment during his enforced counseling — something his father thought he needed after his mother's death. Actually it was his father who had needed counseling, which Duff guessed he got at Sal's with his fishing buddies. But Duff was too young to drink, so he had to go to counseling. According to the ground rules laid down by the priest, he was supposed to just say whatever was on his mind at these sessions, although he soon learned that wasn't at all what the priest had in mind. If Father Dolan thought he was being cynical or somehow blaming God for his mother's death, he twisted his words until they meant something else, and Duff had to agree that that's what he'd meant in the first place or he'd never get out of his office. He grasped right away that the priest wasn't there to help him but to help God, to see that He didn't get blamed for Duff's mother's cancer — even though the young priest didn't seem to know any better than Duff why God shouldn't take the fall.
In fact it seemed to the boy that Father Dolan was having a problem of his own at the time, and it was important that Duff say nothing to rattle him any more than he already was, so he was careful to never let him know how really pissed at God he was. Not just pissed because of what God had done to his mom, but also because of what He had done to him. It was a selfish thought and he was ashamed — he should only be thinking about his mother — but he couldn't help sometimes thinking about himself, about how he was no longer part of a family. Everybody else had two parents, like a perfect loop, but now it was just him and his father, like a broken wheel bouncing down some rutted road with all the other wheels rolling smoothly by, going to some wonderful place he didn't know about and couldn't get to anyway because his wheel was broken.
Duff had listened quietly to everything the youthful priest had had to say, until the last session — when he was winding up with his message of hope, telling the boy that in spite of his misfortune he could be whatever he wanted to be — when finally Duff had had enough. His mother was dead, his father was a charter captain who'd lost his fishing boat, and this priest was telling him he could be the president of the United States.
"I don't get that," he'd said, shaking his head. "I can be a fisherman or a house builder or work in a real estate office or something like that, but I can't just be whatever else I wanna be. I mean I think that's pretty much decided when we're born, don't you, Father?"
"What — what kind of — of Presbyterianism is that!" the young priest spluttered, staring aghast at the portrait of infinite possibility he had just painted on the air, now hopelessly torn by this — this heretic! "We are all born with the precious gift of free will; we are all responsible for our own choices! We can't blame God or anyone else for our mistakes! Do you understand that?"
Duff understood but he didn't believe. Nor could he understand why the priest had gotten so angry over the opinion of a kid, until the following year — when Father Dolan abruptly left the priesthood to marry the pretty nun who taught the first grade at the church school.
He had been given a second chance, he realized when he saw his ball in the rough, but he wasn't entirely sure what to do with it. If he managed to get a 3-wood cleanly on the ball he would have a short shot to the par-5 hole; but get a little grass between the club and the ball and he'd be faced with another very long shot. Two good long irons, on the other hand, would put him safely on the green in three. He looked across the fairway at Tiger's ball, deep in the woods — he'd have to chip out....
What would you do if you were in that young man's position, Ken?
I'll tell ya, if I was in his position I'd hit two long irons to the green, have a chance at birdie, come away with no more'n a par and hope Tiger makes bogey, and I'll tell ya why: 'cuz if Colhane dubs a shot, Tiger knows all he's gotta do is make bogey to win. But as long as Colhane's in position to make par or better, Tiger's gotta go for it, it puts the pressure on him, ya see.
It looks like Colhane has decided to go with the 3-wood!
Well, I'm not about to second-guess a player — it's his decision, that's why he's down there and I'm up here in the booth — but I gotta tell ya, I don't like that play.
As Duff stared at his ball, nesting down in the rough like a quail egg, he suddenly realized that on the last day of the United States Open this rough would have been tramped down by the great crowds roving over the course, and so, to make the conditions as nearly similar as possible, he nudged his ball up on the grass just a bit.
Confidence is good, ya gotta think you're better'n the other guy, but too much confidence can be bad.
He's taking a 3-wood! He's going for it!
Cocky ...
What a shot! Right at the pin! He'll have just a short pitch!
A great shot, but I got a feelin' that ball musta been settin' up better'n it looked from here.
Unfazed by Tiger Woods's venomous gaze, Duff waited while the golfer pondered his second shot. Needing at least a par to hold his 1-stroke edge, he had no choice but to attempt the nearly impossible, a low power fade through the narrow opening in the trees, bouncing off the hump on the right side of the fairway with enough force to bounce through the U.S. Open rough and back out onto the fairway. In all the years Duff had played the Montauk Muni, it was a shot he had managed just once.
What would you say Tiger's chances are, Ken?
I hafta say not very good. But I'll tell ya one thing, if I had to choose one player on Tour to make this shot, it'd be Tiger Woods.
Here it comes — through the trees — off the hump. ... What a shot!
Like I said, if I had to choose one player....
When Duff doffed his cap to the older man, the crowd showed their appreciation. And a few minutes later, when the young amateur chipped in for an eagle to win the U.S. Open, the crowd went nuts. Duff was in the middle of his acceptance speech when the pro called to him from the shop.
"What is it?" he called back.
"The cops called. Your old man's in jail again!"
"Mr. Colhane. ... Duff, Duff, wake up!"
Duff opened his eyes to discover a dark man in a floral shirt shaking him by his shoulder. "What ... who are you?"
"Raymond Martinez. I'm your lawyer."
"Lawyer ..." Duff pulled himself up and swung his stocking feet to the floor. It took him a moment to realize where he was. "Did the PGA send you?"
The lawyer shook his head, as if it were a dumb question. "Your agent called me. I've been trying to get to you, but they've been stalling me. Did they tell you you had the right to an attorney?"
"Yeah — I'm not sure ... I mean I know I had the right, but they told me I wasn't under arrest, they just wanted some information."
Raymond Martinez shook his thick, black pompadour and sighed wearily. "That's why you need a lawyer."
"I don't even know a lawyer."
"Well, now you do," he said, sitting next to him on the cot. "What're they after?"
"They asked me about Gena...." he began, then halted. "You got some identification?"
"Now you get careful ... Yeah I got identification," he said, digging into his back pocket for a shiny black wallet with silver tips at the corners. He withdrew several cards, flipping them onto the cot like a blackjack dealer. Duff read them. He was allowed to drive a car in Florida, practice law there, and he was a member of the ACLU. "And I graduated from Stetson Law School in 1992, but that's on my wall in Little Havana. You want me to represent you or not?"
"I guess so ..."
"I appreciate your confidence," he said, sliding the cards back into his wallet. "Now tell me what they asked you. And more important, what you told them."
Duff began with a preface of ignorance and innocence, just as he had with the feds, before moving on to the specific questions. Gena Hall was a girl he'd gone to high school with. Girlfriend? She had been once, not now. Who was her boyfriend now? He wasn't sure. Was it Monte? Maybe. Who was Monte? He ran a restaurant in New York and East Hampton. Drugs? He didn't know. What did Gena Hall do for money? She was a model in New York. Had he ever seen her picture in a magazine, watched her on the runway? He hadn't. Had he ever taken money from her? Maybe a little now and then, he couldn't remember exactly. Cash? He thought so. He was having a hard time remembering, he was exhausted.
"That's when they told me I could take a nap and when I woke up they'd have a few more questions for me. I wanted to go, but I knew if I tried they'd arrest me."
"Bastards. ... But it sounds like you did okay. I know you aren't telling me everything, but that's okay too, you got New York street smarts. I'm goin' upstairs and I'm tellin' 'em to shit or get off the pot. That's a legal motion that'll either get you busted or get you busted outta here. Okay with you?"
"You're my lawyer," Duff replied.
"And don't forget it," Raymond said, getting to his feet. "Anybody come down here and ask if this is your decision, any shit like that, you tell 'em to talk to Martinez."
Duff said he would.
When his lawyer left, either to spring him or get him busted, Duff lay back down on the cot and tried to relax. He put his arm over his eyes and thought of what Martinez had said — New York street smarts. So he hadn't duped them after all. All that hard work over all those years, learning how to talk, what fork to pick up, what to wear, and all he had to show was New York street smarts? And he wasn't even from New York.
As a young boy, upon opening a borrowed book to an unknown world only a short distance away, Duff Colhane discovered that a terrible injustice had been done him — he'd been given to the wrong father and it was up to him to do everything in his power to correct it. It was a very old book, scattered through with illustrations of gentlemen from another era in plus-fours, argyle socks, two-tone shoes, plaid sweaters and neckties and jaunty caps, swinging hickory-shaft spoons and mashie niblicks at gutta-percha balls; while lovely girls in diaphanous dresses stood on tiptoe to watch excitedly, and ladies in sun hats and cocktail dresses sat on the porch with gentlemen in white suits, highballs in hand.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Big Tour by Robert Upton. Copyright © 2011 Robert Upton. Excerpted by permission of The Berkley Publishing Group.
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