“I’ve got to get myself a tournament,” Ace said, pounding a fist against his open hand. “Can you imagine? With this following? It’d be the biggest event of the season! There’s got to be some way to open up a weekend on the schedule.”

“Maybe if the Augusta National was buried by a volcano,” Conner suggested.

Ace nodded grimly. If he perceived that Conner was making a joke, he didn’t let it show. “That’s something to hope for, anyway.”

Conner brushed past Barry on his way to the first tee. Barry didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at Barry. Didn’t speak, either. Conner supposed he should feel slightly less hostile toward the man now that he knew what his grudge was all about-but he didn’t. Besides, Barry looked as if he’d been drinking already, and a pungent whiff of alcoholic afterbreath was probably all Conner needed to send him to the vomitorium.

Fitz tugged at his sleeve. “Look, before you start, let’s go over a few things.”

“Nah,” Conner said. “Let’s just do it.”

“Do it? Do what? Do what you did yesterday?” Ah, now this was more like the Fitz Conner had grown to know and… tolerate. “I realize you’re playing under adverse circumstances. But the fact remains-you are playing. Your reputation is at stake, as well as your record. If you play another game like yesterday’s, you won’t make the cut tonight. You won’t even get to finish the tournament.”

“Fitz, you know I don’t take well to scoldings. Let’s just play.”

“If you play like you did yesterday-”

“Yesterday I was playing with a nine-iron that wasn’t mine. Today I’m not. That should make a difference, don’t you think?” Conner drew a wood from his bag. “Besides, for some reason, I feel good about my game right at the moment. I’m ready. So clear out of the way and let me play.”

Fitz screwed his lips together and, after transmitting a few stony glares, stomped away. Apparently even he knew when persistence was futile.

True to Conner’s prediction, he did play better. In fact, the first nine holes went like a dream. Now that he had expunged all the too-short clubs with dents in the side, he was back on track. His putting was still the weakest part of his game, but he compensated for it with consistent power drives. He managed to finish the first nine four under par. And he traversed Amen Corner without picking up too many strokes. But on the fifteenth, he ran into trouble.

“Now be careful,” Fitz said, bending Conner’s ear whether he liked it or not. “The embankment in front of the green just over the water has been cut so short that any ball that lands in front of the green from a distance will roll back and get wet. Trust me on this-I’ve already seen it happen to three players this morning. Hell, Johnnie Walgreen’s ball landed on the green-but it still rolled down into the trap. You need to lay up.”

“Lay up?” Conner repeated, appalled. Laying up meant he would hit the ball part of the way down the fairway, then chip the ball onto the green with his second shot. “That’s not my style. I hate laying up.”

“I know you do. But we aren’t on the playground and this isn’t the time to show what a macho stud you are.”

“Only wussies and sissies lay up.”

“Sissies like Arnold Palmer? Wussies like Jack Nicklaus? Champions lay up, Conner. Strategy is part of the game. That means knowing when to go for it-and when not to go for it.”

“If being a champion means being a sissy, I’d just as soon not.”

“Conner, don’t be such a damned juvenile. Lay up!”

“I don’t like playing it safe. Doesn’t seem right.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Mmm… nah.”

“Conner! This is not about proving how big your club is.”

“Thank you, Bagger Vance. I’m going for it.”

Fitz looked as if he might start tearing his hair out at any moment. “Conner-!”

“I’ve made up my mind. Give me some room, okay?” Conner snatched a driver and squared himself before the tee. If he could get the ball all the way to the far side of the green, surely that would be enough. How long could the ball roll?

Conner took a deep breath, focused on the ball, focused on the target, and swung. The ball flew into the air, rocketing upward like a comet.

Gasps emerged from the peanut gallery. The ball was halfway down the fairway and still flying fast. The only question was how close it would get to the green.

The ball started its downward spiral, finally plopping impressively close to the green. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. There was a little bounce as the ball touched down… and then it began inexorably rolling downhill. It moved slowly at first, but to Conner’s horror, instead of running out of steam, it picked up speed the more it rolled. The grass was simply too sheer, and his ball had come down too hard…

A groan from the spectators followed the little plopping noise that told Conner his ball was in the water. Enraged, Conner whipped off his cap, threw it down on the ground and began stomping on it.

“Don’t take it out on the cap,” Fitz said sharply. “It wanted you to lay up.”

Gritting his teeth, Conner saw that Barry was laughing his head off, bracing himself against a ball washer. “Your balls have been in the water so much,” Barry said, between bursts of hysterical laughter, “you ought to buy them scuba gear!”

No, there was no ambiguity about it now, Conner thought silently. He definitely didn’t like Barry. Definitely.

By the time they reached the seventeenth hole, relations between Conner and Fitz were even more strained. Conner had lost three strokes on the debacle of the fifteenth hole, then two more on the sixteenth. He was over par now, and his chances of making the cut were getting slimmer with every stroke.

The seventeenth hole was a par-five, but Conner knew it was doable in three, possibly even two, if he pushed the ball to the max and didn’t drive into one of the pot bunkers on the fairway.

Given the importance of the matter at hand, Fitz apparently found himself unable to remain quiet any longer. “Use the seven-iron. Go for four. Five, even.”

Conner shook his head. “I need to make up some strokes.”

Fitz clutched his forehead. “Please tell me you’re not going to try to get to the green in two.”

“I am.”

“Are you nuts? Do you not see those pot bunkers out there?”

“I’m over par.”

“What’s done is done. You can’t make up for past mistakes now. The smartest thing to do is just try to play the rest of the holes right.”

“I think I can do this in two.” He reached for a wood.

“You’re delusional! You’re in Fantasyland!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Conner said airily. “I know there’s some risk. But I think I can do this. And I’m not a wussie. So I’m going for it.”

Fitz jammed the seven-iron back in its slot, and kicked the golf bag for good measure. “Why do you bother to keep me around, anyway?”

“Because you’re such a snappy dresser.”

Conner stretched, took several deep breaths, then let it fly. To the surprise of no one other than Conner himself, the ball careened into a pot bunker with such unerring precision that it seemed as if it must have some kind of homing mechanism. Conner had to play out sideways, adding two unwanted strokes to his score. Worse, he missed the green with his next shot, putted poorly as usual, and ended up bogeying the hole.

By the time he finished the eighteenth hole, there was no conversation between Conner and Fitz-and no need for it, either. They both knew what had happened. Conner had crashed and burned. This time, he was the one who blew off the reporters huddled under the spreading maple and headed straight for the locker room. He threw his gear in a locker and headed for the showers. By the time he had toweled off and returned, he found Fitz waiting for him.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have some… caddie stuff to take care of?”