Amen Corner by Rick Shefchik Page A

mean…No, I won’t speculate…
    â€œNo, we won’t comment on any aspect of the police investigation…No, absolutely not. I will not discuss our membership policies here. That would be totally inappropriate.”
    But totally relevant. “this is the last masters” certainly suggested that someone was not happy with the way Augusta National was being run. David Porter couldn’t dodge that one forever.
    â€œâ€¦the damage to the green was not severe,” Porter was saying. “We’ll have our maintenance crew working on it as soon as the police give us permission to repair it. We think we have a satisfactory way to cosmetically deal with the defaced area, until after the tournament.”
    Sam had heard the stories that the National put something in the water to make the ponds bluer. If that was true, they could certainly make the grass greener.
    The TV coverage switched from the press conference to the small protest across Washington Road from the main gates.
    â€œIt seems abundantly clear to us that Mr. Ashby was silenced for his liberal views,” said WOFF president Rachel Drucker. Behind her, a dozen protesters shook their signs in the air and yelled their agreement. Drucker didn’t look all that threatening—like somebody’s plump aunt, with no fashion sense. Sam couldn’t understand what good she thought she was doing there. Ashby’s death was a tragedy, not a convenient excuse to get TV time to push a political agenda.
    â€œOpen your gates to your sisters, Augusta National!” Drucker shouted on camera. “Don’t let Herman Ashby die in vain!”
    If she’s that broken up about it, she could at least get his name right.
    Compton and Wheeling eventually returned from their practice rounds; introductions and mutual congratulations were exchanged among the three. Compton was a wiry college kid who had thought of nothing but a professional golf career since the day he was old enough for his dad to buy him his own set of Pings. Wheeling was a little older. After graduating from Duke, he had tried the pro mini-tours for several years before reluctantly accepting the reality that he wasn’t quite PGA Tour material, and preferred the comforts of working at his father’s yacht brokerage firm in Newport, R.I. He’d reapplied for his amateur status, and once he knew his future didn’t depend on each four-footer, he was able to relax enough to play his best golf. After winning last year’s Mid-Am, he was thinking of going back to Q-School—but he was putting that off until playing in the Masters.
    â€œI’m hungry,” Sam said. “Anyone want some lunch?”
    â€œAlready ate,” Wheeling said. “I need to work on my putting.”
    â€œI gotta call my buddies back home,” Compton said. “I promised them I’d give ’em a picture-phone tour of the clubhouse.”
    Sam walked down to the first floor of the clubhouse and entered the men’s grill. He smiled when he saw a sign outside the room that said women were permitted inside during Masters Week. That must chafe at some of the hard-liners.
    He sat at the bar and ordered a bowl of seafood chowder and a grilled bacon, tomato, and cheese sandwich with a bottle of Heineken.
    â€œThis seat taken?” Sam heard someone ask him as he was finishing his lunch.
    He looked up to see an attractive, smiling brunette with shoulder length hair, a black sleeveless top, and black shorts that nicely accented her tanned legs.
    â€œAll yours,” he said.
    She sat down and ordered a gin and tonic.
    â€œI don’t recognize you,” she said.
    â€œThat’s because we’ve never met,” Sam said. “I’d remember.”
    â€œNo, I mean, you’re a player, right?”
    â€œHow can you tell?”
    â€œI know golfers. You’ve got that look. The hat tan, for one thing. And your left hand is much whiter than