Sudden Death by Michael Balkind Page A

other luck. Brock was tied for second, only three shots behind Reid. His name was announced and he teed up his ball. True to form, he took one practice swing then blasted a great drive down the middle. After the applause died down, Reid was announced and the crowd erupted again. The announcer said, “Quiet, please.” Reid focused and did his best to relax, then hit his ball short, into the right rough. The crowd gasped; their expectations were shaken.
    Unhappy, Reid took a deep breath, shrugged and exhaled. He walked over to Buddy, who was waiting for him in front of the tee box. They walked down the fairway together behind Brock and his caddie. “Not the way I like to start,” Reid said.
    “Maybe not,” Buddy said, “but it could have been a lot worse. Don’t worry, you’re going to have a good day. You know what you need to do. I’m going to say the two magic words before every shot you take. If you relax and focus, you are going home with the Green Jacket. I’ll do my part, you do yours, and we’ll win, alright?” “Alright,” Reid answered skeptically. Walking down the fairway, the fragrant Tea Olive trees had a somewhat calming effect on Reid. They arrived at his ball before Howard’s. The rough was deep. “Looks like the grass grew two inches overnight,” Reid said. He had 190 yards to the pin. Buddy handed him his seven-iron. After a practice swing, Reid hit a beautiful shot. The ball landed on the green and rolled to within a foot and a half of the hole. Once again, the crowd roared. Reid smiled and said, “We’re gonna be all right.” “Damn right,” Buddy said. Howard’s second shot landed 12 feet from the pin. They were welcomed to the green by loud applause. Reid tipped his cap to the crowd. Howard’s putt broke sharply and rimmed the hole, leaving a six-inch putt. He tapped in for par. Reid read his putt, lined up, and knocked it in for a birdie. The crowd exploded once more. Reid and Buddy walked toward each other and tapped fists. Buddy quietly said, “Nice job. Now, go do it again.”
    Reid stayed focused through most of the front nine. He was scoring well with five pars and three birdies. The ninth hole was a 460-yard par four leading back to the clubhouse. Howard’s tee shot, although straight, landed on the left side of the fairway, giving him a tough approach shot. Reid took a practice swing and lined up for his drive. Just as he started his backswing a heckler yelled, “Come on Reid, down the middle, baby.”
    Stopping his swing, Reid backed away from the ball and gave a men acing stare in the heckler’s direction. Shaking his head, he turned to Buddy who mouthed, focus and relax. Instead of the desired effect, the words almost made Reid laugh. His mind then shifted to some of his usual stress remedies. Meditation? Not now. Hypnosis? Not here. Alcohol? Now there’s a possibility. He chuckled again, thinking,
Okay, time to get serious
. He took a deep cleansing breath and tried to clear his mind. Not a chance. He took his stance, swung and topped the ball. Never rising more than a foot off the ground, the ball hit the deep grass, took a few short hops and burrowed itself deep in the rough. All in all, it went about 40 yards, not even clearing the front tee box. The crowd sighed. Reid’s lead had already slipped to one shot and now it looked like he was going to finish the front nine tied for first,
if
he was lucky. He was upset about the threat and now the heckler had him blowing his lead. He walked to his ball with Buddy.
    “Come on, get it together,” Buddy said. “You’ve been playing really well; don’t let one jerk ruin it.”
    “I know you’re right, but this has been one lousy day. I just can’t stay calm.”
    “Look, it has been an awful day, but you’re playing great golf in spite of everything. Don’t give up now. This is
your
tournament. Now go hit this shot like the champion you are.” Buddy handed Reid his club.
    “You’re right. I am playing well in