John D. MacDonald
Tournament
The road was two-lane concrete through scrub country, and his headlights picked up sparse rough grass on the shoulders, stunted trees farther back. It was a secondary road and Flagg had taken it because the map showed that it would cut an hour off his time. An hour less of driving time meant an hour more of sleep. An hour of sleep meant a bit more repair to muscles wearied by the brute fairways of that last tournament, to nerves stretched and tortured and made brittle by the last three dismal showings that were turning this tour from farce into heartbreak.
He drove the big convertible mercilessly, leaning a bit forward, holding the wheel firmly, feeling the momentary weightlessness when the car went over the rises in the road. There was little traffic and the towns were far apart. He sensed that he was pushing the car too fast for safety, yet it was not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough to leave behind him the memories of the past few weeks.
That 11th at Millbourne, lining up that eight footer, knowing he was only two strokes off the pace. And knowing how important it was to come in with some money. Then the tightness, locking his elbows, putting a sour taste in his mouth. Hands greasy on the grip of the putter. Hearing the gallery silence, knowing that he had to move, that he could not stand forever looking down at the oddly shrunken ball, looking from it to the impossibly small hole that receded each time he glanced at it. With locked and creaking muscles he made a spasmed chop at the ball. It passed the hole a foot to the left, caught a dip and curved and stopped six feet away. The gallery sighed. He was still away. The uphill putt stopped inches short and he holed out for a bogey instead of a birdie, lost most of the rest of the gallery on the catastrophic fourteenth, and finished way back in the ruck, way out of the money.
“Glenn Flagg, pro from Indiana, after a sparkling 34 that put him within two strokes of Worsham, faded on the last nine. A, disastrous seven on the dogleg 14th brought him home with a 44, out of the money.”
Faded at Millbourne. Eliminated at Crest Ridge. Blew up in the second round at Pinelands. Fine tour. A triumph.
The motor drone of the big car faltered for a moment, then smoothed out. Flagg glanced quickly at the dials. He listened. It sounded fine. Maybe an impurity in the gas. Something like that. Something unimportant.
He returned to barren speculation, driving automatically. It had seemed such a logical thing to do. The Crooked Branch Club had been growing. The club members had been pleased when he had placed well in the two tournaments played there. He was their pro. He had done well in nearby tournaments, too. Then recently his game had gotten better than it had ever been. Walter Hagen had set the course record back in 1926-31-34 for a 68. It had been tied four times, twice by pros and twice by amateurs, but never bettered. Until Flagg had shot the 66.
Halverson had come to him, representing a group of the members. They wanted to chip in on the expenses, wanted him to make a big swing, hit the tournament circuit. Halverson said they believed in him, said it would help the club, said that Dernard, the assistant pro, could hold things down until he got back.
“We don’t expect you to go out there and beat Hogan, Glenn. But we think you can put the Crooked Branch Club on the map.”
“I’ll have to talk it over with Kate, Mr. Halverson.”
There was Kate and the kids to think about. With what the club paid him, plus his cut from the pro shop and the income from the lessons, and the job downtown in the sporting-goods store during the Indiana winter, they had the house half paid for. That was on one side of the ledger. When you’re winning, they say, don’t change the dice.
But he was 29 and his game was as good as it had ever been, and maybe better than it would ever be again. He could keep all winnings. And there might be additional income. Besides, he wanted to play against the big names. There were the years in back of him. All the caddy years, and the public-school tournaments, and grubbing lost balls out of forgotten ponds, and the team at state college. All the years of the swing and clack and the white dot rising to fall back to the greenness, bounding, rolling. You raised your head then, Mrs. Barlow. Let me watch the ball this time. You keep your eye right on the place where the ball was, even after it’s gone. Break your wrists at the top of the back-swing. Now, wasn’t that better, Mrs...
The car slowed and the motor ran raggedly, popping, faltering. He tightened his grip on the wheel. He pumped the gas pedal. Smoothness of power came back and the car surged ahead again. This time it was longer before he relaxed his attention.
Damn fool to have tried it. Too much at stake. Go sidling back with apologetic smile. That’s okay, Glenn, old boy. They were just too rough. Kroll and Mangrum and Oliver. Middlecoff and Hogan and Snead and Locke. You did fine, boy.
They’d say that, but they’d know. Faded, chickened out, weakened when it got rough. Smiles and pats on the back, but they had the tournament bug now. The big name bug. And the money to buy that kind of name. To buy, maybe, that special breed of nerve.
He knew he’d always been a cool player, always competitive. But there was too much pressure. And he knew he was too afraid of losing. Too afraid of the consequences of losing. Kate’s voice on the phone the other night had been too filled with cheer — with a thin edge of nervousness behind the cheer.
He was speeding down a long hill when the motor quit entirely. He rushed down the night slope with only the sound of the wind and the sound of the tires on the seams between the concrete slabs. He had a helpless vision of what this night could be, stranded here in strange country, losing time, losing sleep — perhaps losing the practice round before the qualifying round. And Belle Arbor was rugged. Prizes were fat and it would be fast company.
Flagg shifted to neutral, pulled out the lever that took him out of overdrive, shifted back to high and let out the clutch cautiously as he reached the bottom of the hill. Tires gave a quick yelp and the motor was turned over at high speed. He pumped the gas pedal. Just as he was about to shift down into second for a last try the motor caught raggedly. It ran roughly and uncertainly but it got him up the next hill and the next. It quit with finality as he topped the third hill crest and he saw lights down in the valley.
He coasted down and found a brightly lighted gas station and garage on the right, 100 yards beyond the bottom of the hill. He coasted up to the open doors and stopped. A man walked out. He wore a soiled and faded pair of coveralls, and carried himself with that indefinable look of competence of the good mechanic.
He listened to the description of the trouble, opened the hood, brought out a small wrench, performed some mysterious act and asked Flagg to try to start it. The grinding of the starter was a hopeless sound. He motioned Flagg to stop.
“Fuel pump,” he said. “There wouldn’t be a replacement in town. I can phone in the morning and get one in on the noon bus from Brayburg tomorrow.”
“I’m in a rush. Can you fix this one?”
“I can take a look at it.”
Flagg waited. The man took it in to a bench and dismantled it. He fingered the parts, held it up to the light. “I can fool with it. Might get it working.”
“Will it take long?”
“Half hour. Maybe a little more. If I don’t get much gas trade.”
Flagg wandered around the front of the station. He saw green neon down the road on the far side. Beer. He told the man he was going down and get a beer. The man nodded, didn’t answer.
It seemed oddly quiet on the edge of the small town in the warm night. He could hear a thick beat of music from the distance. He crossed the highway. A truck droned down the hill behind him, slowing as it thundered into town. It swirled dust up from the shoulder behind it, and he tasted the dust against his teeth.