Chapter 8

He closed it all out—the people, the trees, the camera hanging from a helicopter high in the sky overhead. Now it was just him, the club, the ball, and the trajectory he wanted it to make. He shrugged to loosen his shoulders, enclosed the end of the shaft with his gloved hands in the correct position, and took his hitting stance.

He swung.

The worst of the summer heat hadn’t hit the desert yet, and with a whaphis club hit the ball dead center, in exactly the right spot. His drive flew three hundred yards straight down the fairway to arc into a clear sky under a brilliant sun. Amidst “oohs” and “ahs,” the gallery clapped again as he stepped off the tee and joined his caddie on the sidelines, out of any line his opponent’s ball might take.

“Nice,” Greg said as he passed him to take his place between the blue markers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Greg Thorenson of San Diego.”

Greg, too, received enormous applause.