It took Tommy a long time to make his second shot. With any kind of a break he might have overcome the effects of the disturbance. He had a long wood shot to the green. It was a par five hole that he had birdied on the first two rounds. The ball sailed away, sharp and true. It looked for a moment as though it would strike short of the green and roll on. A vagrant wind caught it and pushed it a bit to the left. It carried a shade too far and hit the sharp angle of the slope up to the green. Even then it would have been good, had it not hit a woman in the leg and skidded off into the trap.
Even then he might have recovered, except that the ball tucked itself under a slight overhang at the rear of the trap.
Some wag in the crowd hissed loudly and said, “So sorry!” The gallery laughed. Tommy studied it for long moments. The strategy was clear. He couldn’t get under it to loft it onto the green. He would have to pitch out of the trap toward the fairway in front of the green. Then he would have to make his pitch onto the green so true that he could collect a par five. Jimmy was out of trouble, ten feet from the edge of the green.
Tommy stepped into the trap, gave himself too little time and swung. A shower of sand exploded out, but not enough. He hadn’t dug a deep enough cushion for the ball. It sailed away a good thirty yards, crossing the fairway and rolling down into a second trap which was designed to catch the unwary who sliced on their second shot.
This time at least ten people hissed simultaneously and yelled, “So sorry!”
The explosion out of the trap was four. The pitch to the far corner of the green was five. The two putts made it a fat seven.
Hisses! So sorry!
Tenth hole, a drive that faded into the rough. A recovery shot taken while still tense. An unlucky bounce into the rough beyond the green. Five. One over par.
Hisses! So sorry!
By the time Jimmy had recovered his four strokes and five in addition, the crowd began to sober, realizing that somehow they had been to blame for shoving the kid out of first money. They quieted down and so did Tommy. But it didn’t do any good. His delicate control was gone, and even his judgment in selecting clubs. He tried to push to make up the lost strokes, and lost more.
Jimmy played his bland, mechanical golf, making it look like a game any child could master.
Had it not been for Tommy’s eagle two on the eighteenth, added to the lucky birdie on the seventeenth, the score would have been worse. Even so, it was about as bad as it could get. He turned in an 80 to Jimmy’s 69.
At noon all the scores were in and posted. Jimmy Ratchelder leading with 208. Harry Crebson second with 209. Lovelord third with 211. Gustaffsen-213. Brilon-214. Suragachi 215. Willison and Humboat-216 each. They were the eight. In spite of the 80, Tommy’s first two scores of 68 and 67 had left him in the running.
I noticed Crebson beside me peering up at the score.
“Nice going!” I said.
“Thanks. What happened to Suragachi?”
I told him. He listened carefully and said, “We should have guessed he’d pull something like that. It’s nothing you can put your finger on. He just figured out how the gallery’d react and gave them the stimulus. Damn him!”
“He’s still got a chance,” I said.
He looked at me. “Not for my money. Once you crack in this game, you’re all done. I get the great Jimmy this afternoon. I’m going to make him sweat if it’s the last thing I ever do!”
There was something hard and relentless in Crebson’s voice. I know what match I was going to watch.
“Where is the kid?” Crebson asked.
“Probably gone back to his cabin to nurse his jangling nerves.”
“Let’s take a run down there. Your car handy?”
This time Tommy didn’t open the door. He called, “Who is it?” His voice was unnaturally high.
“Dave Able,” I called.
We waited. Finally he opened the door, his face haggard. “What is it?”
Crebson leaned on the door, pushing it open the rest of the way, and we went in. Tommy’s battered suitcase was open on the bed, clothes thrown hastily in.
“What’s all this?” Crebson demanded.
“What is it to you?” Tommy said harshly.
Crebson sighed and leaned against the closed door. He said to me, “You might know it would be a deal like this. No guts.”
Tommy stood very still. At last he said, almost whispering, “How could you know what it’s like?”
“It’s easy to be a tragic figure, Dave,” Crebson said to me. “You ever notice that? There must be something delicious about being a martyr. Something that gets you. Tommy here is going slinking back with his tail tucked between his legs and when his pals ask what happened, he’ll tell them all about the hissing business and then they can all sit around and cry. This punk hasn’t got any guts, Dave. He’s yellow.”
Tommy sobbed something that could have been a curse and rushed Harry Crebson. Harry twisted away from the overhand punch and caught it in the palm of his hand before Tommy’s knuckles smashed against the door. Tommy hit him once in the temple before Crebson could grab both his wrists.
Harry sneered and said, “You should have saved all this fight for the afternoon round, kid.” He pushed him roughly back toward the bed. “Come on, Dave. We’ll tell them back at the clubhouse that the Jap is licked.”
He pushed me out the door before I could say a word. I was angry enough to swing on him myself. The odd light in his eyes stopped me. He held a finger to his lips and then went silently around the side of the cabin, peered through the window. He was back in a moment, took my arm and hurried me toward the car.
“He’ll be okay, I think,” Crebson said. “He was taking stuff out of the suitcase and throwing it toward the bureau and tears were rolling down his face.”
The gallery looked puzzled as Crebson tied up his ball. His standard procedure was to grin at the audience, kid with the caddy, clown a little and then blast one down the middle, yards out in front of anybody else in the tournament.
But his face was sour and glum. Jimmy stood aside looking puzzled. Crebson addressed the ball, settled his feet firmly, swung the club head back and down again. At the moment of impact his cocked wrists snapped through and the club head made a sound like a pistol shot. The ball was a rising streak of white. The gallery gasped. It came to rest at last, an almost incredible distance away. I knew that Crebson was pushing himself right to the limit of tolerance. If he tried for even a foot more distance, his control would be gone.
Jimmy Ratchelder hit his usual steady drive. It was a good fifty yards behind Crebson’s drive. That seemed to bother him a bit. He stroked the second shot carefully. It rolled dead, four feet from the pin. Crebson’s pitch was just inside his. After they holed out, Crebson walked on without a word or a backward look.
Jimmy picked up a second stroke lead on the third. Crebson, playing silently, got one back on the sixth and a second one back on the eighth. The match was even. At that moment Crebson walked over to Ratchelder and said, “Okay, friend. Now I’ve got that stroke back. We’re even from now on. Do your best.”
Jimmy flushed. “Are you trying to rattle me?”
“Not at all!” He turned and grinned at the gallery. “I’m just warning you not to try and hiss me out of this one, the way you did Suragachi.”
“I don’t like your inference, Crebson,” Ratchelder snapped.
Crebson grinned cheerfully. “And I don’t like you. The papers are going to give us a big play on this, you know. Pros yammer at each other during match. Let’s have some fun. I’ll tell you just what I’m going to do so you’ll know what you’re up against. I’m going to get a three on the ninth to give me a 34 for the first nine. Then I’m going to rack up a 33 for the second nine, home with a 67. That means you need 68 to get a playoff and 67 to win. You’ll do well to get a 69 for second place money.”