“Of course they do. A story about a Reid Clark tirade sells newspapers and helps ratings. They’re going to continue to provoke you. You just have to learn to let it go. Let’s not discuss it right now. Go on up and get some sleep.”
Chapter 7
Reid ran to catch the closing elevator. As he entered, chatter from the other players already aboard silenced.
He looked at each face. They all avoided eye contact. It was so blatant, Reid couldn’t help laughing. “Okay guys, what were you talking about? Let me guess.” He looked up and scratched his chin. “How quickly will Reid blow the endorsement deal?” No one said a word. “Well?” Continued silence. “Come on, admit it,” he said grinning. Slowly they all began to laugh. “Am I really the hot topic of the week? Don’t you guys have anything better to talk about, like golf maybe?” The elevator reached their floor and they got out saying, “Good night,
Reid.” “Good night, gentlemen.” As the doors closed he heard them break out in laughter. The message light was blinking when he entered the suite. Thoughts of Jennifer barged into his head. Damn! Not now. Not when he needed to get to sleep.
He got into bed and tossed and turned for a while. The more he tried to prevent it, the more Jennifer consumed his thoughts. His growing frustration and anger created turmoil in his head. The dark thoughts resurfaced. Was something terrible going to happen, or was his mind just playing with him? Whatever it was, now was definitely not a good time for it. Annoyed, he threw off his blanket, got out of bed and went into the living room. He grabbed the remote, turned on the TV and settled onto the couch. Flipping through the channels he stopped at a news report. Alvin Carey was being lead away in handcuffs by police. At least I’m not that bad, he thought. Buck has his hands full with that guy.
The next story was about the Master’s Tournament. The reporter was the one Reid had seen earlier in the day. He was obviously smarter than most; he had not approached Reid for comments and had his cameraman shoot footage from a distance. As the clip ran, the reporter talked about Reid’s endorsement and that he was favored to win the Master’s. Reid mumbled, “You got that right. That jacket is mine.” Next came an interview with last year’s winner. When asked about his chances, he commented, “It depends on how Reid is playing; he looked very good out here today. When Reid’s in the zone he’s tough to beat. But I’m playing well, too. It should be a close tournament.”
“Well, if this tournament is meant to confirm the master of the game, The ‘Bad Boy of Golf’ better be ready to play his best, because the competition is ready. Everyone here wants the coveted Green Jacket. Till tomorrow at the first tee. I’m Bobby Lee, live from the Master’s Tournament in Augusta, Georgia.”
Reid turned off the TV, walked to the computer and logged onto the Internet to check his e-mail. He smiled as he read messages from his sisters accepting his invitation to Augusta. He shot off quick replies and sifted through the rest of his e-mail. As usual, mostly junk. Previously he received all his fan mail. He got a kick out of responding, and although it had been time consuming, he missed it. Ever since that twisted threat was sent to the ICSF address, all his e-mail was redirected to Buck’s office for screening. Only his personal e-mail was forwarded to him.
He closed his eyes as the thoughts of the threats ignited a fuse in his head. They began to wreak havoc on his brain. Every muscle in his body tightened and his head began to throb. Annoyed, he shoved the mouse across the desk and stood. The mouse fell and swung from its wire; it sent a little bead of infrared light sweeping through the dark room, hitting everything in its path. Watching it, Reid was spooked by the thought, Is that what a snipers infrared sight looks like as it marks its target? He followed the dot with intensity as it moved from object to object: couch, wall, TV, desk, his chest. He actually jumped back to avoid it. His leg hit the chair and he fell backward onto the floor; luckily, he didn’t hit anything as he fell. The only damage was going to be a sore left butt cheek. He put his head back on the carpeted floor and looked up at the dark ceiling. He began to laugh, thinking, What kind of moron am I? I’m just lucky I didn’t get hurt. He laughed harder, wondering how he would have explained it if he had gotten hurt. Getting up, he looked at the clock. 1 a.m. “I have to get to sleep,” he groaned. He went back to bed. Head on the pillow, looking at the ceiling, he chuckled quietly, thinking of the utter absurdity of the whole situation. Exhaustion consumed him and he slowly fell asleep.
The 5:30 a.m. call abruptly, ended another nightmare. Reid lay in bed, almost drifting back to sleep. He knew if he lay there any longer he might doze off and miss his tee time. He got up, shaved, showered and dressed in his standard golf uniform: blue Izod shirt and khaki Izod pants.
He shoveled down his standard game day breakfast of fresh fruit, yogurt and granola, gulped the last drop of lukewarm coffee and headed for the door. Buck stuck his head out his door and said wearily, “Play well. I’ll see you in a little while.”
On arrival at the club, Reid went directly to the dressing room. As he changed into his golf shoes, Buddy approached. “Great day for golf, Boss. Ready to win?”
Reid raised his hand for a high five and said, “Absolutely, it’s our week for the green. That’s why I love you, man. You’re just like me; all you think about is winning. We do make a good team, don’t we?”
“The best,” said Buddy. “What do you want for energy snacks, the usual?” Buddy had built a thermal sleeve into one of the pockets of Reid’s golf bag. He filled it with two diet Cokes, two bottles of water, two bananas and two $100 Grand candy bars on every day of match play. A reporter once asked Reid why he ate only $100 Grand bars. “Because they don’t make million dollar bars,” he had answered.
“Yeah, that’s fine, thanks,” said Reid. “I’ll be out on the practice green.
Hey, who do we tee off with and when?” “We’re up fourth, at eight-thirty, with Kallman.” “Good.” The practice green was packed. Reid squeezed into a small opening and dropped a few balls in spite of a sneer from the adjacent player. He quickly became fed up with the crowded green and went to practice his chipping. His first two chips dropped in. He felt good today. He was very loose and he was chipping and putting well. He had an hour before his tee time. Usually he went to the 1st tee early just to watch. Today was different; he didn’t want to talk to the press or other players before he was up. He decided to go sit at the pool and have another cup of coffee. He asked Buddy and Buck, who had shown up while he was practicing, to join him. They went to the coffee shop, ordered three coffees and moved on to the pool. Reid sat down and started taking off his shoes. “What are you doing?” asked Buck. “I’m gonna put my feet in the water.” Buck laughed. “I can’t believe it. You’re about to tee off in the Master’s and you’re going to go splash your feet in the pool. You’re like a little kid.” “Hey, we’re about to take a long serious walk. My feet might as well feel good. Want to join me, Buddy?” Buddy started untying his laces. “Oh, what the hell,” said Buck as he took off his shoes and rolled up his pants. They all walked to the edge, sat down and enjoyed their coffee with their feet dangling in the cool water.
A reporter walked up, but as he got close, Reid said, “Hey, do me a favor. If you want a quick picture, take one, then please leave us alone. But please, no questions, not now.” The reporter complied. Reid was relieved as he watched him walk away after snapping a shot.
“Wow, a reporter with some brains.” “Yeah, nice for a change,” answered Buddy. “You know, you were right,” said Buck. “This feels great and it will probably help keep you cool on the first few holes.” “Maybe we should make a habit of it. Let’s do it again tomorrow,” said Buddy.