Read Online Miracle at Augusta by James Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patterson
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in to help each other while away a miserable day. Three play dominoes, a solitary tall figure stretches out over a pool table, and a fifth stands between them stuffing kindling into a potbelly stove that glows orange at the center of the room. The man stoking the fire seems the most approachable.
“That little stove throws off some heat,” I offer.
“Better than nothing.”
“I’m Travis. I’m caddying for one of the seniors this week.”
“Lucky you.”
“It’s going to take more than luck to win tomorrow. That’s why I’m here.”
“Who’s got you on the bag?”
“Earl Fielder.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” says the man, unlocking a smile and extending his hand. “I’m Vince. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking to talk to someone who knows a lot more about this track than me. Hopefully, someone willing to share what he knows.”
“I wouldn’t be of much use. As the caddy master, I’m only on the course on Mondays, when they let us play. Those three aren’t what you’re looking for either. They’re what we call bag toters. The person you need to talk to is Ron Bouler,” he says, pointing toward the pool table. “Owl’s been looping here since the day it opened. He knows every blade of grass on this plantation. I’ll introduce you.
“Hey, Owl,” says Vince, “someone’s here to pick your brain.” Bouler, who wears a leather cap, is setting up to bank the six ball in the far corner, and when he swivels his head toward me, I see why he was nicknamed after a bird of prey.
“Travis is caddying for Earl Fielder this week and is looking for an edge, things you can’t find in the yardage book.” Without taking his eyes from me, Bouler slides his stick forward. The chipped cue hits the evergreen ball dead center, sending it caroming the full length of the table into the corner pocket.
“Travis,” says Bouler, “aren’t you the one who got into it in Hawaii?”
“’Fraid so.”
“And now you’re caddying for a brother. How the mighty have fallen.”
“I’m just trying to return a favor and help a friend get his first win. Tomorrow, I want every advantage I can get.”
“Local knowledge.”
“Exactly. As much as you can spare and I can absorb in one night. I want to know how the greens will handle all this water. Which putts are going to look faster than they are and which are going to be slower? Which ones are going to break half an inch less than they look like they will and which ones will break half an inch more? What are the worst patches on every green and fairway? Where are you as good as dead and what can you live with?”
“You bring the chart of where they’re cutting the holes tomorrow?” As he puts down his cue, I pull a damp piece of paper from my rain jacket, unfold it, and hand it to him. When Bouler leans into the light, I’m surprised by how young he is, midthirties tops.
“I stopped going to school after ninth grade,” says Bouler as he studies Sunday’s pin positions. “You were wondering how I could have caddied here since seventy-seven. Well, that’s how.”
“Math was never my strong point,” I say.
“It was mine, but I couldn’t afford to stay in school. Not if I wanted to eat, too. I started here at fifteen, actually before that. I grew up a mile down the road. When they brought in the big earthmoving machines to lay out the course, I rode over on my bike and watched. I saw the greens when they were just mounds of dirt, and when it poured like today, I watched the way the water ran over them. That’s the way the putts still roll.”
Owl turns his eyes from me and calls back to Vince, who’s reading at the desk near the front door. “Vince, any chance you could put on another pot of coffee? Travis and me, we got some homework to do.”
28
BY SUNDAY MORNING, THE rain has cleared. It feels more like early September than late February, and that first-day-of-school edge in the air does nothing to ease my tension. Earl’s
“That little stove throws off some heat,” I offer.
“Better than nothing.”
“I’m Travis. I’m caddying for one of the seniors this week.”
“Lucky you.”
“It’s going to take more than luck to win tomorrow. That’s why I’m here.”
“Who’s got you on the bag?”
“Earl Fielder.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” says the man, unlocking a smile and extending his hand. “I’m Vince. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking to talk to someone who knows a lot more about this track than me. Hopefully, someone willing to share what he knows.”
“I wouldn’t be of much use. As the caddy master, I’m only on the course on Mondays, when they let us play. Those three aren’t what you’re looking for either. They’re what we call bag toters. The person you need to talk to is Ron Bouler,” he says, pointing toward the pool table. “Owl’s been looping here since the day it opened. He knows every blade of grass on this plantation. I’ll introduce you.
“Hey, Owl,” says Vince, “someone’s here to pick your brain.” Bouler, who wears a leather cap, is setting up to bank the six ball in the far corner, and when he swivels his head toward me, I see why he was nicknamed after a bird of prey.
“Travis is caddying for Earl Fielder this week and is looking for an edge, things you can’t find in the yardage book.” Without taking his eyes from me, Bouler slides his stick forward. The chipped cue hits the evergreen ball dead center, sending it caroming the full length of the table into the corner pocket.
“Travis,” says Bouler, “aren’t you the one who got into it in Hawaii?”
“’Fraid so.”
“And now you’re caddying for a brother. How the mighty have fallen.”
“I’m just trying to return a favor and help a friend get his first win. Tomorrow, I want every advantage I can get.”
“Local knowledge.”
“Exactly. As much as you can spare and I can absorb in one night. I want to know how the greens will handle all this water. Which putts are going to look faster than they are and which are going to be slower? Which ones are going to break half an inch less than they look like they will and which ones will break half an inch more? What are the worst patches on every green and fairway? Where are you as good as dead and what can you live with?”
“You bring the chart of where they’re cutting the holes tomorrow?” As he puts down his cue, I pull a damp piece of paper from my rain jacket, unfold it, and hand it to him. When Bouler leans into the light, I’m surprised by how young he is, midthirties tops.
“I stopped going to school after ninth grade,” says Bouler as he studies Sunday’s pin positions. “You were wondering how I could have caddied here since seventy-seven. Well, that’s how.”
“Math was never my strong point,” I say.
“It was mine, but I couldn’t afford to stay in school. Not if I wanted to eat, too. I started here at fifteen, actually before that. I grew up a mile down the road. When they brought in the big earthmoving machines to lay out the course, I rode over on my bike and watched. I saw the greens when they were just mounds of dirt, and when it poured like today, I watched the way the water ran over them. That’s the way the putts still roll.”
Owl turns his eyes from me and calls back to Vince, who’s reading at the desk near the front door. “Vince, any chance you could put on another pot of coffee? Travis and me, we got some homework to do.”
28
BY SUNDAY MORNING, THE rain has cleared. It feels more like early September than late February, and that first-day-of-school edge in the air does nothing to ease my tension. Earl’s
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