Fancy Pants

Chapter 32

Once it was first played in 1935, the United States Classic had grown in prestige until it was now considered the "fifth major"-right along with the Masters, the British Open, the PGA, and the U.S. Open. The course where the Classic was held had become legendary, a place to be mentioned in the

same breath as Augusta, Cypress Point, and Merion. Golfers called it the Old Testament and for good reason. The course was one of the most beautiful in the South, lush with pines and ancient magnolias. Beards of Spanish moss draped the oaks that served as a backdrop to the small, perfectly manicured greens, and oyster-white sand, soft as powder, filled the bunkers. When the day was still and the sun warm, the fairways glistened with light so pure it seemed heavenly. But the natural beauty of the course was part of its treachery. While it warmed the heart, it could also lull the senses, so that the bedazzled player didn't realize until a fraction of a second too late that the Old Testament forgave no sins.

Golfers snarled at it and cursed it and swore they would never play it again, but the best of them always came back, because those heroic eighteen holes provided something that life itself could never deliver. They provided perfect justice. The good shot was always rewarded, the bad met with swift, terrible punishment. Those eighteen holes provided no second chance, no time for jury-rigging, no opportunity to plea-bargain. The Old Testament vanquished the weak, while on the strong it bestowed glory and honor forever. Or at least until the next day.

Dallie hated the Classic. Before he'd given up drinking and his game had improved, he hadn't always qualified for it. The last few years, however, he'd played well enough to find himself on the roster. Most of the time he wished he'd stayed home. The Old Testament was a golf course that demanded perfection, and Dallie damned well knew he was too imperfect to live up to that kind of expectation. He told himself that the Classic was a tournament like any other, but when this course defeated him, it seemed to shrink his very soul.

Every part of him wished that Francesca had chosen another tournament when she'd issued her challenge. Not that he was taking her seriously. No way. As far as he was concerned, she had kissed him good-bye when she'd thrown that little tantrum. Still, someone else was in the announcers' booth when Dallie teed up at the first hole, taking a few seconds to shoot a grin at a pretty little blonde who was smiling at him from the front row of the gallery. He'd told the network honchos they were going to have to wait a little bit longer for him and handed back their contract unsigned. He just hadn't been able to sit this one out. Not this year. Not after what Francesca had said to him.

The grip on his driver felt good in his hand as he addressed the ball, solid and comforting. He felt loose. He felt fine. And he was damned well going to show Francesca that she didn't know what she was talking about. He hit a big booming drive that shot out into the sky-rocket-driven, a NASA special. The gallery applauded. The ball sped through space on its way to eternity. And then, at the very last instant before it descended, it drifted ever so slightly… just enough so that it missed the edge of the fairway and landed in a clump of magnolias.

Francesca bypassed her secretary and dialed her contact in the sports department directly, making her fourth call to him that afternoon. "How's he doing now?" she asked when the male voice answered.

"Sorry, Francesca, but he lost another shot on the seventeenth hole, which puts him at three over par.

It's only the first round, so-assuming he survives the cut-he has three more rounds to go, but this isn't the best way to start a tournament." She pressed her eyes shut as he continued. "Of course, this isn't his kind of tournament anyway, you know that. The Classic is high pressure, high voltage. I remember when Jack Nicklaus owned the place." She barely listened as he went on, reminiscing about his favorite game. "Nicklaus is the only golfer in history who could regularly bring the Old Testament to its knees. Year

after year, all through the seventies and even into the early eighties, he'd come into the Classic and blow everybody away, walking those fairways like he owned them, making those tiny little greens beg for mercy with those superhuman putts of his…"

By the end of the day, Dallie was four over par. Francesca felt heartsick. Why had she done this to

him? Why had she issued such a ridiculous challenge? At home that night, she tried to read, but nothing held her attention. She started to clean out the hall closet, but she couldn't concentrate. At ten o'clock

that night, she began phoning the airlines trying to find a late flight. Then she gently awakened Teddy

and told him the two of them were taking a trip.

Holly Grace banged on the door of Francesca's motel room early the next morning. Teddy had just gotten up, but since dawn Francesca had been pacing the perimeters of the shabby little room that was the best accommodation she could find in a town bursting at the seams with golfers and their fans. She nearly threw herself into Holly Grace's arms. "Thank God you're here! I was afraid something had happened."

Holly Grace deposited her suitcase just inside the door and sagged wearily into the nearest chair. "I don't know why I let you talk me into this. We didn't finish shooting until nearly midnight, and I had to take a six a.m. flight. I barely got an hour's sleep on the plane coming down here."

"I'm sorry, Holly Grace. I know this is an absolutely miserable thing to do to you. If I didn't think it was so important, I'd never have asked." She hoisted Holly Grace's suitcase to the foot of the bed and opened the latches.

"While you're taking a shower, I'll get some fresh clothes out and Teddy can pick up some breakfast for you at the coffee shop. I know it's dreadful of me to rush you like this, but Dallie tees off in an hour. I've got the passes ready. Just make sure he sees both of you right away."

"I don't understand why you can't take Teddy to watch him play," Holly Grace complained. "It's ridiculous to drag me all the way down here just to escort your son to a golf tournament."

Francesca pulled Holly Grace to her feet and then pushed her toward the bathroom. "I need some blind faith from you right now. Please!"

Forty-five minutes later, Francesca stood well back from the door as she let Holly Grace and Teddy

out, making certain none of the people milling around in the parking lot could see her clearly enough to recognize her. She knew how fast news traveled, and unless it became absolutely necessary, she had no intention of letting Dallie know she was anywhere near. As soon as the two of them had disappeared,

she rushed to the television so she could be ready and waiting for the tournament coverage to begin.

Seve Ballesteros was leading the tournament after the first round, so Dallie wasn't in the best of moods as he came off the practice green. Dallie used to like Seve, until Francesca had started making cracks about how good looking he was. Now just the sight of that dark-haired Spaniard made him feel out of sorts. He looked over toward the leader board and confirmed what he already knew, that Jack Nicklaus had ended up at five strokes over par the day before, shooting a round even worse than Dallie's own. Dallie felt a mean-spirited satisfaction. Nicklaus was getting old; the years were finally doing what human beings couldn't- putting an end to the incomparable reign of the Golden Bear from Columbus, Ohio.

Skeet walked ahead of Dallie to the first tee. "There's a little surprise for you over there," he said, gesturing toward his left. Dallie followed the direction of his gaze and then grinned as he spotted Holly Grace standing just behind the ropes. He began to walk over to her, only to freeze in mid-stride as he recognized Teddy standing at her side.

Anger rushed through him. How could one small woman be so vindictive? He knew Francesca had sent Teddy and he knew why. She had sent the boy to taunt him, to remind him of every nasty word she had hurled at him. Normally he would have liked having Teddy watch him play, but not at the Classic-not at a tournament where he had never done well. It occurred to him that Francesca wanted Teddy to see him get beaten, and the thought made him so furious he could barely contain himself. Something of his feelings must have shown because Teddy looked down at his feet and then back up again with that mulishly stubborn expression that Dallie had grown to recognize all too well.

Dallie reminded himself that it wasn't Teddy's fault, but it still took all of his self-control to walk over

and greet them. His fans in the gallery immediately began asking him questions and calling out encouragement. He joked with them a little bit, glad of the distraction because he didn't know what to say to Teddy. I'm sorry I screwed everything up for us-that's what he should say. I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk to you, to tell you what you mean to me, to tell you how proud I was when you protected your mama that day in Wynette.

Skeet was holding out his driver as Dallie turned away from the gallery. "This is the first time ol' Teddy's going to see you play, isn't it?" Skeet said, handing him the club. "Be a shame if he didn't see your best game."

Dallie shot him a black look, and then walked over to tee up. The muscles in his back and shoulders felt as tight as steel bands. Normally he joked with the crowd before he hit, but today he couldn't manage it. The club felt foreign in his hand. He looked over at Teddy and saw the tight little frown in his forehead,

a frown of total concentration. Dallie forced himself to focus his attention on what he had to do-on

what he could do. He took a deep breath, eye on the ball, knees slightly bent, drew back the club and then whipped it through, using all the strength of his powerful left side. Airborne.

The crowd applauded. The ball fired out over the lush green fairway, a white dot speeding against a cloudless sky. It began to descend, heading directly toward the clump of magnolias that had done Dallie

in the day before. And then, at the end, the ball faded to the right so that it landed on the fairway in perfect position. Dallie heard a wild Texas cheer from behind him and turned to grin at Holly Grace. Skeet gave him a thumbs-up, and even Teddy had a half-smile on his face.

That night, Dallie went to bed knowing he'd finally brought the Old Testament to its knees. While the tournament leaders had fallen victim to a strong wind, Dallie had shot three under par, enough to make

up for the disaster of the first day and push him way up on the leader board, enough to show his son

just a little bit about how the old game of golf was played. Seve was still in there, along with Fuzzy Zoeller and Greg Norman. Watson and Crenshaw were out. Nicklaus had shot another mediocre round, but the Golden Bear never gave up easily, and he had scored just well enough to survive the cut.

As Dallie tried to fall asleep that night, he told himself to concentrate on Seve and the others, not to

worry about Nicklaus. Jack was eight over par, too far behind to be in contention and too old to pull

off any of his miraculous last-minute charges. But as Dallie punched his pillow into shape, he heard the Bear's voice whispering to him as if he were standing right there in the room. Don't ever count me out, Beaudine. I'm not like you. I never quit.

Dallie couldn't seem to hold his concentration on the third day. Despite the presence of Holly Grace and Teddy, his play was mediocre and he ended at three over par. It was enough to put him in a three-way

tie for second place, but he was two shots out of the lead.

By the end of the third day's play, Francesca's head ached from watching the small motel television screen so intently. On CBS, Pat Summerall began to summarize the day's action.

"Dallie Beaudine has never played well under pressure, and it seemed to me he looked tight out there."

"The noise from the crowd obviously bothered him," Ken Venturi observed. "You've got to remember that Jack Nicklaus was playing in the group right behind Dallie, and when Jack is hot, like he was today, the gallery goes wild. Every time those cheers went up, you'd better believe the other players could hear, and they all knew Jack had made another spectacular shot. That can't help but shake up the tournament leaders."

"It'll be interesting to see if Dallie can change his pattern of final-round defeats and come back tomorrow," Summerall said. "He's a big hitter, he has one of the best swings on the tour, and he's always been popular with the fans. You know they'd like nothing better than to see him finally pull one out."

"But the real story here today is Jack Nicklaus," Ken Venturi concluded. "At 47 years of age, the Golden Bear from Columbus, Ohio, has shot an unbelievable sixty-seven-five under par-putting him in a three-way tie for second place, right along with Seve Ballesteros and Dallas Beaudine…"

Francesca flipped off the set. She should have been happy that Dallie was one of the tournament leaders, but the final round was always his weakest. From what had happened in today's round, she had to conclude that Teddy's presence alone wouldn't be enough to spur him on. She knew stronger measures were called for, and she bit down on her bottom lip, refusing to let herself consider how easily the only strong measure she had been able to think of could backfire.

"Just stay away from me," Holly Grace said the next morning as Francesca hurried after her and Teddy across the country club lawn toward the crowd that surrounded the first tee.

"I know what I'm doing," Francesca called out. "At least I think I do."

Holly Grace spun around as Francesca caught up with her. "When Dallie sees you, it's going to ruin his concentration for good. You couldn't have come up with a better way to blow this final round for him."

"He'll blow it for himself if I'm not there," Francesca insisted. "Look, you've coddled him for years

and it hasn't worked. Do it my way for a change."

Holly Grace whipped off her sunglasses and glared at Francesca. "Coddled him! I never coddled him in my life."

"Yes, you have. You coddle him all the time." Francesca grabbed Holly Grace's arm and began pushing her toward the first tee. "Just do what I asked you. I know a lot more about golf than I used to, but I still don't understand the subtleties. You've got to stick right by me and translate every shot he makes."

"You're crazy, do you know that-"

Teddy cocked his head to one side as he observed the argument taking place between his mother and Holly Grace. He didn't often see grown-ups argue, and it was interesting to watch. Teddy's nose was sunburned and his legs were tired from having walked so much the past two days. But he was looking forward to today's final round, even though he got a little bored standing around waiting for the players

to hit. Still, it was worth the wait because sometimes Dallie walked over to the ropes and told him what was going on, and then everybody smiled at him and knew that he was a pretty special kid, since he was getting so much of Dallie's attention. Even after Dallie had made some bad shots the day before, he'd walked over and talked to Teddy, explaining what had happened.

The day was sunny and mild, the temperature too warm for his Born-to-Raise-Hell sweat shirt, but

Teddy had decided to wear it anyway.

"There's going to be hell to pay over this," Holly Grace said, shaking her head. "And why couldn't you put on slacks or shorts like a normal person wears to a golf tournament? You're attracting all kinds of attention."

Francesca didn't bother to tell Holly Grace that was exactly what she'd intended when she'd pulled on this tomato red slip of a dress. The simple cotton jersey tube dipped low at the neck, gently cupped her hips, and ended well above her knees in a saucy little polka-dot flounce. If she'd calculated right, the dress, along with her unmatched silver "angst" earrings, should just about drive Dallas Beaudine crazy.

In all his years of tournament golf, Dallie had seldom played in the same group as Jack Nicklaus. The

few times he had, the round had been a disaster. He had played in front of him and behind him; he'd eaten dinner with him, shared a podium with him, exchanged a few golf stories with him. But he'd

seldom played with him, and now Dallie's hands were shaking. He told himself not to make the mistake

of confusing the real Jack Nicklaus with the Bear in his head. He reminded himself that the real Nicklaus was a flesh and blood human being, vulnerable like everybody else, but it didn't make any difference. Their faces were the same and that was all that counted.

"How you doin' today, Dallie?" Jack Nicklaus smiled pleasantly as he walked onto the first tee, his son Steve behind him acting as his caddy. I'm going to eat you alive, the Bear in Dallie's head said.

He's forty-seven years old, Dallie reminded himself as he shook Jack's hand. A man of forty-seven

can't compete with a thirty-seven-year-old at the top of his form.

I won't even bother spitting out your bones, the Bear replied.

Seve Ballesteros was back by the ropes talking to someone in the crowd, his dark skin and chiseled cheekbones catching the attention of many of the women who made up Dallie's gallery. Dallie knew he should be more worried about Seve than about Jack. Seve was an international champion, considered by many to be the best golfer in the world. His driving was as powerful as any on the tour, and he had an almost superhuman touch around the greens. Dallie forced his attention away from Nicklaus and walked over to shake Seve's hand-only to stop cold in his tracks when he saw who Ballesteros was talking to.

At first he couldn't believe it. Even she couldn't be this evil. Standing there in a bright red dress that looked like underwear, and smiling at Seve like he was some sort of Spanish god, was Miss Fancy Pants herself. Holly Grace stood on one side of her looking miserable, and Teddy was on the other. Francesca finally tore her attention away from Seve and looked toward Dallie. She gave him a smile that was as

cool as the inside of a frosted beer mug, a smile so lofty and superior that Dallie wanted to go right over and shake her. She tipped her head slightly, and her silver earrings caught the sun. Lifting her hand, she pushed chestnut tendrils away from her ears, tilting her head so that her neck formed a perfect curve

and preening for him- preening, for God's sake! He couldn't believe it.

Dallie began to stalk toward her to choke her to death, but he had to stop because Seve was coming toward him, hand extended, all flashing eyes and Latin charm. Dallie hid behind a phony Texas grin

and gave Seve's hand a couple of pumps.

Jack was up first. Dallie was so aggravated he was barely aware that Nicklaus had hit until he heard the crowd applaud. It was a good drive-not quite as long as the behemoth drives of his youth, but in perfect position. Dallie thought he saw Seve sneak a look at Francesca before he teed up. His hair glinted blue-black in the morning light, a Spanish pirate come to plunder American shores, and maybe walk off with a few of their women while he was at it. Seve's lean body wound tightly as he drew back the club and hit a long drive out to the center of the fairway, where it rolled ten yards past Nicklaus and came

to a stop.

Dallie sneaked a glance at the gallery, only to wish he hadn't. Francesca was applauding Seve's drive enthusiastically, bouncing up on tiptoes in a pair of tiny red sandals that didn't look as if they would make it through three holes of walking, much less eighteen. He snatched his driver from Skeet's hand, his face dark as a thundercloud, his emotions even darker. Taking his stance, he was hardly even thinking about what he was doing. His body went on automatic pilot as he stared down at the ball and visualized Francesca's beautiful little face imprinted right on the top of the Titleist trademark. And then he swung.

He didn't even know what he'd done until he heard Holly Grace's cheer and his vision cleared enough to see the ball fly out two hundred ninety-five yards and roll to a stop well beyond Seve's drive. It was a great shot, and Skeet slapped him jubilantly on the back. Seve and Jack nodded in polite acknowledgment. Dallie turned toward the gallery and nearly choked at what he saw. Francesca had her snooty little nose tilted up in the air, as if she were ready to expire from boredom, as if she were saying

in that exaggerated way of hers, "Is that the absolute best you can do?"

"Get rid of her," Dallie snarled under his breath at Skeet.

Skeet was wiping the driver with a towel and didn't seem to hear. Dallie marched over to the ropes, his voice full of venom but pitched low enough so that he couldn't be overheard by anyone except Holly Grace. "I want you to get off this course right now, "he told Francesca. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

Once again she gave him that lofty, superior smile. "I'm just reminding you what the stakes are, darling."

"You're crazy!" he exploded. "In case you're too ignorant to have figured it out, I'm in a three-way tie for second place in one of the biggest tournaments of the year, and I don't need this kind of distraction."

Francesca straightened, leaned forward, and whispered in his ear, "Second place isn't good enough."

Afterward Dallie figured that no jury in the world would have convicted him if he'd strangled the life out of her right there on the spot, but his playing partners were moving off the tee, he had another shot coming up, and he couldn't spare the time.

For the next nine holes he made that ball beg for mercy, ordered it to follow his wishes, punished it with every ounce of his strength and every morsel of his determination. He willed his putts into the cup on one sure stroke. One stroke-not two, not three! Each shot was more awesome than the last, and every time he turned to the gallery, he saw Holly Grace talking furiously to Francesca, translating the magic of what he was doing, telling Miss Fancy Pants that she was seeing golf history being made. But no matter what he did, no matter how astounding his shot, how breathtaking his putts, how heroically he was playing-every goddamn time he looked at her, Francesca seemed to be saying, "Is that the best you

can do?"

He was so caught up in his anger, so immersed in her scorn, that he couldn't quite comprehend the consequences of the rapidly changing leader board. Oh, he understood what it said, all right. He saw the numbers. He knew that the tournament leaders playing behind him had fallen back; he knew Seve had dropped off. He could read the numbers, all right, but it wasn't until he'd birdied the fourteenth hole that he could actually comprehend in his gut the fact that he had pulled ahead, that his angry, vicious attack

on the course had put him at two under par for the tournament. With four holes left to play, he was tied for first place in the United States Classic.

Tied with Jack Nicklaus.

Dallie shook his head, trying to clear it as he walked toward the fifteenth tee. How could this have happened to him? How had it happened that Dallas Beaudine from Wynette, Texas, was going one-on-one with Jack Nicklaus? He couldn't think about it. If he thought about it, the Bear would start talking to him in his head.

You're going to fail, Beaudine. You're going to prove everything Jaycee used to say about you. Everything I've been saying for years. You're not man enough to pull this off. Not against me.

He turned back toward the gallery and saw that she was watching him. As he glared at her, she placed one sandaled foot in front of the other and bent her knee slightly so that ridiculous little polka-dot flounce at the bottom of her dress rode up higher on her legs. She pressed her shoulders back, making the soft cotton jersey cling to her breasts, outlining them in memorable detail. Here's your trophy, that little body told him quite plainly. Don't forget what you're playing for.

He slammed the ball down the fifteenth fairway, promising himself that when this was all over he would never again let himself near a woman with a bitch's heart. As soon as the tournament was finished, he was going to teach Francesca Day the lesson of her life by marrying the first sweet-voiced country girl who came along.

He scrambled for par on the fifteenth and the sixteenth holes. So did Nicklaus. Jack's son was with him the whole way, handing him clubs, helping read the greens. Dallie's own son stood by the ropes wearing

a Born-to-Raise-Hell T-shirt and a look of furious determination on his face. Dallie's heart swelled every time he looked at him. Damn, he was a feisty little kid.

The seventeenth hole was short and nasty. Jack talked a little bit to the crowd as he walked toward the green. He had cut his teeth on pressure shots, and there was nothing he loved more than a tight spot. Dallie had sweat through his golf shirt and through two gloves. He was famous for joking with the

crowd, but now he maintained an ominous silence. Nicklaus was playing some of the best golf of his

life, chomping up the fairways, burning up the greens. Forty-seven was too old to play like that, but somebody had forgotten to tell Jack. And now only Dallie Beaudine stood between the greatest player

in the history of the sport and one more title.

Somehow Dallie pulled off another par, but Jack did, too. They were still tied going into the final hole.

Cameramen balancing portable video units on their shoulders followed every movement as the two players headed for the eighteenth tee. The network announcers heaped one superlative after another on them while word of the blood contest taking place on the Old Testament spread throughout the world of sports, sending dials flicking and the network's Sunday afternoon ratings soaring into the stratosphere. The crowd around the players had grown to the thousands, their excitement feverish because they knew that whatever happened, they couldn't lose. This crowd had been charmed by Dallie when he was still a rookie, and they had been waiting for years for him to win a major title. But the thought of being on the spot when Jack won again was irresistible, too. It was the 1986 Masters all over again, with Jack charging like a bull toward the finish, as unstoppable as the force of nature.

Dallie and Jack both hit solid drives off the eighteenth tee. The hole was a long par five with a lake placed diabolically in front of all but the left corner of the green. They called it Hogan's Lake, because it had cost the great Ben Hogan the U.S. Classic championship in 1951 when he'd tried to hit over it instead of around it. They could just as easily have called it Arnie's Lake or Watson's Lake or Snead's Lake because at one time or other all of them had fallen victim to its treachery.

Jack didn't mind gambling, but he hadn't won every important championship in the world by taking foolhardy chances, and he had no intention of going directly for the flag by making a suicide shot over that lake. He lined up his second shot safely to the left of Hogan's Lake and hit a beautiful fade that landed just short of the green. The crowd let out a roar and then held its collective breath as the ball bounced up in the air and came to a stop on the edge of the green, sixty feet from the pin. The noise

was deafening.

Nicklaus had made a spectacular shot, a magic shot, a shot for a possible birdie on the hole-a shot that even gave him an outside chance at an eagle.

Dallie felt panic, as insidious as poison, creeping through his veins. In order to keep up with Nicklaus he had to make that same shot-hit to the left of the lake and then bounce the ball up on the green. It was

a difficult shot in the best of circumstances, but with thousands of people watching from the gallery, millions more watching at home on their televisions, with a tournament title at stake and hands that wouldn't stop shaking, he knew he couldn't pull it off.

Seve hit to the left of the lake on his second shot, but the ball fell well short of the green. Panic rose up

in Dallie's throat until it seemed to be choking him. He couldn't do this-he just couldn't! He spun around, instinctively searching out Francesca. Sure enough, her chin shot up in the air, her snooty little nose lifted higher-daring him, challenging him-

And then, as he watched, it all fell apart for her. She couldn't pull it off any longer. Her chin dropped,

her expression softened, and she gazed at him with eyes that saw straight through into his soul, eyes

that understood his panic and begged him to set it aside. For her. For Teddy. For all of them.

You're going to disappoint her, Beaudine, the Bear taunted. You've disappointed everybody you've

ever loved in your life, and you're getting ready to do it again.

Francesca's lips moved, forming a single word. Please.

Dallie looked down at the grass, thinking about everything Francie had said to him, and then he walked over to Skeet. "I'm going straight for the flag," he said. "I'm going to hit across the lake."

He waited for Skeet to yell at him, to tell him he was all kinds of a fool. But Skeet merely looked thoughtful. "You're going to have to carry that ball two hundred and sixty yards and make it stop on a nickel."

"I know that," Dallie replied quietly.

"If you make the safe shot-go around the lake-you've got a good chance at tying Nicklaus."

"I'm tired of safe shots," Dallie said. "I'm going for the flag." Jaycee had been dead for years, and

Dallie didn't have a damned thing left to prove to that bastard. Francie was right. Not trying at all was a bigger sin than failing. He took a last look over toward Francesca, wanting her respect more than he'd ever wanted anything. She and Holly Grace were clutching each other's hands as if they were getting ready to fall off the edge of the world. Teddy's legs had gotten tired and he was sitting on the grass, but the look of determination hadn't faded from his face.

Dallie focused all his attention on what he had to do, trying to control the rush of adrenaline that would harm him more than it would help.

Hogan couldn't carry the lake, the Bear whispered. What makes you think you can?

Because I want it more than Hogan ever did, Dallie answered back. I just plain want it more.

When he lined up for the ball and the spectators realized what he was going to do, they emitted a

murmur of disbelief. Nicklaus's face was as expressionless as ever. If he thought Dallie was making a mistake, he kept it to himself.

You'll never do it, the Bear whispered.

You just watch me, Dallie replied.

His club lashed through the ball. It shot into the sky on a high, strong trajectory and then faded to the right so that it hung over the water-over the center of the lake that had claimed Ben Hogan and Arnold Palmer and so many other legends. It sailed through the sky for an eternity, but it still hadn't cleared the lake when it began to come down. The spectators held their breath, their bodies frozen into position like extras in an old science-fiction movie. Dallie stood like a statue watching the slow, ominous descent. In the background, a flag with the number 18 printed on it caught a puff of breeze and lifted ever so slightly, so that in all the universe only that flag and the ball were moving.

Screams went up from the crowd, and then an ear-splitting wall of sound struck Dallie as his ball cleared the edge of the lake and hit the green, bouncing slightly before it came to a dead stop ten feet from the flag.

Seve put his ball on the green and two-putted, then shook his head dejectedly as he walked off onto the fringe. Jack's heroic sixty-foot putt lipped the cup, but didn't drop. Dallie stood alone. He only had a ten-foot putt, but he was mentally and physically exhausted. He knew that if he made the putt he would win the tournament, but if he missed it he would be tied with Jack.

He turned to Francesca, and once again her pretty lips formed that one word: please.

As tired as he was, Dallie didn't have the heart to disappoint her.