By William Bernhardt
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Sample text
He placed his club on the ground to check the lie of the course, then brushed some leaves and other debris away. He held his thumb forward, as if measuring the distance, then licked a finger to check the wind. "Cripes, just hit the ball already," Conner muttered. John jabbed him in the side. Finally, Ace was ready to swing. With a brow creased by fierce concentration, he took his stance, adjusted his grip, gave his ball a steely-eyed look, then swung... The instant the club hit the ball, it exploded into a cloud of white talc.
John rolled on the ground, propping himself up with one arm. "What... do... you... " he said, squeezing the words out between guffaws and gasps for air. " In a sudden fit of temper, Conner whirled the wood around again and inadvertently pulverized the tee marker-which was a lovely miniature of the Augusta National clubhouse. "I tried to tell you," Fitz said quietly. "God knows I tried. But would you listen? " Conner pivoted. "Fitz, I'm warning you-" He was interrupted by the rapid advance of a short man with a whistle around his neck.
He scanned the course and, sure enough, a few moments later, he spotted a man cruising the course in a golf cart. He didn't appear to be going anywhere special or doing anything in particular. Definitely security. He waited until the guard was well out of the way, then made a break for a thick patch of trees nearby. He suppressed a smile, barely able to contain himself. For all he had heard about the much-vaunted ultratight security measures of the Augusta National, he'd made it inside. He wrapped a green flak jacket around his skinny frame, covering his black heavy metal T-shirt.
Final Round by William Bernhardt
by Brian
4.4