Miracle at Augusta Read Online Free PDF Page A

starts to grow on me.
    “I know it was a sad occasion,” says Earl, “but it was great to spend a little time with Sarah and the kids. You’re one lucky motherfucker. And not just for being born white.”
    “Luck has nothing to do with it,” I say with a straight face.
    “Oh, really?”
    “Survival of the fittest. Natural selection. It’s science, really. But speaking of luck, I’ve got to say, I didn’t feel so goddamned fortunate four hours ago when that putt caught the lip on eleven and…”
    Earl puts down his Primo and points an admonishing finger. According to the ground rules for this excursion, clearly laid out on our walk from the hotel, any reference to “ancient history,” as in what happened on the golf course this afternoon, is strictly off-limits. “The goal,” he said, “is not to understand it, which would be impossible anyway, since it’s golf, or even to learn from it, but to forget it, or at least dilute it.”
    “You’re right,” I say, getting back on script. “I’m a very lucky Caucasian. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky. Although I’m not sure Sarah feels the same way.”
    “How could she, under the circumstances? But let’s take your kids. You know how many turn out to be assholes? A lot. Yours are smart, decent, and fairly good-looking.”
    “Thanks, Earl.”
    Earl reaches for his Primo, and in midsip, his eyes go slack, like he just saw the ghost of an old army pal who didn’t make it home.
    “You okay?”
    “Not really,” he says and, with the same blank expression, mumbles more to himself than me, “Motherfucker…of all the joints, in all the towns, in the whole motherfucking world, this motherfucker walks into mine.”
    When I swivel in the direction of Earl’s empty gaze, I see that three large, beefy men have joined us at the bar, and that the one in the middle is wearing a red lei.
    “Hey, Travis,” says Peters. “Hey, Earl.”
    Although his greeting could not be more innocuous, it causes his two friends to double over with laughter. All three are at least as intoxicated as me and Earl. Why shouldn’t they be? They have something to celebrate.
    “Hi, Hank,” responds Earl for both of us.
    “Travis,” says Peters, “I got to say something. For the record. What happened on eleven was the worst piece of luck I’ve ever seen.” And when I don’t respond, he adds, “No shit.”
    “I know, Hank. I was there. Remember?”
    “We’re grown men here, give or take. We’ve seen lipouts and power lipouts. But this was another level. A tsunami to a hurricane. Your ball came out the other side like Dale Earnhardt coming out of the five turn at Daytona.”
    Peters, to my surprise, has a gift for simile.
    “It was like one of those putting machines some asshole executive has in his office where the ball goes up a little ramp and when he makes it, there’s a bit of a pause before the thing spits it out. Then the ball rolls down the little ramp back to his loafers, the kind with little tassels on them. And then his hot secretary sticks her head in the door and goes, ‘I got Chandler on the horn. What should I tell him?’ ‘Tell him what you always tell him, doll face—I’m busy.’ You know the kind?”
    “Yeah, Hank, I think I do.”
    “Why am I telling you? You were in advertising. You probably had one.”
    In the last couple of minutes, his friends have managed to regain their composure, but now beer comes flying out of their mouths and they slap the bar.
    “Could we talk about something else? Believe it or not, I’m actually trying to forget it. As a matter of fact, that’s why we’re here.”
    “I mean, what the fuck was in that hole, Travis? A snake? A frog? And one other thing, what was your putter doing in the air?”
    I still hear their laughter, but now it seems far away, as if reaching me from a distant room, because at this point I’m out of my chair and flying through the air toward the red lei and his giant jug head. Even in midair, I’m aware of