Miracle at Augusta Read Online Free PDF

having crossed a line from which there is no graceful retreat. As soon as I reach Peters, I have no choice but to start punching, and Peters has no choice but to punch back.

14
    THE SPORTS BAR BETWEEN Gates 7 and 8 in the American Airlines section of the Honolulu International Airport is no Ding Dong Lounge. There’s the antiseptic airport smell and the barrage of highlights and scores blaring from overhead TVs—does a twenty-seat bar really need four televisions?—but my biggest issue is with the light. There’s so much glare bouncing off the tarmac, I’d need sunglasses even if I didn’t have a black eye.
    A respite from the noise induces me to glance upward. ESPN has gone to a commercial and there’s Earl, three miles outside of Hanoi, walking in his new Reeboks, over terrain he used to hump in combat boots. Now he’s talking to some elders in a village, sharing photographs of himself as a young soldier, and now he’s standing beside some rice paddies doing a clinic for the kids as a water buffalo looks on. I hope it doesn’t end up as a pair of golf shoes.
    When SportsCenter resumes, I take a sip of my Bloody Mary and assess the damage. In addition to my shut right eye, which is more purple than black, all the ribs on my left side are sore, and one may be cracked, because when I raise my left hand to push my Ray-Bans back on my nose, there’s a piercing pain. That must be why I’m drinking with my right. In addition, my head hurts in a way that can’t be explained entirely by a hangover.
    Nevertheless, I don’t feel bad. On the contrary. Sixteen hours after the fact, the thrill of having survived and almost held my own in a brawl with camo-wearing, tobacco-juice-spitting Hank Peters hasn’t worn off, and my niggling list of injuries seems a small price to pay for glory. As I’m nursing my drink and my memories, the bartender, a brunette in her late twenties, pauses in front of me.
    “Want to see something hilarious?” she asks.
    “Sure.”
    “Then check out these two clowns.”
    I peer up gingerly (my neck) and see a man who looks a lot like me flying at a man with a lei around his neck. Then the two flail at each other in a highly undignified manner. When they cut back to the anchor, there’s a reference to a security camera at a Honolulu bar.
    “How often have they been showing this?”
    “A lot. Apparently, they’re both professional golfers…on the Senior Tour.”
    I’m resisting the urge to ask her which of these two clowns, in her estimation, won the fight, when a call comes in on my cell from Ponte Vedra, Florida.
    “Is this Travis McKinley?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is Tim Finchem.” The commissioner of the PGA tour. “I need to see you in my office tomorrow afternoon.”

15
    THE NEXT AFTERNOON, PETERS and I are side by side again. Instead of being perched on bar stools, our butts are nearly scraping the broadloom in a pair of low-slung leather chairs. The chairs are facing PGA Commissioner Timothy W. Finchem, who looks down at us, in every sense, from behind his brilliantly polished mahogany desk. Despite the quality of Finchem’s furniture, suit, and haircut, the scene reeks of high school, specifically that doomsday moment when you’re summoned to the principal’s office.
    For a couple of minutes, Finchem lets us twist in the over-air-conditioned breeze. As we endure the silent treatment, I notice that Peters is as banged up as me, with a badly swollen lower lip and a shiner of his own. I’m struck by how young Finchem looks. On paper, Peters and I may only have him by about five years, but he has spent a lot less time in the sun and a lot more in the gym, and it shows.
    Then again, we work for a living. Kind of.
    I’m also puzzled by the three black plastic cassettes on his desk. Presumably they contain the surveillance footage ESPN has been wearing out on SportsCenter, but why three? Has Finchem made duplicates so we can each take one home and study it before we write our