Page 28

Choke Job

Holland - Sunday, at the Grand Masters

I stride up the fairway of the seventeenth hole, my mind completely occupied by what I know about the distance to the pin from where my tee shot landed.

I nod at him. “Going to go with my three wood. What do you think?”

“You’ve had that distance with that club. Should be able to ease it up onto the green and use the slope to carry it,” he agrees. “Have to hit it solid enough to carry the water.”

“I can do that.”

I keep my stride steady and quick. I’m feeling good.

I’m in the final pairing on Sunday at the Grand Masters.

That means that, coming in to today, I had one of the top two scores in the field.

In fact, I had the lowest score. I was ahead of my pairing mate by two strokes.

I’ve held the lead for much of the day, though I only managed to par the last hole, while Lewis Calhoon birdied it, bringing him within one stroke of my lead.

But I’m right where I want to be, leading with one and a half holes left to play.

We get to where my tee shot landed, and I assess my lie from this perspective. The ball is sitting in a divot in the fairway, which is frustrating, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I need to make solid contact .

Steve hands me my three wood, and I take a couple practice swings.

I’m a long hitter, which is why I can use this club.

A lot of guys would choose something more conservative.

But I’m feeling confident. I allow myself a moment to consider the stakes, as Mallory instructed me to.

I’m defending my title. I’m doing it, and I’m doing it well.

Somewhere in the sea of faces lining the fairway are the Most Eligible Mister cameras and contestants.

Right now, I don’t care about them. Well, I care about Mallory, and I’m listening to her voice in my head as I go through my mental checklist ahead of this shot.

Feet back so the ball is in front of my shoulders. I need both lift and power.

My opponent was farther away from the hole with his drive, so he’s hitting first. He lays up in front of the water hazard, giving himself less than a hundred yards to the hole, but not making it onto the green in two shots, like I plan to do.

This is my chance to gain a stroke and, if I play it right, even extend my lead.

Steve steps back, taking my club bag with him, and it’s just me and my ball. I take a couple of practice swings, my breath coming calmly and evenly, and then I step into position and take my shot.

It happens in slow motion. My back swing feels good, normal, but as I come down on the ball, I feel it the moment something goes amiss.

My club hits the lip of the divot before it connects with the ball, messing with both the trajectory and the force of contact.

I let my club drop to my side as I watch with dread pooling in my stomach as the ball lollipops in the air with not enough force behind it.

It drops with a dissatisfying plunk right into the water hazard.

For a second, everything around me is muted, and then the sounds hit me like a freight train. The screams and moans of the fans. The buzz of excitement that spreads through the gallery as the race for the Grand Masters title just tightened significantly.

“You’re fine.” Steve is at my side in a heartbeat with his usual even-keeled, unchanging voice. “You’re fine. ”

“That was a fluke,” I agree. I swing my club back and forth, replaying my hit. “I hit the bump in the green before I hit my ball.”

“You’re still in this. You get on the green with this shot, and you can save boogie. Even if Calhoon makes par, you’re tied.”

I hear Mallory’s voice inside my head. Control what you can control. Do the next thing right.

“Yep.” I grab a new club from Steve and line up another shot.

I get to hit before Calhoon this time, since now I’m behind in strokes for the hole.

My breathing is more erratic as I set up this shot.

It’s the adrenaline. The noise of the crowd isn’t muted, and it feels like it’s pressing in on me.

I close my eyes briefly. Golf is such a mental game, and I pride myself on mental toughness.

But I’m rattled. I know it, and I need to be careful here. I’ve got to give myself a chance.

I’m still on the near side of the water hazard, so I have to clear it again—or, I guess, for the first time.

I go through my pre-swing workup and then take my shot. I overhit it, compensating for the fact that I don’t want to get wet again. Instead, I send it sailing over the green and down the hill on the far side.

I hold in a curse.

In the golf world, they call this a complete and utter choke job.

If I were a dog, I’d be peeing down my leg right now.