Page 13 of Putting Out
“I think the first and most obvious question, Julie, is going to be will she play in Georgia?”
“Absolutely, Sam. Not only would it be the first time a woman has played in a men’s major, but we’re talking about doing it on a course that is considered to be the most sacred golf course in the history of the sport.”
“Holy shit! The American. The American!”
“Kenny!”
He cringed at Grams’ shocked tone. “Sorry, Grams. But it’s the fucking American!”
He went to dance with her to make up for his bad behavior, while Reilly remained glued to the set. In case she’d missed it the first time, the official list was posted again.
Thirty-eight.
Thirty-eight best in all the world.
All she had to do was be in the top fifty to qualify.
“What are you thinking?” Pop wanted to know.
Plopping down and hoping there would be a chair under her butt when she did — there was — she focused on breathing in and out.
“Is this for real?”
“It seems so, doesn’t it?”
“Pop, I’m number thirty-eight.”
“Seems low if you ask me,” he grumbled.
For whatever reason, that was just about the funniest thing she had ever heard. She stood and hugged him for saying it, but more for believing it was true.
“Yo, Reilly, this reporter is on the phone,” Kenny shouted with his hand over the speaker. “One guess what he wants to know.”
“Tell him ‘no comment’ and hang up. Then you better take the phone off the hook.”
“Oh, dear, should we do that?”
Grams stood behind Kenny with her walker in her hands. Her silver hair was neatly curled. Her makeup perfectly applied. She wore a pair of dark denim jeans and an oversize white oxford tied off at the waist, completing her outfit with a pair of slick, black, slip-on shoes. Seventy-three and she had all the style of someone a quarter of her age.
Reilly was happy to see the Parkinson’s hadn’t changed that.
“Trust me,” Reilly told her, taking the phone from Kenny and muttering “no comment” before she hung it up and removed the plug.
“This is going to get...” Reilly struggled for a word that would help her grandmother understand. She settled on, “Bothersome.”
“Oh. I thought this was a good thing happening.”
Reilly could hear the chirping from her cell phone all the way upstairs in her room. Since that was a private number, it was either a friend or her agent. Or Luke. He would call. He would know what this meant.
Reilly was betting on her agent to act the fastest. Gus was a seasoned veteran and would understand the ramifications of the list. A man with an overeating problem and high blood pressure, no doubt he was close to popping a vein in his head right about now.
“I can’t believe it. We’re going to Georgia! The American, baby!”
Kenny was still dancing about in wonderment, but Reilly choked up. The single greatest golf event — possibly sporting event — each year. The Super Bowl of golf.
The American.
The only major golf event to be played each year on the same stage. It was a course so well- known, golfers should have been immune to its dangers and yet each year the mightiest still fell. One wayward shot on Eleven. A dip into the water at Fifteen. A bunker on Eighteen.
