Page 75 of Putting Out
“I know. It’s going to be something to see if I can keep up. But I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. Itisthe American.”
“That it is,” he said with a note of reverence in his southern drawl. “Golf people down here take the tournament very seriously. Very seriously, indeed.”
“I do, too, sir. It’s why I’m here.”
He seemed to study her for a moment, his dark eyes almost obstructed by the wrinkled brown skin that covered his face. Whatever he saw in her eyes, he must have approved.
“All right then, little lady. You go on and hit the ball. The driving range is off to your right. I’ve filled a trunk full of balls for you behind the tee box. You should have as many as you can hit.”
“Okay. Let’s go,” Kenny directed them.
Odie had brought along with him two walkie-talkies he’d bought at a kid’s toy store. He thrust one at Kenny and told him how to work it and then he took his and started walking out toward the center of the driving range. Reilly watched as he passed each of the numbered markers lined up in front of her.
Fifty yards, one hundred, one hundred and fifty, two hundred, two hundred and fifty. She could see three hundred, but it was looking small to her eyes. Odie walked off a few more paces beyond the three-hundred marker, confident she couldn’t hit him, and waved his free arm.
Kenny brought the small walkie-talkie up to his face. “You read me, good buddy?”
Reilly rolled her eyes.
“What? I always wanted to say that.”
Static filled the air around Reilly as she took her driver and began to loosen up.
Then she heard Odie’s twang through the crackle.
“I’m ready when she is. I’ve marked off twenty yards in front of the three-hundred marker and a few beyond it. As soon as the ball lands I’ll let you know how far it went.”
The static disappeared as the connection was severed. Reilly continued to swing her club, twisting her body right to left and allowing the weight of the club to pull her arms behind her and then follow through.
Kenny set down a bucket of balls. “These balls are crap. Maybe we should go with our tour balls.”
“They’ll do,” Reilly told him. A good ball could make some difference, but the rest was on her club and her.
“Still, it can’t hurt.”
Reilly stopped swinging. Kenny pulled a sleeve of balls from his coat pocket, took out one and placed it on the raised tee. Something about his deliberateness was off.
“You’re as nervous as I am.”
“I’m not nervous,” he countered. “If you ask me your game was fine, better than fine, before all this. I think all you had to do was show up and play your game and you would have done yourself and your sport proud.”
“Translated… you think I’m setting myself up for a fall.”
They knew each other too well for Kenny to backpedal.
“I think you can’t wake up one morning and suddenly hit the ball twenty yards farther, no. I think whatever you do here today will be enough.”
“Not if there’s no difference. Not enough to compete. I know I don’t have a shot at winning, Kenny. I don’t even think I’ll make it to the weekend, but damn it, I don’t want to be a spectacle out there. Some human-interest story the commentators flash to during the breaks in the action. I want to compete.”
He nodded and looked out to where Odie was waiting.
“It’s been a while since you’ve had to do that. Talk about working out a muscle that’s been dormant. Maybe it’s the only one that matters.”
Reilly’s eyes narrowed. “If I find out that’s true and I did a million sit-ups for nothing, then someone is going to pay.”
“I didn’t make you do the damn sit-ups. Pierce should pay.”
“He’s too good-looking to pay.”
