Chapter 6: Thirty-Six

Holt slid the check back through the screen.

"Tell him thank you," he said. "Tell him four inches."

The agent stared at the check, displeased.

"Calvin only wants what's best for you."

"Calvin wants me in a truck."

"Take it. It's the most money you've held in a year."

Holt closed the door gently on his smile.

Four days later, on Monday at 7:12 a.m., he stood on the first tee at Wando Creek.

He wore a borrowed glove and stood among a hundred and forty-three strangers.

It was a public course, a flat Lowcountry layout with pine trees and a parking lot full of pickup trucks.

Amos stood beside him with the bag on his shoulder and one hand on the flask in his pocket.

"Thirty-six holes," Amos said. "Four spots."

"Make every par you can. Be bored. Boredom is a gift."

"What if I'm not bored?"

"Then be angry," Amos said. "You're better at that."

Behind the ropes, a few early fans had come to see the gardener from the video.

Bryn stood at the end of the line in a green fleece with a thermos.

Mavis stood next to her with Poppy on her hip in the yellow boots, and she lifted one hand to Holt without smiling.

He nodded.

Then he put the ball down and forgot everyone.

The first round went the way he had dreamed it in the dark behind the barn.

He hit fairways, then greens.

He missed only two putts all morning.

On the 15th, a par three over a pond, a man in the gallery whispered, "That's him."

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