Miracle at Augusta Read Free

through, and up. The ball takes off with the usual trajectory but, a hundred yards out, shoots up like a rocket when the afterburners hit. It bends slightly to the left before landing softly 215 yards away.
    “Son of a bitch,” says Earl. “I need to see you do that again.”
    I dislodge another Titleist from the pyramid-shaped pile, nudge it into place beside the long, shallow divot, and turn on the ball one more time.
    “Well, I’ll be damned. The high fucking draw. The suavest shot in golf. I just have one question.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Why? There isn’t one hole out here where you’ll need it.”
    “It’s for Augusta.”
    “Augusta?”
    “How else am I going to keep the ball on those reachable par fives, thirteen and fifteen in particular? Those are birdie holes, Earl. You’re not birdieing those, you’re losing half a stroke to the field.”
    “I know that, Travis. You’re not the only one with a TV.”
    “You get reception down there?”
    “How the hell are you going to get an invitation—steal it from Tiger’s mailbox?”
    “Haven’t thought that far ahead. You know it’s a mistake to get ahead of yourself in this game. I just have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

5
    THE DISPARITY IN STATUS between Earl and me is reflected in our Friday tee times. Earl goes off in the early afternoon with Chi Chi Rodriguez and Raymond Floyd, and I slip out at 7:03 a.m. with senior rookies Trent Smith and Elliot Brody. I hadn’t heard of them either, until I looked them up in the media guide. Smith joined the navy out of high school. Back on dry land, he sold insurance, ran a nightclub, and repaired pin-setting machines at a bowling alley, then spent fifteen years in Grand Prairie, Texas, in the auto repair business. He got into the field by Monday qualifying. Brody, who earned his spot through this year’s Q-School, was a teaching pro outside Tacoma for thirty years.
    It couldn’t be a more congenial group. One look at each other and we knew we were all just slightly different versions of the same person—three guys who hadn’t seriously considered making a living at competitive golf till it was almost too late, and now we’re determined to make the most of our chance. What little chatter there is, is collegial and supportive, each of us giving the others the chance to do their best.
    The setting isn’t half bad, either. With no one in front of us, I feel like I washed ashore in paradise and just happened to find my sticks here waiting for me. The only sounds are waves, rustling palms, and birds. If anyone had gotten up at dawn and wandered over, they would have seen some quality golf. Among the three of us, we carded one bogey and fourteen birdies. All those sessions at Big Oaks must have paid off, or maybe it’s the novel thrill of hitting off organic material, because six of those birdies are mine. For the next four hours, my 66 makes me the year’s top player on the Senior Tour, and when the last player walks off 18, I’m tied for second with Gil Morgan, one shot behind the leader, Hale Irwin.

6
    FRIDAY, I WENT OFF in the first group of the day. On Saturday, thanks to that 66, I go off in the final one. Instead of playing under the radar with two fellow journeymen, I’m trading shots with the two best fifty-somethings on the planet—Hale Irwin and Gil Morgan. Last year, Irwin won nine tournaments and more money than any golfer in the world, including an elegant young cat named Tiger Woods. Morgan won six times and earned more than Tiger, too. The last time I felt this out of my league was the summer afternoon in college when I got it into my head to play pickup basketball at a playground on the South Side of Chicago.
    Everyone knows about Irwin, the former all–Big Eight cornerback with three U.S. Open titles, but it’s the late-blooming Morgan who is the revelation. For one thing, he possesses a perfect swing. Literally. When he was a kid, his father, a small-town mortician, took