Loser Take All

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At the end of the second day of the Crest Club Open, he stretched out on the bed in the small room they had assigned to him, the ache of fatigue bitter within him.

He was a smallish man, spare and leathery, his face impassive with the habit of the long years of tournament play, the crow’s-foot wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes so deep as to look as if cut by a knife.

The crumpled newspapers lay beside the bed. The sportswriters, he thought, would have ignored him, had not Al Werton of the Globe, written that item at the end of the first day.

Jock thought of those early tournaments. In those days that wiry body never felt the heavy drag of exhaustion. Molly had traveled with him, after the first two years. Some seasons had been bad, but they had laughed together and lived cheaply.

After Al Werton had given them the lead, the others writers had picked it up, and gotten themselves into a bitter argument, some contending that modern golf was more expert than that played in the days gone by. As evidence they pointed to Jock’s last two years of tournament golf, when he had totaled eleven hundred dollars for the two years combined.

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