Money Green

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Rick Lorry sat on the bed, using the buffing cloth on the face of Dinah May. Dinah is a thin old girl who has been around. The immortal Cedric Jerome used her in that unforgettable British Open when he came up from the ruck and one-putted eight greens in a row, with no putt under fifteen feet, to snatch victory right out from under the nose of the man who thought he had it cinched. Dinah May has a lemonwood shaft and a silver head.

Rick stared at me and said, in his soft Oklahoma drawl, “Man, sit down. You’re wearing out the hotel.”

I dropped into a chair. “If they’d washed me out today, Rick, like I expected, I’d be okay now.”

“Tournament golf,” he said, “is a very easy thing. You want to get the same feeling sometime, just get a hammer with a nice balance and stand on one foot and see how many times you can club yourself behind the ear before you fall down.”

“The trouble is, I don’t belong up here with you people.”

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