Seven Lies South

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The match was even after the seventeenth hole and the Englishman smiled widely and said, “A bit of luck, wasn’t it?” He had won the hole with a long curling putt, and as they walked toward the eighteenth tee he patted Mike Beecher on the shoulder in a gesture which suggested both condolence and conciliation. “I hadn’t counted on your tightening up, old man. Quite frankly, I thought I was done for.”

“I just hooked the iron into the trap,” Mike Beecher said. “I can do that under any and all circumstances.”

“You rushed it a bit, actually. Nerves, I expect. It’s the whole thing in this game.” They stopped on the tee and the caddies gave them their drivers. The caddies were Spanish boys, brown and grave, sixteen or seventeen years old, and the tops of their heads barely came even with the clubs sticking up from the bags.

“Now what’s the drill here?” the Englishman asked. “Where’ve they hidden the bloody green?”

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