Once Upon a Tee Time

From the comfort of a roomy seat at the front of the plane, Jingles gazed down at Los Angeles. The network of streets and buildings stretched to the horizon. He was a long damn way from Eagle River. Even the Phoenix area seemed desolate in comparison. Hopefully his wife had arrived on schedule and was awaiting him at the terminal. He didn’t want to wander into such a vast new world alone.

The quiet flight had provided welcome relief from the previous evening, when Oliver entertained the bank’s Board of Directors at his Desert Springs home. As the featured guest, Jingles had been in the spotlight all night, fielding questions and feeling curious stares. Worst of all, everyone expected him to talk all the time. He’d always preferred the role of listener. That’s how he learned things. His own jabber was only a recap of what he already knew.

When he asked the directors about their jobs and families, they brushed the questions away. They wanted to know about his putting, endorsement opportunities, and the upcoming exhibition at Raven’s Nest. When the subject turned to Alaska, they didn’t just smile at his old hunting and fishing stories, they roared approval. When he talked about operating The Cleanery, his old joke about being able to clean up a room by leaving it was celebrated as the funniest thing they ever heard. The Ray in him knew better. He’d seen countless reactions to the joke in the past. None were so enthusiastic. It was his putting that had improved, not his comedic talent.

Oliver had turned on the big screen at 10:00 p.m., when Larry Weinstein’s first new commercial was scheduled to run. Within minutes, Jingles stood over a teed ball with his driver, looking younger with all the makeup. “There’s only one right way to drive on a golf course,” he said, taking a smooth swing at the ball, “and that’s right down the middle.” Another camera showed the ball landing in the center of the fairway. The scene immediately switched to him driving the new Cadillac convertible into the parking lot. “And only one right way to drive to the golf course. That’s in a Larry Weinstein Cadillac.” A map of the Phoenix area appeared, showing the locations of Larry’s dealerships.

“That was world-class,” one of Oliver’s guests declared.

“As good as anything you see on the major networks,” quipped another.

“Even better,” echoed still another.

Everyone applauded when Jingles dropped a forty-foot putt on the next commercial spot, fifteen minutes later. The ad began with him standing on a green, this time with Pinger in his hands. Before his stroke, he said, “There’s only one right way to put the ball in the cup.” He struck the putt and the camera tracked it up a swale and down the other side with a sweeping break. The ball plopped loudly into the hole. The commercial then had the same ending as the first. Again, his new acquaintances called it a masterpiece.

He joked that the second commercial took a while to produce because they had to wait for him to make the putt. That was true. Because he wasn’t allowed to wear sunglasses, he wore only his regular lenses. He didn’t nail the putt until the ninth attempt.

When the directors finally left, he had collapsed on a couch, exhausted. Oliver patted his shoulder and told him, “That’s show business. Thanks for your patience and good humor. You’re my hero.”

Two practice rounds at Raven’s Nest had gone well. Oliver had the foresight to foil the media by disguising Jingles as a typical snowbird. Dressed in a floppy hat and shorts that revealed skinny, snow-white legs, no one recognized him. Having spent a lifetime in Alaska, where the open air was either cold or filled with mosquitoes, Jingles had always kept his legs covered. No one in The Foursome ever wore shorts either; they adhered to the PGA dress code out of respect.

When his plane reached the gate, Jingles gathered his sport coat and a small suitcase from the overhead rack. The navy-colored coat was Pat’s recommendation, along with a plain white dress shirt, dark blue tie, tan slacks, and dark brown loafers. He bid farewell to the flight attendant, who he had learned was studying to be a nurse, lived in Phoenix, and had a cat named Phoenix as well. No one on the jet seemed to recognize him.

Outside of security, Jingles saw the tall, heavily-built man in a black suit for whom he was looking. He held a sign that said: Mr. Brown.

“I’m Mr. Brown,” Jingles said, walking up to him.

The man smiled and extended his hand, which Jingles shook. Judging by the man’s surprise, Jingles realized he wanted his suitcase, not a handshake. The man chuckled at his confusion and said, “Your wife’s outside in the car. Did you have a good trip?”

“It was fine, but I’m glad you were here to meet me. This place is a little scary. What’s your name?”

“I’m Simon. Lived here for twenty years. LA still scares me sometimes.”

Simon led him to a white limousine parked outside the exit. He opened a rear door, revealing Pat and a tiny blonde-haired lady, both with welcoming smiles. Jingles slid onto the seat and hugged his wife as if she’d been gone for years.

Pat said, “This is Gillian Constantine. She was in the Olympics twelve years ago. Now she works for the Quinn Group.”

He shook her small hand, gripping it gently, as if it were porcelain. “You must be a gymnast,” Jingles said, “judging by your size.”

Gillian squeezed his hand and smiled at his wince. “That’s right! How was your trip?”

Jingles was trying to remember the name, the face. Pat and he always watched the Olympics, beginning to end. Gillian’s name stirred his memory, the blonde hair and dimples too. “The trip was fine. How did you do in the Olympic competition?”

Gillian feigned a frown. “I was the girl who fell off the balance beam on the first day. I fractured my ankle and it was over for me.”

“Oh, no,” Jingles moaned, recalling the tragedy. “You were one of the favorites to win, weren’t you?” He remembered her picture on the covers of magazines, and the story that touched so many hearts at the time.

“So goes,” she shrugged, dismissing the subject. “I’ve been working for Mitchell Quinn for the last three years. I’m assigned to you and Pat and everyone at the office is jealous. They think you’re the greatest thing ever.”

Jingles laughed and looked at Pat. “And everyone would envy us if they knew we met Gillian Constantine. You’re our first celebrity!”

“We’re quite the contrasting pair,” Gillian grinned. “My athletic career was over at sixteen. Yours is starting at seventy-two!”

While Gillian tried to learn more about her new client, the Plumlees prodded her for information about gymnastic training and the Olympics. The role reversal seemed odd to her, particularly since Jingles was the top sports story of the day. She was old news.

The limo headed directly to the Quinn Group offices downtown, where they would meet Quinn himself. Gillian informed them that Simon would take their bags to the hotel directly across the street. Half an hour later, the car stopped in front of a fourteen-story building, all shining steel and dark glass. The former gymnast led them through the lobby to the elevator and upward, where the agency occupied much of the ninth floor.

Leaving the elevator, Gillian walked to the closest door and spoke into an intercom. “Jingles is in the house!” A buzzer sounded and the door unlocked.

Thirty people waited inside, all holding glasses of champagne and wearing T-shirts with Jingles’ grinning caricature on the front. As if choreographed, they all turned around at the same time. On the back, some of the shirts said: Age Is No Handicap. Others said: Who’s Your Granddaddy? One said: The Old Putter Works Just Fine, Thank You. Jingles laughed at the latter. It was an expression Mulligan often used after making a long putt.

The man in the Old Putter shirt emerged from the others and introduced himself as Mitchell Quinn. He was about Jingles’ height, very tan, and sported the unnaturally perfect teeth of a movie star. He looked to be no older than forty.

Quinn ushered the Plumlees around the room to meet each member of the welcoming congregation, all his employees. He pointed to a gallery of framed photos on the wall, the agency’s present or former clients. Jingles recognized most of the names and faces. There were stars of baseball, football, hoops, and hockey. Skiers, bicycle racers, skateboarders, boxers, swimmers, race car drivers, and even a few golfers. His own photo was the most familiar. Where did they get a picture of him?

Gillian, who had disappeared for a moment, reentered the room wearing one of the shirts in a child’s size. Quinn nodded to her, and she announced that the Plumlees had to leave for their meeting. She led the couple into an adjoining conference room.

Twenty chairs surrounded a long table, all empty, and Gillian led them to two near one end. A large projection screen on the far wall, at least eight-feet wide, displayed an internet web page on which Jingles made putt after putt on greens at Leisureville, Desert Springs, and Sunland – his personal highlight reel.

Mr. Quinn entered and closed the door behind him. He sat at the head of the table, where a large laptop computer was open.

“That’s the official Jingles website,” he said. “We got it up and running late yesterday afternoon. It’s jinglesgolf dot com. Can you believe that jingles dot com and jinglesplumlee dot com were already registered by others? It’s a fast-moving story.”

Jingles and Pat looked from the screen to Quinn, then to Gillian, and then to each other. Pat said, “Our kids are going to love this.”

“Everyone is going to love it,” Quinn declared. “Anyway, let me get started. I have a lot to cover and I’d like to do it in an hour. The reason your friend Pruh recommended us, I think, is because we already knew so much about you when he called on Monday. We’d been following your story from the get-go, which was what, barely two weeks ago? You’re going to be surprised by all my news. Please hold questions until I’m done.

“We’re happy to have you because we’ve never had a client like you. Nobody has. The round you played last Sunday, under a media microscope, made you fifteen million at a minimum. If we play our cards right, which is what do here, it could be much more.”

Jingles heard Pat take a deep breath. He looked at Gillian and shrugged embarrassment.

“The web page you’re seeing has highlights right now, and links to every media story that’s been printed or aired right through today. The most important part of this is right here.” He moved an arrow to a box at the top of the screen, which said: Contact Us. “This is where every company in the world that wants to do business with you can connect with my company. No more phone calls and no more mail for you to worry about. You can get an unlisted landline for your home if you want, but Gillian has cell phones to give you so we can reach each other at any time. Please keep them charged.

“The biggest news first. Calloway wants you. That’s the biggest name in golf today. Clubs, bags, balls, shoes, and a huge line of apparel. In your case, they won’t be outbid. You bring them a demographic they’ve never had before. Retired people love their golf and you’ve just become their hero.

“When we negotiate with Calloway and everyone else, we’re going to be looking at deals like the one you just signed with that little optical company in Arizona.”

Pat said, “Oliver did a great job for us with Eagle Optics.”

Quinn dismissed her remark with a wave of his hand and a squint. “No, he didn’t. But I’ll get back to that. What I’m referring to is the money up front. When you’re seventy-two, about to be seventy-three in February, you have to think in the present. You have to be realistic.”

Pat thought about their contract with the Quinn Group, e-mailed to her by Oliver. She printed it at her daughter’s house and read it on the plane. The agent got twenty percent of all new contract proceeds and ten percent of renewals or extensions thereafter. Mr. Quinn would benefit from immediate payment too.

Quinn continued. “Whether it’s Calloway, a car company, a bank, or a pharmaceutical company, we’ll be taking the same approach. Full payment on signing.

“Now, back to what happened to you with Eagle Optics. The day they made your contact lenses was their best day ever. Well, the second best. The best was when you signed an endorsement contract with them. The owner has the company up for sale, up for auction really, and he’s going to make a huge windfall because of you. A larger company will pay a premium to cash in on the publicity and sales generated by the whole Jingles story. Let’s face it. Lots of golfers are suddenly thinking that the only thing holding them back might be poor vision. Call any optometrist in LA right now. They’ll tell you their business is off the charts in the last week. The bottom line is that a large optical company would have been happy to give you a bunch of that money instead of Eagle Optics. They’d rather have given it to you! Conservatively speaking, I’d say you cost yourselves at least five million by signing that deal with Eagle Optics.” And cost me at least a million, he muttered to himself. “You have to ask yourselves the question: Why didn’t Pruh have you wait until you met with me? You signed with us later the very same day!”

Jingles and Pat looked at each other. It wasn’t an unfair question. Maybe Oliver would explain at some point. At the same time, they had seen the contract as the highlight of their lives.

Jingles glanced back to Quinn. “Live and learn. We know Oliver did his best. I’m the one who signed the contract, not him. And don’t forget, we only hired you on Oliver’s recommendation.”

Quinn nodded concession to the final point. “Next we have Cadillac. The little deal you made with Weinstein has grabbed the parent company’s attention. Would you believe that guy already sold thirty cars to people who watched you last Sunday? Today he could use an extra dozen salesmen. He’s buried with customers after your commercials aired last night. We can talk to other car companies, and we will, but Cadillac is intrigued. And after all, you’re driving a Cadillac.”

Pat said, “We have a Lincoln too.”

Jingles seized another opportunity to defend his friend. “Oliver got us that deal with Weinstein. He even arranged for a good company to make the commercials.”

Quinn stoically listened to another interruption. Okay, lesson learned. No more belittling Oliver Pruh, at least not in front of the Plumlees.

“The American Optometric Association has thirty-six thousand members. They want to sign you for obvious reasons. They’re talking a half million and I’m thinking three and a half. That’s a paltry hundred bucks per member.

“We’ve been in touch with Bank of America/Visa. As soon as we get your public appearances rolling, I think we’ll get a large offer there. More on the appearances in a minute.

“Hilton Worldwide recognizes you as a potential asset. They have thirty-two hundred hotels in seventy-seven countries, some with associated golf facilities. Again, I think Hilton wants to see how people embrace your public appearances. Wynn Resorts is in the running if Hilton doesn’t step up.

“ThinErgy, the new weight-loss supplement company, is ready to hand you close to a million right now. I’m talking today.”

Jingles couldn’t stay quiet. “Weight loss? I’ve weighed a hundred and sixty-five for the last fifty years!”

“No sugar,” Pat added. “I’m his ThinErgy. I watch what he eats.”

“Listen up,” Quinn said. “Here’s a quick marketing lesson. Jingles starts eating a half gallon of ice cream before bed every night. Boom! In a month, he’s one-ninety and they take a photo. Another month of dieting and work with a personal trainer and he’s a rock at one-sixty. They take his picture again and he’s the centerfold for AARP magazine. Before and after. People assume the before photo is before he became a great golfer. They buy ThinErgy. It’s the way the consumer thinks.”

“Isn’t that a dangerous thing to do?” Pat asked. “Gaining all that weight?”

Quinn laughed. “Robert De Niro, who’s smaller than Jingles, gained sixty pounds for the movie ‘Raging Bull.’ Twenty-five is nothing. You don’t have to make up your mind right away. That opportunity will be there.

“I do love ice cream,” Jingles chuckled.

Quinn plowed ahead. “As a senior citizen, you’re an ideal pitchman for all kinds of medicinal stuff. Arthritis, Alzheimer’s and so forth. I have someone working exclusively on that angle.

“And then we have international. Golf is big everywhere these days and your story hasn’t even hit in Europe, China, Japan. Personally, I’m expecting some impact there. Big impact.”

Quinn went on to explain the process of screening and selecting the right package of endorsements, the importance of controlling the mix and amount of television, radio, and print media, and even how their personal lives would be affected along the way. It sounded like a recording to the Plumlees, but was fascinating nonetheless.

“As far as your golf goes, I think this news will make you happy,” he said, smiling again. “The Champions Tour starts up again in mid-January. You have sponsor exemptions for the first two tournaments, and a hundred thousand appearance fee for the first one.”

Instantly, Jingles forgot everything else. What would Knickers say now? Would Bo, the pro at Desert Springs, fulfill the promise to be his caddy?

“About public appearances,” Quinn went on. “For the rest of this month, you’ll go on the road. Late night talk shows and morning stuff too. This is beyond a sports story. It’s a story everybody cares about. The networks would all put you on tomorrow, if they could get you. Because of that and other considerations, you’re going to have to drop the rest of your tour for Phoenix City Bank. I’ll work that out with Pruh.”

Jingles raised a hand. “I have to honor my commitment to the bank. If it wasn’t for Oliver, I wouldn’t have been on SportsCenter. I owe him for everything.”

Quinn turned to Pat. “There’s no advantage to having your husband play any more of those exhibitions, and possibly a big downside. What if his play fell off before we got our endorsement contracts in place? Your financial security comes first.”

Jingles shook his head. “I need to play Saturday at Raven’s Nest. Pat bought eighteen plane tickets for most of my family to fly down from Alaska for the weekend. I’m not worried about how I’ll do. I practiced there this week. If I shoot worse than sixty-four, someone should shoot me. Wouldn’t another good round just help you make better deals?”

“It’s all about risk,” Quinn said. “Everything’s perfect right now. You have a great presence for television and Gillian will help make it better. The more people see you and learn about you, the more they’ll like you. The safe play is to talk about what you’ve already done to everyone who will listen. You shot a fifty-seven, dammit! There’s no improving on that. You can go on the Champions Tour in January with your fortune in the bank and nothing to lose.”

Jingles considered what the agent said. It made nothing but sense. Quinn was a smart guy, but the fact remained: he had made a commitment. “I’ll play Saturday and we’ll see how it goes. Oliver has already spent time and money getting ready for the event. We’ll talk about the rest of the exhibitions after that.”

Quinn sensed it was time to back off. “Okay, I’ll get you back there on Saturday in time for the exhibition.”

Pat nudged Jingles with an elbow. “We have to be back home by tomorrow afternoon. The family’s arriving.”

Quinn looked toward the window, thinking. “I’ll meet you halfway on that one, Pat. Gillian will make reservations for you and her to fly back to Phoenix tomorrow morning. She’ll need to help you go through all your mail and phone messages. If I understood Pruh correctly, Jingles hasn’t done any of that this week.

“As for Jingles, the two of us are flying to Carmel to play Pebble Beach with some Calloway people. We can’t miss that.”

Jingles’ eyes widened. “Pebble Beach? No, we can’t miss that.”

“And then tomorrow night,” Quinn added, “we have seats for the Laker game with people from Hilton. I promise to get him back in time to play on Saturday.”

Quinn glanced at his watch. “Okay, that’s it for me. Gillian has a couple hundred other things to go over with you. Jingles, I’ll have a car pick you up at the hotel tomorrow morning at seven.”

Jingles remembered his golf bag was in the trunk of the Cadillac. “I don’t have my clubs!”

“Not to worry,” Quinn said. “Calloway has their own plans for that.”

Quinn left the room, removing the Jingles shirt as he walked. The same thought occurred to both Plumlees. Whose shirt would he be wearing next?

Soft gray clouds shrouded Raven’s Nest on Saturday, posing little threat of rain. Still, ten minutes ahead of tee time, thousands of heads were hanging or shaking. Phoenix City Bank’s featured performer hadn’t shown up. Where was the golden-yeared hero?

The media presence had been abuzz for the past hour. In a surprise development, a new participant had been added to the scorecard. Tommy Jenks, a 23-year-old sensation on the PGA Tour, seventeenth on the year’s money list, and the fourth-place finisher at the British Open, was going to play. Jenks’ grandfather, a Raven’s Nest resident, convinced the boy to join him in representing the home crowd. Jingles versus the two Jenks!

Or maybe not. Many suspected that the prospect of facing a top professional gave Jingles cold feet. Young Jenks, one of the longest hitters in the game, would likely play the senior community layout like a pitch and putt.

Oliver, Pat, and Gillian craned their necks, studying the horizon to the northwest. Where was the helicopter? Miss Constantine had been on her phone much of the morning, first learning of the cancellation of a scheduled flight, then the acquisition of private jet transportation, and finally of the chopper.

Standing taller than the others, Oliver spotted the low-flying dot first. As it drew closer and took shape, the crowd heard the engine and rotor. Soon the helicopter circled overhead, exciting everyone with the rush of wind. It touched down on the fairway in front of the tee.

With the rotor still spinning, a door opened and the celebrity ducked out. He turned and saluted the pilot, then hurried toward the tee in a limping trot. As the chopper rose and headed back to the Phoenix airport, the gallery cheered the grand entrance.

Jingles rushed to his wife. “Where is everybody?”

Pat handed her husband a new white cap, emblazoned with “Eagle Optics” above the bill.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “The whole state of Arizona’s here!”

Jingles scoped out the surrounding crowd. “The family! Where are they?”

She nodded up the fairway. “Somewhere out there. They wanted to find a place where they could see without people standing in front of them.”

His golf spikes awaited him on the seat of his cart, where he quickly laced them up. Oliver handed him his driver. “Glad you could make it.”

“Me too. Can you believe I played Pebble Beach yesterday? I dreamed of that course ever since I started golfing. I had to play with different clubs, but still shot seventy.”

“You could make putts at Pebble Beach too?”

“I made a few, even with a borrowed putter.”

Oliver grinned. “Safe to say, you’re the only golfer that ever scored less than his age at Pebble.” He pointed to a mobile scoreboard. “Ever heard of Tommy Jenks?”

“The pro? Sure. He led the British Open after the first two rounds.”

“He’s going to be your competition today.”

“How did you ever pull that off?”

“It pulled itself off. I didn’t know until an hour ago.”

Jingles headed toward the tee, where Tommy Jenks’s grandpa was being introduced. About the same age as Jingles, he looked more muscular and fit. He smoked a 250-yard drive right down the center of the fairway.

The grandson was a lanky kid. Sun-bleached hair flowed from the back of his cap to the tops of his shoulders. His attire was a clear violation of The Foursome’s dress code: No white belts. Years ago, when Jingles showed up at the course in a white belt, Knickers announced that he could either remove it or use the ladies’ tees. That was that. Knickers’ way or the highway. At least he didn’t force his playing partners to wear pedal pushers like his.

Tommy Jenks wore a Calloway hat, making Jingles wonder about his own forthcoming deal with the company. He was already committed to a different cap. Would that be a problem?

With no rough and few hazards to worry about, Jingles knew the young pro would destroy the Raven’s Nest layout. In most cases, the only penalty for a wayward drive was a second shot from an adjoining fairway. Tommy would be free to swing for the fences.

The pro’s drive came off his club like a rifle shot, hissing a few feet above the ground for a hundred yards. Then the ball started to rise. When it disappeared into the gray sky, Jingles suspected it might reach the green, 375 yards away. The shot left him stunned. He’d never seen anything like it.

A deep male voice had introduced the first two golfers. The familiar pipes of Jane Friend took over. “Has anybody here heard of Jingles?”

As the cheering commenced, Jingles walked around the tee, slapping extended hands and exchanging greetings. Gillian had explained that while people admired talent, they truly embraced a talented person who showed them love in return. For Jingles, that part of his new job came as easily as dropping thirty-foot putts.

Jane popped out of the crowd, repeating her question into a microphone. She took Jingles’ hand and held it high. Some of the old crowd started hopping up and down. Tommy Jenks poked his grandfather, laughing at the spectacle. Gillian held out her cell phone, sharing the noise with somebody.

Music blared from half a dozen large speakers. “Jingle Bells!” Jane released Jingles’ hand and grabbed Tommy Jenks’ instead. She dragged him to the center of the tee and led him in a dance. He did his best to follow along, laughing all the way. Soon the entire crowd was in motion.

Jingles stared in amazement as Gillian invited Oliver to dance. Hysterical! An awkward giant and a limber munchkin - a bear and a honeybee. The two assumed the spotlight and everyone pointed and howled.

When the music finally stopped, Jingles teed up his Titleist. Yesterday, at Pebble Beach, his ball had been a Calloway. Luckily, he noticed no appreciable difference. He wouldn’t have to compromise his game in the name of endorsement dollars. The shortest drive drew the loudest cheers.

In the cart, where Oliver was catching his breath, Jingles asked, “How can I thank you for putting up my whole family at your house this weekend? Let’s see, with Pat, that’s nineteen houseguests.”

“You forgot Gillian,” he grinned. “That made twenty. My house has never been happier.”

“Pat said you gave up your own bedroom.”

“I slept at the bank. The big leather couch in my office is more comfortable than a bed.”

“You and Pat already made plans for tonight too?”

“I’ve got caterers bringing dinner to the house. Afterwards we’ll watch Jane’s special on yours truly. It aired last night and I have it recorded.”

Oliver stopped the cart and Jingles pulled his seven iron from the bag. His approach landed short of the green, plugging without a hop.

Jingles returned to the cart. “Sorry about that, Oliver. They must have watered the course down, at least around the greens. A few days ago, that ball would have rolled right up there.”

After young Jenks chipped to within a foot of the flag, Jingles faced a fifty-footer from well off the green. His putt veered off line before reaching the short grass, and he settled for par. Jenks took the lead right off the bat.

At the second tee, Jingles nudged the banker. “How did you get the driver’s seat back from Larry?”

“He’s so busy selling cars that he couldn’t leave the lot. Your commercials are a big hit.”

“That’s what Mr. Quinn said. He thinks we might get a national car deal with Cadillac.”

“That’s great. Did he say anything about your contract with Weinstein?”

“He seems happy with everything. He’s really excited about Calloway.”

“And was he okay with the Eagle Optics contract?” Oliver asked. He had heard that Herman was bragging about the deal at the country club, claiming he was going to make a fortune on the sale of his company because of it.

Jingles noticed concern in his friend’s voice. “You see all those Plumlees standing over there? They’re all here watching because of that deal you made. Pat was dizzy at the thought of a hundred thousand, and you got her five times that. I expect to get a Thank You note from the IRS after we pay our taxes.”

After Tommy Jenks blew through the 500-yard second hole with a driver, nine iron, and an eight-foot putt for an eagle, his lead over Jingles increased to two shots. Jingles shrugged and looked at his chauffeur. “I’m going to shoot you a sixty-three or better today, I can feel it. But Jenks might shoot fifty-three!”

Jingles lost no more ground over the next seven holes, despite missing two greens and one long birdie putt. The pro was a monster from tee to green, but mortal with his putter. With the scoreboard showing one Jenks at -7 and the other at +3, Jingles was a solid -5.

After two more holes of matching birdies, the old underdog caught a break. On a par five, his second shot put him within fifteen yards of the green. The remaining distance to the flag was within the range of his bubble lens. With a lamp post for a target, he chipped in for eagle. After Jenks two-putted for a birdie, the lead was a single stroke. The gallery, in Jingles’ corner from the start, went wild.

Over the next five holes, the two put up identical scores. Each made three pars and a couple of birdies, as Jingles struggled to hit greens and Jenks swore at his putter.

On the final hole, Jingles unleashed his best long iron of the day. A 165-yard shot hit the front of the green and rolled to within two feet of the flag. Without thinking, he raised the club and posed like the Statue of Liberty. This birdie would result from a great golf shot, not a lens-aided putt or chip. For some reason, that suddenly seemed to matter. Unfazed, Jenks lobbed a wedge to within six feet.

For the first time of the day, Jingles didn’t need his special lens. Young Jenks invited him to tap in his birdie, which he did. He waved his Eagle Optics hat as he left the green, leaving the Jenkses to finish the round.

Grandpa William missed a long birdie try and finished off a 77. That left the young pro with a short putt for the win – and the glory of besting an opponent who was fifty years older. He went through all the motions, then struck his Calloway ball firmly. It caught the lip and spun out. The exhibition ended in a tie.

Tommy and Jingles stood near the center of the green, shaking hands, as cameras clicked away. The scene would be featured on the internet minutes later, and on sports pages all around the country on Sunday morning.