Once Upon a Tee Time

Two hours before the start of the Senior Skins Game, Jingles sat in a restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel. The other competitors were probably honing swings on the practice tees or fine-tuning putting strokes, but such effort would only sap his energy. While each golfer had the use of a cart for the round, only the player or his caddy could ride. Jingles had opted to let Oliver drive. By hiking the 6700-yard layout himself, he might be viewed as a role model. At least that was something. He wasn’t going to inspire with his golf, not without the bubble lens.

He thought of Knickers. Without even a glimpse through the lens, his friend understood the extent of its power. His criticism had been well-founded. Still, Jingles second-guessed the timing of his decision not to use it. He had put a damper on a special day for all his companions. Couldn’t he have waited one more day?

To accommodate seven chairs, Jingles had pushed two tables together. He sat at one end, with Pat to his left and Harvey at his right elbow. Oliver, Gillian, and Lucy filled other seats. Only Jane Friend’s chair was empty. Two uniformed officers stood nearby, guarding against intrusion by overzealous fans or media.

Gillian seemed distracted, even distraught, and Jingles understood. Mr. Quinn had gone inexplicably silent for the past two days. The golfer’s announced retirement from competition would have triggered immediate calls from sponsors, but Gillian couldn’t even reach him. Pat’s relentless pleas for information about the contracts only added to Gillian’s stress.

And his own. The spontaneous decision to retire the lens had been liberating for him, but consequential for others. He hadn’t thought things through. Pissing off his wife had been a reckless move. Wiping the smile from Gillian’s face was a crime against humanity.

Jane arrived and took a seat. “This place is buzzing! Network execs are on Cloud Nine, expecting a record audience for a senior event. They’re airing the entire match live. First time ever.”

Jingles suddenly stood, spread his arms, and called out to the security men. “Please, let them join us. Those are my best friends!”

Pat turned and saw Mary and Bess dash forward, their husbands trailing behind. Oliver and Jane pulled up a third table to accommodate the new arrivals.

Mulligan was decked out in a bright yellow suit and white patent leather loafers. “I told Knickers there was no way you’d be on the driving range, but he insisted that we look.”

Knickers, in a plain gray suit, gave Jingles a hug that lifted him off his feet. “I knew you wouldn’t be there. I wanted to see how real golfers hit the ball. Scruffy’s a hero of mine!”

“That figures,” Jingles chuckled.

“And now you’re my hero too, Jinglehopper! Baseball is an answer! I talked with Juan on the phone from Los Angeles last night … didn’t realize it was after midnight for him. He said people are stoked and ready to help.”

Knickers turned to the group. “I don’t care who knows it now. I have over twenty million bucks that’s been burnin’ a hole in my pocket. It’s all goin’ to the new foundation. Harvey, you’re gonna be the chief financial officer. Mulligan, you’re CEO. You’ll both be paid well … all the beer you can drink.”

“How about me?” Jingles asked.

Knickers winked. “Public relations. You tell people everythin’ they want to hear.”

The other wives stared at Bess. Twenty million! How could she keep a secret like that?

One of the security officers approached Jingles. “There’s someone else who insists that he knows you.” He pointed to a dark-haired man next to the other guard. “He says he made your contact lenses, something like that.”

Jingles limped over to the stranger. “You’re from Eagle Optics, I assume.”

Karl Zimmer introduced himself and said, “I made the telescopic lens that you’ve been using.”

“The what?” Jingles asked. “The lens with the bubble?”

Karl chuckled. “Yes, it may seem like that. It’s a lens within a lens. That’s what provides the magnification.”

Jingles fumbled for words. “You mean my lens wasn’t some kind of accident? It’s supposed to work that way?”

“Precisely that way. I developed it while under contract to Eagle Optics. Sending it to you was the only accident. It hasn’t been licensed yet.”

Gillian joined her client. “Jingles, is there a problem? What hasn’t been licensed?”

“This is Mr. Zimmer. He’s the reason we’re all here today. Turns out my mystery lens was no mistake.” Turning to the inventor, he said, “Please, join us. I want everyone to hear about this.”

After ushering Karl to his former seat at the head of the table, Jingles looked at the curious faces of his friends. “Meet Karl Zimmer. He’s going to tell us about tele … tele …”

“Telescopic vision,” Karl smiled.

Mulligan pointed at the new guest. “I saw you on the plane! You were on our flight from LA.”

For the next half hour, only Karl spoke. The audience absorbed his entire tale in numb silence. He began with the conception of the idea and carried it all the way to Quinn’s office and his trip to Hawaii. “And here I am,” he concluded.

Everyone started talking at once. Recognizing the chaos, they all stopped a moment later.

Oliver took the lens from his pocket. “Karl, I believe this belongs to you.”

Karl removed the lens from the tissue and glanced to Jingles. “Aren’t you going to wear it to win your match?”

The famous golfer smiled. “You made it too well. We’re playing for money and it wouldn’t be fair. I won’t wear it until everybody has one.”

“That may be sooner than you think,” Karl replied.

Gillian’s cheeks burned bright pink. “How could Mr. Quinn know about the lens and not tell Jingles? We had a responsibility. He even lied to me about it. When he returned it, he said it was just fine.”

Oliver said, “I think it’s clear that Quinn had bigger fish to fry. He didn’t want any complications.”

“Is it all over?” Gillian asked Karl. “You’re selling out to ChinaLink?”

“I saw that as the safest thing to do. Taking Eagle Optics to court was another choice, but I couldn’t be sure of the outcome. I couldn’t risk losing everything.”

Harvey had been listening closely. “It’s too bad you didn’t come to us first. Our new foundation could have helped you.” He glanced at Knickers. “We could have paid for your option and been your partner.”

Karl’s eyes blinked, then his whole body shook. “The Baseball Answer thing? I heard people talking about it. You have fifteen million dollars?”

“Damn right,” Mulligan exclaimed. “I’m the CEO.”

Karl slid forward in his chair. “Can you transfer funds to Eagle Optics by tomorrow?”

“Hold on,” Harvey frowned. “You told us you already signed agreements.”

“They are signed, but not delivered,” Karl answered. “I left them at the desk of my hotel. I wanted to talk to Jingles before calling Mr. Quinn to pick them up. I hoped he might have the money to invest.”

Jingles looked at his wife and shrugged. “I’m about fifteen million short, give or take.”

“But the foundation isn’t,” Mulligan insisted. “What kind of deal could we make, Mr. Zimmer? You said Jingles was the reason somebody would pay so much cash at the drop of a hat … make that a putt.”

Karl nodded. “He’s why they can move with confidence. Jingles is the living proof. As far as a partnership goes, I could be very generous if you allowed me time to explore the market. I think we could do much better than the ChinaLink offer. I’ll give the foundation twenty percent of the sale price if you’ll give me a month or two.”

Knickers finally spoke. “Mulligan, your mouth is faster than your mind. The deadline for the option is tomorrow. I haven’t even transferred my stock yet.”

“And that would take time,” Harvey explained, “probably a week or more. Selling the stock is another roadblock. Settlement takes several days.”

Jane Friend had been bouncing in her seat. How could the best story of her life keep getting better by the day? By the minute! “Mr. Collins and Mr. Green, you’re forgetting that the president of Phoenix City Bank is sitting right here at the table.”

Oliver didn’t need the nudge. He had been evaluating Zimmer, deciding if he was trustworthy. Caution meant everything in the banking business. “Mr. Zimmer, do you have copies of your agreements with you?”

“All of them.” Karl reached down for his briefcase and opened it on the table. “My option agreement with Eagle Optics, the loan agreement with Mr. Quinn, and the ChinaLink contract, all here.” He passed the papers to the banker.

Oliver thumbed through the documents while everyone watched. After scanning the final page, he addressed Knickers, “If you can show me documentation of the twenty million that’s going to the foundation, we’re a go. The bank will float the fifteen for the option.”

Knickers looked to his wife. “Bess can show you right on her phone.”

As everyone cheered the outcome, Oliver grinned at the enthusiasm. “The Eagle Optics account is with our bank. I’ll make the deposit and notify Winston personally. And Karl, I know an attorney who’d love to handle your lawsuit against him. I’m guessing he could get the entire fifteen million back.”

Mulligan left his seat and shook Zimmer’s hand. “Now that we’re friends, how do you feel about twenty-five percent? Remember, we’re the good guys.”

Karl directed his answer to Knickers, which he viewed as proper etiquette. He was the one with the money. “If you’ll give me three months to sell, I’ll give you twenty-five percent. Once every company knows what only ChinaLink knows now, the price for the technology could multiply.”

“For what it’s worth,” Oliver said, “I know consultants who would help you negotiate the best deal for your lenses.”

Karl nodded. “That would be very helpful.”

“How many Little League diamonds would a hundred million build?” Harvey wondered.

“And how many bats, balls, and gloves would it buy?” Knickers grinned.

“Uniforms,” Mulligan added. “Look good, play well.”

Oliver pushed himself out of his chair. “I have to leave for the mainland to take care of this. Karl and Mr. Collins, you’ll need to come along. Jingles, much as I hate to say it, you’re going to need a new caddy.”

“Gees,” Jingles muttered. “I forgot all about the golf. It starts in twenty minutes!”

Knickers kicked his wife’s foot. “Bess can go with you, Mr. Pruh. Either one of us can sign and she has better handwritin’. I have to play caddy for Jingles.”

“There’s three of us,” Harvey objected. “Can’t we take turns? Will they allow three different caddies?”

Gillian was pecking at her iPad. “They’ll let Jingles do whatever he wants.” She looked over at Oliver. “I can get you on a two-thirty to LAX. Then there’s a late connection to Phoenix.

Pat rubbed the Olympian’s arm. “What are you going to do, Gillian? You don’t strike me as someone who’d want to work for Mr. Quinn after all this.”

Jingles agreed. “Gillian, inform Mr. Quinn that he’s fired. I’m hiring just you instead. Get your own business license.”

Mulligan’s jaw dropped. “Jingles, stop and think. When news comes out that you’ve been using a new high-tech lens, your stock will drop like a rock. There won’t be any fans and there won’t be any endorsements. You’ll be just a guy who fell into some good luck … and that’s a best-case scenario. Some will think the whole thing was a charade. Hell, you’re gonna need an air traffic controller more than an agent. Shit’s gonna come flying at you from everywhere!”

Sitting next to Jingles, Jane had been taking notes. “There will always be some who cast stones,” she told him. “If you trust me to tell your story, you’ll be able to hold your head high. It’s all in the spin.”

Lucy reached over and took Gillian’s hand. “You can start by finding Jingles a book deal.” Everyone turned to listen to Mrs. Green. “This is the most amazing story I’ve ever heard. There isn’t anybody, golfer or not, that isn’t going to be fascinated by all the intrigue, all the consequences, everything.”

“Damn right,” Knickers agreed. “It’s been nothing but weird from the beginning.”

“Call the book ‘Eagle Eye,’” Harvey said. “Karl says that his lens provides the vision of an eagle.”

“Why not just ‘Jingles?’” Mary Wettman suggested. “Everyone knows the name by now.”

Oliver looked down at Gillian. “The book is a great idea, and I have another offer for you. Jingles and I have a residential development with lots of homes to sell. You can have a contract with Phoenix City Bank to market them. You’d be perfect. Have you ever considered living in Arizona?”

Gillian smiled at all the concern. “Right now, we have a Skins Game to play. Let’s see if Jingles can win a few dollars for his new foundation.”

The crowd around Hapuna’s first tee covered an acre, stretching all the way to the practice green. Spectators who anticipated a pre-match putting exhibition by Jingles were disappointed. He never stroked a ball.

Before leaving the restaurant, the three caddies completed a series of coin flips to determine the order of service. Harvey won the first hole and would be followed by Mulligan, then Knickers, on a rotating basis. All three wore bright yellow stickers on their shirts, signifying their official capacities at the event.

Jingles invited all three to join him for the walk to the opening tee. Looking down the rope-lined pathway, at all the people aiming cameras, Mulligan said, “Ah, Heaven’s Gate. Thanks for the thrill, Jingles.”

“Yep, the big show,” Knickers chuckled.

The Foursome slapped palms of enthusiastic fans, many carrying signs or wearing custom T-shirts that Gillian distributed. “It’s going to be a long day,” Jingles whispered to Harvey, “The wind here is always in my face, every hole it seems.”

Harvey just laughed. “And I used to walk twenty miles to school every day, uphill both ways.”

“It’s no joke,” Jingles bristled. “It’s hard to hit the greens in regulation.”

“Stop whining,” Harvey replied, grinning back at all the faces. “You’re living the dream today.”

Jingles gritted his teeth. Living the dream? In a matter of days, the world would know all about telescopic vision. In a matter of minutes, his game without it would be on full display. “Why don’t you play, Ichabod, and I’ll give the free advice?”

“You must have me confused with Mulligan. He’d take you up on the offer.”

When they broke clear of the crowd and gazed down the first fairway, Harvey sucked in a breath. “Will you look at this course? I never saw green this bright!”

It all seemed gray to Jingles. “What do you think people will say when they know the real story?”

Knickers overheard. “Don’t worry about what Mulligan said. You’re a celebrity now. Nobody cares who you slept with to get there.”

“That’s right,” Harvey said. “We’re proud of you. You’ve given us all something special to do with our lives.”

The announcer described the format for the day’s play. The first nine holes had a value of $50,000 each. To win a hole in Skins competition, one golfer had to make a lower score than all the others. If that didn’t happen, the prize money for that hole would be added to the next. Basically, it was a progressive jackpot. The back nine got even more exciting. The value for each hole jumped to $100,000. The total prize money for the charity event was $1,350,000.

Each of the professionals received a brief introduction and warm greeting before his tee shot. The lists of career victories and major tournament championships sent shivers up Jingles’ spine. Sitton and Blackwood each drove 280 yards into a light wind. Sitton found the fairway and Blackwood caught the rough to the right. Scruffy Welton, looking more like a lumberjack than a golfer, crushed his tee shot thirty yards past the others.

“My gosh,” Harvey whispered. “How can you even play with these guys?”

“You forgot to read the caddy manual,” Jingles replied. “The first rule is always build your golfer’s confidence. I’ll at least build yours. Tommy Jenks hit the ball even farther.”

Jingles’ introduction was more succinct. “And now, representing Leisureville, Arizona, Golf Course, Ray ‘Jingles’ Plumlee.”

Jingles teed his ball and took a couple warm-up swings with his new Calloway driver. The first hole measured 396 yards. It required a drive of 200 yards on the fly just to reach the fairway, which began on the other side of a bushy gully. Yesterday, the wind had been howling into his face at twenty miles an hour. He failed to reach the fairway in three attempts. Jingles tried to forget yesterday.

The gallery watched his straight tee shot clear the hazard with five yards to spare. Jingles exhaled while Harvey took the club. “I had to pray a little on that one,” the caddy admitted. “That was close.”

“Keep praying,” Jingles said. “It’s about 180 yards from there. Normally that’s a three iron for me, but I’m going with a wood.”

Harvey drove off with the clubs on the back of the cart. Jingles walked with the pro golfers’ caddies.

The others waited for him to play before proceeding up the fairway. Jingles kept their wait short. After one practice swing, he hit a high shot from a good lie that stopped on the front fringe. With the pin toward the back of the green, he’d have a putt of sixty feet.

Harvey and Jingles watched the others, anxious to see which would make birdie and take down the initial prize money. Blackwood played from a poor lie and fared no better than Jingles. His Bridgestone ball stopped within a foot of the older man’s Calloway. Sitton stuck a gorgeous wedge within six feet of the flag and the crowd got noisy. Welton had a shot of only eighty yards and almost drained it on the fly. His ball took one hop forward before spinning in reverse, not stopping until it rolled eight feet in front of the cup. A great effort and a little misfortune.

Jingles waited for Blackwood, whose ball was slightly further from the flag. He used a nine iron to chip within two feet. The shot was soft, controlled, and confident - a thing of beauty.

After applauding Blackwood, the crowd grew even louder. The moment had arrived. No one putted like old Jingles Plumlee. Nobody ever had. His magic on the greens was already living lore. Half a million Ping putters, just like old Pinger, had been purchased in the last month.

Jingles no longer held Pinger, however. His new Calloway putter was similar in design, identical in head weight, and had a more comfortable, thicker grip. The custom-made club wasn’t a problem. The issue was the view. Through Zimmer’s lens, twenty yards seemed like nothing. Without it, Jingles stood in Missouri, looking out across the Great Plains toward a dot in Colorado.

He summoned Harvey for advice and a piece of the spotlight. “Tell me what you think.”

The tall caddy’s expression said, Who, me? After a pensive, chin-rubbing second, he whispered, “Aim a foot or two to the right, depending on how hard you hit it.”

Jingles laughed and felt more relaxed. Humor was the right medicine. After waiting for Harvey to tend the pin, he smacked his ball in the right general direction. It passed the hole, eight inches to the right, and rolled five feet by. The gallery groaned as if he’d missed a four-footer.

Scruffy was next, and his putt appeared to be straight. When his ball stopped short of the front lip, even Harvey and Jingles moaned.

Sitton drew first blood with a solid birdie. He tipped his cap after earning a $50,000 contribution to breast cancer research.

The next five holes proved uneventful, at least in terms of prize money. Everyone made par on the second hole, a result that Jingles considered a victory. The third and fourth holes were halved by Sitton and Blackwood and then Welton and Blackwood. The pros were taking target practice at the pins. The fifth hole was a short par three, and Jingles missed a long putt that caught a piece of the hole before spinning away. Two of the others converted birdies from inside twelve feet. The sixth was halved with pars.

The seventh hole was a picturesque par three of 178 yards. Nearly surrounded by sand, the green stood out like an oasis. The wind had picked up appreciably. Jingles watched each of the pros leave seven irons well short of a flag near the back of the undulating green.

“I’m not proud,” Jingles told Harvey, who tended the bag for his third turn of the day. “I’m hitting a fairway wood. Even that might be short if I hit it too high.”

“Might as well,” Harvey agreed. “You hit them as straight as your irons.”

Jingles teed the ball low and lined it into the teeth of the breeze. The shot landed safely on the right front of the green, hopped once, and rolled quickly forward. Catching the right to left slope, his ball veered directly toward the stick.

The spectators behind the tee started to holler, “In the hole! In the hole!” His ball barely missed the cup and stopped a foot away.

Jingles kissed the head of his club. He was going to make a birdie at Hapuna! The shot of his life!

The other players congratulated him for the near ace. He told them all to make their birdies, and assumed one of them would. If not, Baseball Is An Answer would have its first official contribution - a whopping $300,000.

Harvey was crying like a little kid. “I thought it was going in … what a shot ... you never know … it’s a miracle.”

Jingles chuckled. “Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then.”

“Not on television,” Harvey sobbed. “Not in front of everybody.”

The audience held its collective breath as first Welton missed, then Blackmon. Everything boiled down to Sitton’s 18-footer. With big money at stake, he took extra time to survey his line. He struck the putt and immediately stomped his foot, a good sign for Jingles fans. He had pulled it to the left.

For Jingles, ten inches suddenly looked like ten feet – telescopic vision in reverse. With his head spinning, he stroked his ball into the cup. Harvey rushed over and crushed him with a hug, oblivious to the pointing people and cameras.

Knickers and Mulligan joined them on the green. “You just homered to win the World Series!” the old ballplayer yelled.

“In Cardinal red,” Jingles said, pointing to his shirt.

“That was your moment,” Mulligan declared. “A shot for the ages.”

A security guard worked his way through the gallery with three women in tow. Pat hopped around like a cheerleader, a young girl again.

Mary Wettman kissed the hero’s cheek. “Pat just said she could make love to you right here on this green! I’ll take seconds.”

Jingles raised his eyebrows. “Did you say, ‘it’ll take seconds?’”

“No,” she laughed. “I said I’d take seconds! Oh, you know what I mean.”

Mulligan shrugged. “I’ve lost my wife. I’ll have to take up with Speed Bump.”

“How about you, Lucy?” Harvey asked. “Are you in the Jingles love line too?”

“Nope. I’ve got my eye on Scruffy.”

Knickers slapped Jingles’ shoulder. “You just built at least a dozen Little League fields! Heck, maybe twenty or thirty. How does that feel, coach?”

Jingles felt jubilant. He never expected to win any hole, let alone such a huge prize. There was nothing left to worry about – not for the next few hours. His family and friends could cheer an honest feat.

With no player taking the eighth or ninth hole, a victory on the tenth would net the winner $200,000. Every remaining flag was a waving $100,000 bill.

With Harvey on his fourth tour of duty, Jingles asked, “Mr. Scholar, is there such a thing as a one hundred thousand-dollar bill?”

“There used to be. Can you guess which president’s picture was on it?”

“Zero chance.”

“It was Woodrow Wilson. The bill went out of circulation by the middle of the twentieth century.”

“Question number two,” Jingles said. “It’s one-eighty to the green. Can I get there with a three iron from here?”

“Against the breeze, I’d go with a Woodrow Wilson,” Harvey chuckled. “A wood to win some Woodrows.”

Jingles hit the wood. His ball ran over the green and into the bunker behind it. Handing the club back to Harvey, he rolled his eyes. “I was thinking iron. Good thing I get a different caddy for the next hole.”

The Skins Game became an excruciating grind, at least for the three professionals. Jingles never threatened to win another hole and didn’t mind; he’d ride on the laurels of that seventh hole forever. The crowd groaned over each failed birdie attempt and cheered many successful efforts. Unfortunately, every time one of the pros made a birdie, another matched it. On Fifteen, with $700,000 riding on a five-foot putt, Scruffy missed and rapped himself on the head with his club.

Jingles sensed that Sixteen, the final par three, was his lone remaining chance. The two closing holes were the most difficult on the course, and would play directly into a strengthening breeze. The 170-yard distance and his four iron seemed like a perfect fit. On top of that, Harvey, his lucky charm on Seven, was at his side for a final time.

They watched two of the pros fire right at the pin, despite a crosswind, and miss the green to the left. No birdie threats there. Blackwood played safely to the right of the flag, leaving himself a lengthy putt.

Jingles aimed just to the right of Blackwood’s ball. His shot tracked well, landed on the putting surface, and bounded to within twelve feet of impossible glory. The huge crowd chanted his nickname.

“My heart can’t take this,” Harvey shouted. “I’m not going to rattle you by saying how much you could win!”

“Eight hundred thousand for the hole and over a million on the day,” Jingles announced. “With Zimmer’s lens, I make that putt ten times out of ten. Without it …”

“You make it just the same,” Harvey chirped.

“Without it,” Jingles repeated with a grimace, “I wouldn’t be here at all.” His stomach twisted into a knot. “I shouldn’t be here! This is all wrong. I feel sick.”

The two men remained at the tee as the others departed. Harvey led his friend to the cart to sit down. “I’ve been expecting something like this,” Harvey said softly, “especially since you won all that money earlier.”

Jingles was struggling to breathe. “I cheated to get here. I don’t deserve any of this. I want to lie down somewhere.”

“It’s anxiety, that’s all. Your conscience is getting in your way.”

A man in a PGA blazer approached the cart. “Is there a problem?”

Harvey said, “He’s a little tired. Is it okay if I drive him to the green?”

The official looked ahead. “Go ahead. Try to catch up.”

Stepping on the throttle, Harvey placed his right hand on his friend’s knee. “You didn’t choose to receive that contact lens, Ray Plumlee, it chose you. That was fate. There were reasons for it. I see them so clearly. A month or two ago, we were all playing out the string, doing nothing but passing time. Now we’re on the cusp of doing something great, improving people’s lives. Our last years are going to be our very best. That lens chose you for a reason. It chose all of us.”

Jingles cradled his face with both hands. “I want to do what’s right.”

“Then do your best to make this putt. Zillions of people are rooting for you, folks that can see just as well as you.”

His stomach unwinding, Jingles managed a smile. “Ichabod, you must have been a hell of a teacher.”

Harvey sighed relief. “I tried to be.”

The gallery, smelling roses for their favorite, applauded wildly as Jingles ambled onto the putting surface. After a three-mile walk over hilly terrain, his limp had become more pronounced. He tipped a Phoenix City Bank cap, a parting gift from Oliver. The Eagle Optics hat had gone the way of other restaurant trash.

Welton and Sitton chipped from off the green, leaving easy putts for par. Blackwood’s thirty-five-footer looked good right off his putter, even better as it approached the cup. Jingles realized it had a chance. The ball caught the lip, spun around, and dropped in the side door. The golfer raised his arms, looked at Jingles, and mouthed the words, “Your turn!”

Jingles wobbled, both knees suddenly weak. A free shot at an $800,000 prize would have been fun. Being forced to make the putt to keep all that money in play was another thing altogether. That was pressure. The pressure of good competition.

Jingles circled the hole. He decided the putt should break slightly to the right. Just inches. Hardly more than the width of a ball. He looked to Harvey for confirmation, but his friend stared up at the sky. Jingles understood; his caddy preferred to stay blame-free.

Seeing a tiny clump of loose dirt, two inches to the left of the cup, Jingles chose that as his target. Maybe Harvey had kicked it up while removing the flagstick. Surrounded by silence, he felt alone on the Big Island. Even the birds had stopped chirping and singing. The quiet was broken only by the click of a putter on a ball.

He refused to look up, concentrating only on his follow-through. Knickers was right. He had been cheating the game with the lens. With it, a putt like this was automatic. That wasn’t how the game was meant to be played.

Cheers were restrained as the putt stayed wide left. Many viewers closed their eyes in disappointment, missing the spectacle of the ball hitting an obstruction and veering sideways to the right. Jingles heard the ball hit the bottom of the cup.

Blackwood scratched his head with one hand and bumped Jingles’ fist with the other. Sitton was close behind. Scruffy bent over the hole, recovered the ball, and picked up the little chunk of sod that had directed it. He handed both to Jingles. The game was still very much alive and the crowd loved it.

Mulligan awaited his friend on the next tee. “That’s the one shot everyone will remember from today. One wild and crazy putt.”

“I can hardly wait to see it on SportsCenter,” Jingles laughed. “My eyes were closed.”

Seventeen was an aesthetic disaster for all the players. No one hit the green in regulation, resulting in a chipping contest. Jingles missed a par putt from twenty feet, but the next two competitors halved the hole with pars.

Mulligan took his buddy’s putter. “What if no one wins the million bucks on the last hole? You keep on playing?”

“Good question. I assume so. If that happens, I’m riding in the cart. These legs have had it.”

Knickers became the bagman for the eighteenth hole. “Howdy, stranger,” he grinned. “Long time, no see.”

Jingles cocked his head. “You meant to say that, didn’t you? You know, nosee.”

“You have me confused with Mulligan the Punster, but hey, that’s kind of funny now that you mention it. Tell me the truth, how much difference could that lens have made today? You’ve done pretty damn well without it.”

Jingles chuckled. “I’ve made only two putts all day. One from a foot and another from twelve. My ball has gone into a cup exactly twice. The rest were gimmees because they didn’t matter.”

Knickers shrugged. “You haven’t been close to many pins.”

“Doesn’t matter. I would’ve made a bunch of them anyway. With the lens, I believed I could make every putt. Most of the time, I was right. But it was more than that. I played better overall because I was so confident.”

Knickers patted him on the back. “You’ve handled this whole thing as well as any man could. Take my word for it. Now give me some sugar on this last hole.”

A gust of wind sent Jingles’ hat tumbling into the gallery. “No sugar here. It’s four hundred and forty yards, straight into the wind. To make matters worse, the green is on top of a ten-foot mound.”

“Man up,” Knickers scolded. “You just have to swing harder. Be a little more like Mulligan for once. And tee your ball low so you hit a wind-cheater.”

Jingles followed the instructions and cut loose. His drive stayed low and caught a good roll down the left center of the fairway.

“Just that easy, you’re halfway there,” Knickers laughed. “Another seventy yards and you’d be up with the rest of them.”

Jingles changed the subject. “What’s going to happen to golf when the new lenses hit the market?”

“Excellent question. Maybe they won’t be allowed. Otherwise, they’ll have to make the hole smaller, I guess.”

“How about baseball? You saw how much the lens helped me.”

Knickers spit on the ground. “Baseball will never allow those lenses! The game has integrity.”

Standing beside Jingles’ ball, the men stared out at the tall mound, well over 200 yards away. With the green out of sight, only a white flag was visible, a mere spot on top of the hill.

“I’ll lay up with a five iron,” Jingles decided. “No sense running up against that steep mound. I’m comfortable with my wedge from seventy yards.”

His caddy snorted. “Comfortable ain’t on the menu today. We’re eatin’ at Big Boy.” Knickers handed him his driver.

Jingles tried to pass it back. “Forget it. I can’t hit that without a tee.”

Knickers backpedaled out of reach. “You’ve got a little grass under the ball. Smack it just like your tee shot. You’ll land right in front of the hill, bounce into it, and maybe kick right over the top. That’s the only way to get yourself a birdie putt. Just one sweet swing.”

“Pretend you’re a catcher again,” Jingles said, wagging his head. “I’m the pitcher, shaking off your call.”

“I don’t have to pretend,” Knickers laughed. “I’ll always be a catcher, the one guy on the field who pays attention to everythin’. I know your swing better than you. Why don’t you do the pretendin’? Look down at the ball and imagine it’s my little round face smilin’ back at you. Think of when you found out I poured gas in your Lincoln. I saw it in your eyes. For a second there, you wanted to crush my fool skull!”

“I’m done arguing,” Jingles sighed. “Everyone’s waiting for me.”

“Wise decision,” Knickers nodded, backing further away. “Show me your sweetest swing.”

After a half dozen practice swings, Jingles cut loose like Mulligan. Contact was clean, and the ball rocketed in the right direction. It touched down in front of the bank, skipped into it, then disappeared over the top.

“There you go,” Knickers exclaimed. “It pays to listen. You might have a look at the hole now.” A roar erupted from the distant gallery. “Maybe a good look.”

Instead of ceasing, the sound intensified, rolling toward them like a thunderstorm. Hats flew into the air, as if propelled by a surge of wind. Spectators stampeded onto the fairway. Up ahead, Scruffy Welton looked back, ripped off his white shirt, and waved it in the air. Sitton and Blackmon fell to their knees.

Moments earlier, millions of knees had touched millions of floors in front of televisions around the world. Incredulous viewers, eyes still blinking, had just witnessed old Jingles Plumlee’s sweetest swing of all.