

### THE YEAR

### ...in which Bob Howard

never missed a putt

William B. Dick

Smashwords Edition

The Year in which Bob Howard never missed a putt

Copyright © 2013 William B. Dick

All rights reserved

Cover Design by Laura Shinn

Smashwords Licensing Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book without purchasing it and it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Forward

Bob Howard played golf at least once and often twice a week when the weather permitted. Usually, he played with the same group of 4 or 5 different guys in various combinations. They knew each other well, all played at about the same level and, if anyone asked, they would have said they were friends.

Golf itself seems to generate certain sayings and catch phrases that seem to be almost universal. Stand adjacent to any set of woods along the side of any fairway in the country a hundred yards or so off the tee and wait until someone on the tee drives a ball into the trees. Sooner or later, one ball will hit a tree dead center and rebound to the middle of the fairway. If you are close enough to the players to hear, sooner or later you'll hear one say: "Did you see that monkey that threw that ball back in the fairway?" For Bob and his group of regulars the phrase they often used when this sort of miraculous thing occurred was: "Wow! Did you see that? Bruce, the God of golf, is sure looking out for you today". They'd politely laugh at this and head down for their second shots.

It was joke of course; none of them were even slightly religious. Bob was one of those people on the planet, as were his golfing companions, who believed in the theory that life will be more pleasant for everyone if you met could keep talk of politics and religion at, if not, zero, very close to it.

If you had the poor taste to ask him, outright, if he was religious he would have danced around the question and avoided answering it for as long as he could. He hadn't been to church in some 25 years, the last time when he was about 14 and a few very attractive girls from his neighborhood were regular attendees and he thought, unsuccessfully as it turned out, that seeing them there might give him a leg up with them.

It was not that he did or did not believe in God. Truth be told, he really didn't care one way or the other. He just lived life one day at a time and really never considered all the ramifications of life that the more pious people around him worried about all the time; and Bob thought that was a good thing.

All that changed on a cold Friday in November when God actually talked to him and The Year began.
Chapter One

It was cold in North Texas, even for November, it was Friday the 14th, and there was sure no golf to be played. Bob was driving home from his office in Arlington, a suburb midway between Dallas and Fort Worth, on the same route he took every day and thinking about the upcoming playoffs. As he passed the park, which he had driven by hundreds of times but didn't know the name of, he noticed that the lake was frozen. You get used to not seeing any green grass in Texas during the winter, except on some of the golf courses that overseed, but it was a bit unusual to see even smaller lakes frozen.

Then he noticed some birds, probably Canada geese, 'cause they were big, out on the lake. Then he noticed they were not _on_ the lake but frozen _in_ the lake and a major case of déjà vu kicked in.

About 10 years ago Bobby had been driving by this very lake with his youngest daughter, then about five. The lake was frozen and just like today, there were some birds frozen in it about 30 yards offshore. They were trying to fly and he could see them struggling to get free. Bob stopped and tried to figure out what to do. Since it was morning, he knew that no one was going to go to the park on a day when it was not going to get above freezing; if something was going to be done he had to do it. There were no boats around that he could have used to break through the ice to get to the birds. The only thing he could logically think of was to wade out there, the water couldn't be deep, and free them by hand. This was really an easy decision, he and his family were pretty serious animal people although cats were the animals of choice, and he couldn't have possibly just driven away. Then, his daughter looked up at him with those big eyes and said: "Daddy, what are we going to do?" and the decision was made.

Bob said: "I'm going to go in there and get those birds out of that ice. They are really close to shore so it's not dangerous at all but you have to promise me not to tell your mom about this."

His wife would have applauded his actions on principal but she would not be so happy about him doing so in his new pants which she had shamed him into going shopping for a few weeks ago.

So into the cold water he went breaking through the ice that was less than an inch think, got wet up to his thighs, and the rest was almost an anticlimax. There were four birds that day, he released them all and they flew away, albeit slowly, without as much as a thank you. He managed to sneak the pants to the cleaner and, as far as he knew, his wife was never the wiser.

Today there were 5 or 6 birds, he couldn't tell for sure, and they were a bit further offshore. At least today Bob was dressed in an old pair of blue jeans; he took "casual Friday" pretty seriously.

So in he went, about six inches deeper than last time, broke the ice away, he was wearing an old pair of Air Force nomex gloves to protect his hands, and released all the birds. One appeared to be too exhausted to fly and just floated there in the hole Bob had made. He picked it up, got nipped for his trouble, and placed the bird on the shore. He got back into his car, cranked up the heater, and just watched. After a few minutes the last bird managed to shake himself off and fly away, his companions were long gone.

After he warmed up some he placed the car in reverse and started to back out to head for home when a man's voice came out, he thought, of his radio: "Bob, that was a very nice thing you just did." Bob was so shocked he backed into one of those protective posts that are set up around light poles. He sat there for a second, saying nothing, trying to determine if he has imagined the comment or if his radio had talked to him. Finally he rather timidly said: "Hello?"

"Don't panic Bob; I just wanted to thank you for taking care of those birds. And will you take your car out of reverse before you break something?"

"Who the hell is this?" Bob asked while at the same time verifying his radio was off. He also did as he was told by pulling away from the pole he had just hit and putting his car into park.

"Well, a lot of people call me a lot of different things; you often call me "Bruce" so why don't we stick with that?"

Bob was thinking fast, mostly trying to determine which of his friends had the ability and wherewithal to pull of such a wonderful practical joke.

"Lenny you bastard, is that you?" Lenny was an engineer at Lockheed Martin and might have been up to this.

"No", said the voice from the radio, with a slight chuckle. "Although this is the sort of thing Lenny would get a kick out of."

"Do you know Lenny?" Bob asked.

"Sure, I know everyone" the voice replied.

"Who the hell is this?" Bob repeated.

"I told you, I'm Bruce. You refer to me once or twice a week when you play golf although sometimes you use my name a bit too freely."

"Are you trying to tell me you're God and you're talking to me through my car radio?"

"Yep, that's it exactly." The voice replied.

"That's just ridiculous. God doesn't talk to people on the radio!"

"Why not? How do you think I talk to people?"

"Well... I don't know, but not on the radio. Look, who the hell is this?"

"This is no one you've ever met and I can assure you that no one is playing a joke on you. What can you think of that I could do that would convince you this is all happening just as you perceive it?"

"Okay, good question, how about communicating with me some other way? Pop up on the seat beside me here and let's see what you look like."

"I could do that but it would not be the real me. Although I can transform myself into looking like anything I want, all that would be accomplished by placing a person whom you think I should look like is that it would raise more questions in your mind than it answers. But how about this, you asked that I communicate with you in some other way; how about we come up with some other way I can talk to you? Something non-electronic if you prefer."

Bobby thought this through, still convinced, pretty much, that he was the victim of the world's best practical joke. He looked around the car and found an old McDonalds coffee cup.

"Okay, how's this, I'll take this cup over to that park bench 50 feet from my car and you talk to me through the cup?"

"Okay... sounds like a plan" said the voice.

Bob got out of the car, just waiting for a gang of his friends to jump out of somewhere and yell: "Gotcha!" but no one did. He got to the bench, put the cup to his ear, feeling like an idiot, and not noticing how cold it was on his wet legs, and said: "Hello?" and heard... nothing. He sat there for perhaps five seconds, although it seemed longer, then finally started to put the cup down and get in his car and get the hell out of there when:

"Wait Bob don't leave; sorry I had a situation I had to attend to. Contrary to popular belief, I really can't do everything at once."

"Look, who the hell is this?" Bob asked.

"Let's stick with Bruce," said the voice.

"Okay Bruce" Bob replied, "What do you want from me?"

"I told you, I simply wanted to thank you for saving those birds."

Well" Bob replied, thinking this through, "If you're God why didn't you just wave a magic wand or do whatever you do to save them yourself?"

"Because", Bruce replied, Bob was now getting to think of the voice as Bruce: "Death is a part of life. All things die, some just sooner than others, and I try not to interfere; I just let nature take its course."

"So, if I hadn't come along those birds would have died?"

"Probably" said Bruce, "unless some other Good Samaritan had come along; but I had my money on you."

"Why?" Bob asked.

"Because of what you did with your daughter in this very lake ten years ago."

"How the hell do you know about that? Bob demanded.

"Come on Bob; think about that, I know everything. The quicker you accept that the quicker we can get on with business here and I can go back to work."

Bob said: "Business? What the hell kind of business could we have?" (Bob must have started to believe some of this because he immediately regretted the use of the word "hell".)

"I'll be glad to answer that for you Bob. As I told you I wanted to thank you for saving those birds and I wanted to do something more than just show up on your radio or in your coffee cup and say thanks. So, how about putting the cup in the trash over there and getting back in your car where you'll be warmer?"

Bob realized he was cold. He threw the cup in the trash, got in his car and said: "Are you there?" in this timid voice, expecting to wake up any minute.

Again came the voice from the radio, "Sure I'm here Bobby, I'm always here. I've thought this over and I've decided to give you a gift. It took awhile to work out what it should be but I've decided on something unique that I know you'll appreciate. Plus, it's going to be interesting for me to see how you handle the results of this. Six months from now you're going to be more famous than you can imagine and, if you handle everything right, very wealthy." Bruce went on: "But like most good things, this is going to come to an end. Interested in hearing more?"

Of course at this point Bob was hooked and all he could do was dumbly nod his head.

"Okay" said Bruce... "Here's the deal: For the next year starting tomorrow, November 15th, you will one putt every green on every round of golf you play no matter where it is. This will not apply to practice greens but it will apply to tournament practice rounds."

"Wait a minute," said Bob; "I've never played a tournament practice round in my life."

"But, you will if you have any sense" replied Bruce. "Once the word of this gets around, and it won't take long, you'll be invited to professional and amateur tournaments all over the country. If you're not playing in the Masters next year, as a professional, it's only because you have chosen not to."

"Also", Bruce continued, "this doesn't count for putts not on the putting surface. If you're one inch off the green it doesn't count as a putt so you're on your own. So if I were you I'd go to work on hitting greens."

"You're telling me," said Bob, "that I'll make every putt I try?" still nowhere near 100% convinced that all this was all really happening.

"That's it!" Bruce replied. "And there are only a few rules: You can't tell anyone about this. Do that and the deal goes away and you'll go back to your usual 35 putts per round. The second rule is you have to putt the ball at least toward the hole. You're a pilot... so think about it like this: Anything you putt from the putting surface within 30 degrees of the correct line will go in. Finally, this applies to one putt per hole. Do any practice putting after you've holed your first putt and you are on your own. Any questions?"

"No, I guess not" Bob replied. What the hell else could he say?

"Well in that case I'll be on my way, it was nice talking to you and thanks again for taking care of those birds."

"Wait!" said Bob, "Before you go, how do I reach you if I want to talk to you about this or have questions later?"

Bruce replied, with a wonderful line Bob remembered hearing George Burns say to John Denver in a movie a hundred years ago: "You talk, I'll listen. But there will probably not be any more conversations like this one. But you can call me whatever you like, I'll always know when you're talking to me"

And with that the radio went dead. Bob turned it on and it worked just fine. NPR was on and it was telling him it was 4:00 PM.
Chapter Two

Still dazed and confused Bob started the car and headed home. He would have loved to tell his wife about this but remembering the rules, did not. It was all he could do though to get to sleep that night. He was already thinking about heading for some golf course in the morning. If it hadn't been the dead of winter he'd have gone to one of the lighted par-3s in his area that night but they, like most sensible golf operations, were shut down for the season.

The next morning was Saturday and Bob dug his golf clubs out of his garage. His wife, seeing this, said: "What the hell are you doing? You're not seriously considering playing golf are you? None of the courses are open."

"I know" Bob replied "but I had an idea last night that I wanted to try out and I need to go to a course not just a driving range."

"You're nuts!" Barbara replied, "If they catch you they'll probably shoot you or send you to a shrink. I can remember last spring when you were complaining that you couldn't start your game until the frost was off the greens. The damn greens are frozen solid! What about that?"

"Look" Bob replied, "I'm just going to play a few holes, no one's going to see me or probably care and I won't hurt the course."

With that he put his clubs in his trunk thankful that none of the neighbors were outside to see this, and drove a few miles to the nearest municipal course. He knew the course well and remembered he could park right beside the #7 tee, which was a long par 3. Then, #8 was a shortish par four coming back toward where he parked. So, rather than schlep all his clubs, he took a 3 iron for the tee shot on this hole, a wedge in case he missed the green his putter, of course, a three wood for the #8 tee shot and a 5 iron.

He teed up a ball, a Hogan Apex, if it matters, with his usual two red dots on it, and after two or three practice swings, hit his three iron pretty well. It ended up hole high about 10 feet off the putting surface on the left. He used his sand wedge and bumped the ball toward the flag winding up about 4 feet away. When he did so his first thought was: "That's too close. Anyone can make that putt." And, of course, he did. He vowed to play the next hole more differently...

His drive on #8 was fair considering all the clothes he had on. He then hit a five iron to about 10 feet right of the green. This time though he intentionally chipped to a point about 30 feet from the hole. He lined up his putt, and as advertised, it went in the center of the cup. He decided to play one more hole, the ninth a par 5, even though it would result in a long walk back to his car. He hit his drive, and then hit his three wood again off the rock hard fairway. This left him about 80 yards to the green so he punched his five iron to a few feet short of the putting surface. He bumped the ball on the green leaving himself again some 30 feet from the hole on a pretty severe slope; a difficult putt under any conditions. This time he stood over the putt lining up only generally toward the hole and closed his eyes. He stroked the putt... and ...it dropped in the center of the cup.

He gathered his stuff and started walking back to the car, thinking all the while that if this is really happening how he could benefit from it. How do you really make money playing golf? Well, he considered, there are at least three ways: The tour, gambling, endorsements.

If he really could one-putt every green for a year the Scotty Cameron's of the world might pay him a lot of money! And, the tour... how the hell do you get on the tour?

There were two ways: First you could go through the unbelievably tough Q school. The problem with that was it would take forever. A second option was to wrangle a few "sponsor exemptions" to play in some tournaments. If he could manage to win one or two or even if he didn't win, his one-putting would be such a novelty he'd be a catch for almost anyone interested in TV revenue, which means everyone in the golf sponsorship world.

People would want to watch him for the same reason the watched NASCAR; they were waiting for the wrecks. In his case, they were waiting for him to finally miss a putt.

He tried to think of people he might know who could help with this and quickly realized that he knew one, the pro at his club. But, he needed to think through how to approach Greg Murphy since he couldn't tell him the whole truth. He felt though, that if he could get Greg on his side he, Greg, could open some doors. He had no idea what Greg was doing right now; it was, after all, the dead of winter. But he did know he was in town 'because they had run into each other at the mall a few days ago. Bob thought the first thing to do was to convince Greg of what he could do and the only way to do that was to play golf. That would entail a trip to somewhere warm.

He called Greg that night and asked if he could come over and see him. He had decided that he would tell as much of the truth as he could and see what happened. He told him that he had discovered something very unusual about his golf game and would Greg be free for breakfast in the morning? Greg agreed and they agreed to meet at the local Denny's the next morning.

Bob rehearsed his talk most of the night and walked into Denny's at the appointed 8:00. Greg, already seated, raised his coffee cup in greeting.

"Hi Bobby, good to see you. How's your winter going?" Greg said.

"It's going well", Bob replied, "How's it been for you?"

"Quiet", Greg replied, "This is the time of year we get caught up. It's interesting though, during the summer we work 18 hour days but if we try to sneak in a 6 hour day in the dead of winter and take a few hours off we hear about it."

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Greg asked.

"I want you to help me get on the PGA tour." Said Bob; "and before you say a word let me tell you that something interesting has happened to my golf game and I want to fly you and I down to Florida for a day or so and show you. I know this is hard to believe but I've figured out the secret of putting and I can make every putt I try."

"You can make every putt... from what distance? " Greg asked.

"From any distance, if I'm on the putting surface I'll one putt every green. I know how crazy that sounds but I'll be happy to foot the bill for some tickets to Florida to show you."

Greg's first thought was Bob was nuts. His handicap was, if he remembered correctly, a solid 8 or 9 or so. No way could he consider the tour...you had to be a 2 or less to even try out for the US Open, although lots of people cheated on that rule. But, a free trip to Florida certainly sounded interesting.

"Well, I can certainly take a few days off" Greg said. "When did you want to do this?"

"How about tomorrow" Bob replied, "we could go down to Tampa on Delta's early flight have time to play in the afternoon and then again the next morning; then come home that evening. And, I took the liberty of checking the weather, its 75 degrees in Tampa today. I'll pick up the full tab and I can guarantee you it will be worth your time."

Bob owned a Piper Aztec he could have flown down to Clearwater and, what with airport time, probably gotten there sooner but he didn't think Greg would consider a ride in the Aztec going "first class". Plus, by not flying himself Bob could have a beer or two going both ways...

"Well, hell, sure I'll go" Greg said. "Like I said I have plenty of time coming so I can easily take a few days off. You want to set it up and get back to me?"

"Okay", Bob replied, "I'll get on it right away and run you down. Why don't you give me your cell number, it might be the easiest way to reach you."

He left with Greg's number in his pocket and as soon as he got in his car called Delta Airlines. It cost him 140,000 miles, he still had over 300,000 from his traveling days, and he got two first class tickets for the next morning. He then called a travel agency he had used in the past and set up a hotel and a rent car. Finally, he called the Bardmoor Golf and Tennis Club in Largo and set up some tee times. It was the peak season there and he was lucky to get them but he got what he wanted. Tomorrow at 2:00 PM, it got dark around 5:30 so they'd have to hurry, and the next day at 7:30, a time way to early for the snowbirds to play.

He passed all that on to Greg, agreed to meet him at the airport the next morning and headed home to pack and have a talk with his wife. He wasn't too sure how Barbara was going to take all this.

It didn't take long to learn.

"You are going to Tampa to play golf a week before Thanksgiving! Your nuts!" Barbara said.

"What sense does it make to go all that way to play for two days? Hell, take a week off, take me with you and we'll go somewhere nice that we like, you hate Tampa!"

"I'm going with Greg Howard and two days is all he can get away for and all we'll need. Something pretty unusual happened. All of a sudden I've figured out how to putt. I literally never miss a putt."

"You never miss a putt" Barbara added, "Is that what that business was all about with you taking your golf clubs out yesterday?"

That's exactly what it was." Bob replied. "I wanted to be sure that what I had discovered was really going to work and it has. I can make every putt I look at. I want Greg to see this so he can help me figure out how to capitalize on this."

"What the hell does that mean?" Barbara asked. "How do you capitalize on something like that even if it's true?"

"What I had in mind was going out on the PGA tour." Bob answered, realizing how silly this must sound.

"You're telling me that you've discovered some magic trick to putting and you never miss a putt. And that you're going to Florida with Greg. And you think Greg can help?"

"Sure," he replied. "After all Greg's a pro himself. Perhaps not on the tour but I think he can open to doors more easily than I can. I need someone who can help me handle this and figure out how to make it work."

"You're absolutely nuts." Barbara responded. ""Did you just wake up yesterday figuring out how to putt?

"That's about right; all of a sudden I just seem to be able to see the ball into the hole. At least I did yesterday. We'll see what happens down in Florida. But, if I didn't think this was real I sure wouldn't be spending over a hundred thousand frequent flyer miles to go to a place I hate. Let's see what happens there."
Chapter Three

Their flight down was uneventful, the best of all types of flight; they landed about 11:00, loaded their gear in an Avis rent car and headed to their hotel, the Clearwater Residence Inn. They checked in, Bob put both rooms on his credit card thinking: "Well, hell if nothing else I'll get another 800 miles for the points I'll earn on this trip." threw their stuff in their rooms and took off for the golf course. On the ride down Greg had tried to question Bob about this revelation in his game but Bobby basically dodged the questions and told him he'd just have to show him.

They got there in time to load up on carts and still grab a quick lunch.

Bardmoor is itself a fairly easy wide-open course and one of the better courses open to the public in the Tampa/St. Pete area. It has four sets of tees and the differential between the tips and the white tees, called silver here, was a big 1,279 yards. The first hole is a slight dogleg right par four 374 yards long from the tips. Greg hit first and just smoked a drive down the center for probably 280 yards. His swing itself as well as the sound to the contact he made caused a few of the waiting golfers to look around. Bob immediately wished he had hit first since the onlookers would probably expect the same caliber of drive from him. If so, they were disappointed. Bob his usual solid drive down the middle but easily 40 yards short of Greg's.

"That looked pretty much like your standard swing," said Greg. "What's changed?

"You'll see on the green" Bob answered. "Like I said, I've discovered how to putt."

Bob hit his second shot from about 145 yards just off the green, right. Greg hit his to the perfect spot, about 4 feet below the hole. Bob settled down over his shot and chipped to within some 20 feet. Since he was away, he lined up his putt, which he read to break about 6 inches left, drew the putter back, took a deep breath and knocked it into the center of the hole for a par.

"Nice putt", said Greg, "you sure didn't look at it very long. I see what you mean by your putting improving."

Greg then lined up his putt, as pros will do from about three different directions. It is this act, looking at putts from every possible direction that screws things up for the amateurs when they try to emulate the pros. The amateurs usually miss their putt. Greg knocked his in the center of the cup for a birdie.

The second hold is just a monster. It is a US Open level par four of 438 yards to a green protected by water and sand. Most players will take a par here and happily go on. The high handicappers, if they are smart, think of this as a par five and hope for that.

Greg just smashed another drive drawing slightly just to the left center of the fairway. Bob hit his drive better than on the first hole but still well short of Greg. Bob's second shot was a solid 200 yards. He chose a three wood and hit his ball... right into the water beside the green.

Greg hit what looked like a 5 or 6 iron to about 30 feet short of the flag; not for nothing was he a pro.

Bob dropped his ball where he had crossed the hazard and flipped a wedge to slightly inside Greg's ball. Greg putted first and just missed slightly left. He tapped in for a par and said: "Gave you a good read there Bobby, knock it in." And, of course, he did for a bogey what with his penalty stroke.

"Two greens, two putts, not bad!" said Greg who was clearly attributing this to pure dumb luck.

The third hole is a great par three of 204 yards. The green has something like seven undulations in it and it generated lots of four putts every day. Greg hit his ball, with a five iron, to the center of the green. Bob hit his 3 iron into the grass bunker in front of the green, certainly not an easy up and down. On Bob's second shot he intentionally stubbed the ball so it popped out just to the putting surface leaving him at least a 30 feet putt with two big breaks. Bob marked the ball, cleaned it up, replaced it and knocked it dead into the center of the cup.

"How the hell did you do that? You didn't even line that putt up!" Greg asked.

Bob said, "I don't know how to explain it, but all of a sudden I just see the line and know the speed and the putts go in."

"Well that's the damdest putt I've ever seen" Greg said as he stood over his putt. He two putted for a routine par and they moved on.

After four or five more holes with Bob doing the same thing on each hole, struggling to get to the green but then holing every putt, Greg was pretty much silent. When the finished the front nine Greg had shot a 32 with 14 putts; Bob had shot a 34 with exactly nine putts. He had had one other bogey when he lost a ball on #7. Rather than walk back to the tee, as he should have done, they invoked the "leaf rule", a casual rule many of the guys at their club invoked when a ball was "lost under a leaf", and Bob hit his third shot, after the penalty, to just short of the green. He then chipped on and made his putt for bogey.

Over a quick sandwich at the turn Greg asked: "Bob have you ever shot nine holes even close to under par before? Do you realize" Greg went on, "what you would have shot if you had hit even half the greens in regulation? Jeez, you'd have scored in the low 30s!"

"No, I haven't", Bob replied; "at least not on a course that didn't have a clown or a windmill on one of the fairways. That's what I wanted you to see. And, I want you help in figuring out how to take advantage of it. I've been thinking about it and it seems to me that I need to get into some tournaments and let the word of this get around. That should help me get invited to more tournaments and so on. Will you help me?"

"Well hell yes if you can keep that up! But there is just no way that can go on forever!"

"Well, maybe not, but let's take advantage of it while it's working" Bob replied knowing full well how long it would last... until November 15th of next year.

They played the back nine with Greg so distracted by watching every move Bob made he would up one over par. Bob on the other hand played just about the same game he had played on the front and shot a 36, even par with the same remarkable number of nine putts.

After the round Greg said: "Let's go over on the practice green and show me how you're doing that".

Bob ducked that nicely: "No, for some reason I can't seem to get the reads or the speeds on the practice greens, only when I actually play" Bob replied.

"Well, it's the damdest thing I've ever seen" Greg said. "If you can keep that up you'll have people betting big money on when you'll miss a putt. You could probably make more money betting that end of things than you could playing golf. If we can get you to the point of hitting greens you could be shooting in the fifties!" He sounded like he had already signed on as Bob's coach and advisor, an idea that Bob was not uncomfortable with at all.

The next morning they got to the course early after checking out of the hotel and having breakfast. At 7:00 they were on the range loosening up. They got called to the tee a few minutes before their time and got paired with a father and son who turned out to be from right there in Tampa. The son was about 16 and had all the flexibility of youth. He just effortlessly drove his tee shots almost as far as Greg. He was predictably a bit erratic and didn't seem to think through shots at all. But, few teenagers did... they thought power would overcome everything. On one of the par threes Bob was hitting a five iron and the kid was hitting a nine. They both hit the green and Bob, as usual, one putted. The kid, from the same distance, three putted for bogey.

After about the fifth hole the father, Steven Somebody and his son, Eric Somebody, were as captivated by Bob's putting as Greg had been. At the turn, thanks to missing a number of greens, Bob had shot 35 as had Greg. The father and son team didn't seem to be keeping score and it wouldn't have mattered too much anyway since the improved every lie they had, even in hazards. Over a cold beer Steven Somebody said: "You're a hell of a putter! How many putts did you have on the front?"

'Nine" Bob replied. "I was rolling putts pretty well."

"I'll say!" Steven added.

Greg then turned to Steven Somebody and said: "And, I'd be willing to bet that he can do it again and do the same thing on the back nine."

"No way!" Steven replied, "I'll take a lot of that bet!" and it was obvious that he thought Greg was joking.

"Okay" said Greg, "the how about this? I'll bet you a flat $500.00 that Bob one putts every green on the back nine."

"You can't be serious about that!" Steven replied.

"Serious as a heart-attack" said Greg. "I'll bet $500.00 that he doesn't have more than one stroke per hole after he's on the putting surface."

"You've got a bet!" said Steven and with that they headed to the tenth tee. Bob was sort of amazed that both Greg and Steven Somebody just took it for granted that they both had $500.00 to lose; he was pretty sure Greg did not. Sure enough, while driving down the second fairway, Bob had pared the first hole after missing the green to the right, pitching to within 10 feet and draining that unremarkable putt, Bob turned to Greg and asked: "That was a pretty gutsy bet. Have you got $500.00?"

Greg turned to look at Bob and asked: "Are you going to miss any putts?"

"No." Bob replied.

"Then it doesn't matter does it?" Greg answered with a smile.

When the match was over and Greg was putting away five nice new crisp hundred dollar bills he turned toward Bob and said: "I'll buy the beer!"

"Damn right you will." Bob replied, "I did all the work and you made all the money. How did you know that that guy even had $500.00?"

"Are you kidding?" Greg replied. "Hell, his golf shoes were worth $500.00 and his clubs another $3,000.00. He was clearly a player and there was no way he didn't have $500.00 on him."

Over their beers Greg said: "We need to plan some strategy for this, figure out the best way to capitalize on what you've learned how to do. Getting you into tournaments is not as difficult as you might think. If I can get you a few sponsor's exemptions, and I think I can, I'll make some calls about that, and if you keep putting like you have been it is going to be such a good story that the tournament directors will be coming to you. You'll have a line in Las Vegas before long with bets as to when you'll miss!"

"Another thing," Greg added, "Can you imagine how much Ping or Titleist would pay you to use their putter rather than that old beat-up Zebra you've been using as long as I've known you?" Then, a quick look... "That putter isn't the key is it, your Zebra?"

"No", Bob replied, "I don't think so. I think I can putt just as well with any putter."

"Well, let's get to the airport and get home. I've got a lot of work to do."

The day they got back Bob sat down and explained what had happened on their trip and their plan, such as it was, to Barbara. Surprisingly, she agreed with it much more quickly than Bob had expected. It wasn't a matter of here wanting to go along with his plan as much as it was her ability to read him and to understand that this was something he really believed and would go to any lengths to try. Going along with Bob was the course of least resistance. Plus, she thought, this can't last long. All he has to do is miss a putt and things will get back to normal.
Chapter Four

Al Gonzales spent his winters in Sequin, Texas. He had a job with the city working at one of the local golf courses, Starcke Park, and today was in the cart shed getting the first batch of carts ready to the day's play. Al was from this community, was well known and liked and, as a result, managed to get this maintenance job every winter even though it was only for 3-4 months. The city manager, a serious golfer, was understanding about Al's "real job". Al was about 40 had been around golf courses all his life and in his youth had been a decent player. He had never been a tour-level player but was a good student of the game, had developed into a decent enough coach and was wonderful at understanding the psychology of golfers. He was the perfect professional caddy... which is what Al did all spring and summer. Caddies on the PGA tour were on about 5 levels. There were the elite, the Steve Williams' and the Fluff Cowan's and the Jim Mackays who earned more than most of the touring pros themselves and road in their employer's jets to tournaments. There was the level below that of the caddies who essentially had a full time job with one pro for the season, and often for years. This group made a good living considering that they only worked for six months or seven months per year. The third level, and Al was somewhere either in this group on one below, usually got a bag every week. They were well known, pretty well regarded, but about half the time, or more, their guy didn't make the cut and they were faced with often a long drive, or if they could afford it and it was Hawaii or England, a long flight on Friday night to the next event.

The fourth level was the rookies and some of the older caddies who couldn't seem to find steady work. There were lots of reasons for this, some of them drank way too much, and some really didn't understand golfers. That was more critical than you might think. The final level was the absolute rookies, most of who did not have a clue and would never get out of this stage. This was not a rewarding profession for the vast majority of participants...

Al was in the cart barn getting the carts ready for the morning tee times, golf in South/Central Texas in winter was a lot like Florida, and you pretty much played year-round, when the loudspeaker that connected the cart barn with the clubhouse called his name:

"Al? Call for you up at the clubhouse. Can you get it or do you want me to take a number?"

"Have then leave a number and I'll call them back quick as I can. Do you know who it is?

A pause... "He says it's Greg Howard."

Jeeze, there's a voice from the past Al thought. He had known Greg slightly for quite awhile but hadn't talked to him in years and then not much more than an occasional "hello".

"Tell him I'll call him back", Al said and returned to unplugging the last few carts, "be sure to get a number."

Thirty minutes later he returned the call.

"Greg, Al Gonzales here, how's things up in Dallas."

"Good, Little Al" Greg replied. When Al first got involved with big-time golf there was another caddy on the tour named Al Giraldi. Giraldi was a 250 pound monster and was, of course, "Big Al". He'd been gone for years but nicknames in this business never go away so, no matter what, Al Gonzales would always be Little Al. "How's your winter going?" Greg asked.

"Fine" Al replied, "What can I do for you?"

"Little Al, I've come across something you have to just see to believe. I have a buddy up here, who is going to head out next season on the tour. If you don't have a bag set for next year I'd like to talk to you about packing for him. You're exactly the kind of caddy he needs."

Al knew most of the players who lived in the Metroplex and hadn't heard of anyone, at least anyone who could afford it, who was looking for a caddy.

"Who is it?" Al asked.

"No one you've ever hear of" Greg replied. "His name is Bob Howard and he plays here at my club."

"Your right" Al replied, "I've never heard of him. Is he one of these phenom kids right out of school?" Al intensely hated working with kids, particularly kids who could play. They wouldn't listen to anyone, particularly a middle aged Mexican caddy.

"No, he's probably 40 or 42 years old or so and I've know him for years and he's about a 7 or an 8. As I said, he plays here at my club; and I know what you're thinking the minute I said he's in his early forties but let me finish."

Greg was certainly right about that. Al was thinking: "No way and I going to go hook up with some 40 year old rookie who considers it a big day when he breaks 80."

Greg continued: "Little Al, I don't know how this guy does it but I've played with him a few times here lately and he has discovered the secret to putting. I don't mean he putts well... what I mean is he makes every putt he gets over. I played two rounds of golf with him this last weekend in Florida and for those two rounds, and I shit you not, he had exactly 36 putts."

"36 putts" Al replied, letting that sink in. "He one putted every green?"

"That's exactly what he did." Greg replied, "And he says he can do it every time. His tee to green game is about what you would expect from an 8 handicapper but he's something else on the greens. I don't know how he does it, I'm not sure he does, he says he just: "lines 'em up and knocks 'em in". What I wanted you for Little Al, is that I think you would be the perfect guy to carry a bag for him. He needs a steady hand to help him think his way around the course. I need someone who can help him keep his head screwed on while he playing and you can do that better than about anyone I know. I want to get him ready for the first tournaments in Hawaii and need you to come up here to work with us."

"Greg" said Al, "You gotta be kidding me, nobody can one putt 18 holes in a row!" Like everyone else who had heard about or seen Bob putt, it took some time to sink in.

"Al, tell you what I'll do. I'll buy you a ticket to Dallas you come up here and see what I'm talking about and if Bob, as I told you, that's his name, Bob Howard, if Bob doesn't prove to you what I'm talking about I'll give you $500.00 for your trouble.

"You'll buy the ticket?" Al asked.

"You bet!" Greg replied.

Al thought this through thinking about what his family would say, they were always after him to get away from golf and settle down to a real job. He thought what his boss would say who had always been very supportive with Al's strange work schedule being gone following the tour during the parks busiest season and Al didn't want to leave him in the lurch, even for a few days.

"How about this Greg" said Al, "you guys come down here and play. It's hard for me to get away and besides if you come down here you can play for nothing. Or if you'd rather I can get us on Chaparral across the street. And, by the way, how are you tied to all this? Are you this guy's manager or what?"

"Little Al, even though we haven't formalized anything that's essentially what I'm going to do. Help Bob get started, get him into a few tournaments and see if he can keep this going. If he can there will be more money in it for all of us than we've ever made in golf! And, if it was anybody but you Little Al, and if I didn't think you'd be the perfect guy for this, I'd blow you off and go find somebody else. But, let me get with Bob and see what we can work out. I know you think this whole thing is crazy but I'm telling you Little Al, this is the real deal! I'll call you back later today."
Chapter Five

Over the Thanksgiving holidays Bob and Greg sat down with Bob's attorney and they came up with a simple management contract. Greg was to receive 10% of any earnings Bob made. Greg was responsible for setting up tournaments, getting endorsements, every aspect of Bob soon-to-be-established, they hoped, PGA career. Since Bob, as well as his attorney, did not know, for sure, of Greg's ability to do all that he said he could do there was a 30 day cancellation clause. Bob hoped he wouldn't need it. The Friday after Thanksgiving they hoped on a plane for San Antonio rented a car and headed east to Sequin. On that hour drive they worked out how, if Al agreed, they would work with him and fund their initial efforts. Another thing they agreed on was Greg was going to make some contacts in England where you can bet on anything. If they could figure out a way to do it they would lay down a serious bet each week on Bob not missing any putts on either that day or that week. They should be able to make a much, if not more, money doing that as playing golf. Greg wasn't sure how betting worked in England but he knew who to ask.

Max Starcke Park was God knows how old and is probably best known as the former home of Lefty Stackhouse a crotchety old golf pro who was a legend, mostly for his temper, on the PGA tour in the 1940s. He was the head pro here for years. The course was originally 9 holes nestled on the Guadalupe River and among the biggest pecan trees you've ever seen, most even older than Stackhouse would have been if he had still been alive. Sometime in the last number of years a second nine holes was added but neither Bob, who way back when lived in San Antonio, nor Greg had played this new nine.

They met Al at the clubhouse about 1:30 and even though it was the day after Thanksgiving and the weather was so-so there were quite a few players.

"Nice to meet you Bob" said Al. "I'm Little Al". Al couldn't even himself get away from his nickname when he was around serious golf, although it remained to be seen how serious this was going to be. "We'll be able to get off if a few minutes, we'll just work our way in when there's a break. Do you mind if we pick up a fourth if someone's waiting to play?"

"Heck no," Bob replied. I appreciate you working us in and letting us screw up your holiday. Greg's told me a lot about you and I'm anxious to see how you can help us get this project going."

They teed off, just the three of them, about 30 minutes later. Greg rode by himself so Al and Bob could get to know each other. Al had chosen not to play but drove the cart and visited with Bob. The first hole at Starke Park is a simple straightaway par four about 398 yards long with no real trouble. Greg hit his tee shot dead down the middle about 250. Bob hit his almost as far but with a bit of a fade into a group of pecan trees bordering the last third of the fairway on the right side. Since it was the dead of winter and all the leaves were long gone off the trees as well as the ground, the ball was easy to find. Bob had a view of the green but really, not a shot. It was obvious he would have to keep the ball very low for the first 50 feet. He was about 170 yards from the green.

"What are you thinking of doing here?" Al asked.

"Well" Bob replied, "I was thinking of punching something like a five iron out under that big limb. When I do that I tend to cut the ball some so I'm thinking of starting on a line with that bench over there" indicating a bench on the # 9 tee. "Then, at worst, the ball will run up in front of the green if it doesn't get on. What do you think?"

"I think you have a plan" Al replied, "and having that plan, that's half the battle. See if you can make it work."

Bob got his five iron, moved the ball back in his stance a little, made a conscious effort to hit down and the ball and stay down, he didn't want to look foolish in front of Al by something like a shank and drove the ball directly into the tree limb in front of him. The ball hit the limb with a THWACK and fell straight down. Bob grumbled something, put away his five and walked up to the ball with the cart following close behind. The good news was that the ball was now in the open with now about 130 yards to go. A nice smooth eight iron got Bob to the middle of the green and certainly made him feel better. Al had observed these last two shots without comment.

Greg played his second shot to the middle of the green with Bob just slightly away. As the three of them parked their carts over by #2 tee and walked to the green Greg turned to Al and said: "Now just watch this."

Bob lined up his putt, a simple 14 footer, just as he always had and knocked it into the center of the cup for his par.

"Nice putt" Al said, although it was pretty straight forward and nothing special. A pro would have made that putt 90% of the time Al thought. Greg two putted and then walked to the second tee. The second hole is a par three of 168 yards over a small pond with a bunker on the left and another behind the hole. It was a pretty simple hole although the green with a big slope from back to front could be treacherous. The smart shot was to whatever you could do to keep the ball below the hole which was today in about the center of the green. Greg hit his tee shot, an eight iron, to the perfect spot about 8 feet below the hold. Bob hit a six, actually better than he thought he could, and it was probably too much club and wound up in the back bunker. Normally this would have been a very difficult shot onto the severely sloping green. If the sand shot landed near the hole it could well run all the way off the green.

As they drove up to the green Bob turned to Al and said: "I'm a semi-decent sand player and what I'm going to do here is instead of playing this toward the hole I'm going to play it almost sideways to be absolutely sure I keep it on the green. I don't care how far away I am."

Bob's sand wedge, as planned, went to the far right side of the green leaving him a 25 foot put with at least six feet of break. Anyone, tour player included, would be happy with two putts from there. Since Bob was still away he lined up his putt and knocked it directly into the center of the cup. Before he could even take a step toward the hole Al, who had tended the flag, reached down, took out Bob's ball and rolled it back to him saying, as he did so: "Do that again."

"I can't" Bob replied. "I can't seem to make practice putts either on the practice green or like this. I can only make them in a real round of golf. When I stand over a ball for real I just seem to know where to hit it and what pace to use. I don't have a clue why but it just works."

Al looked at him a little strangely while Greg two putted and they moved over to the third hole. It's a par four of 457 yards moving a little left and uphill all the way. Greg and Bob both hit good drives right down the middle, Greg as usual, about 30 yards past Bob. Bob hit a very good three wood about hole high right of the green. Greg hit a long iron to the center of the green.

As they drove up the hill Al said: "So you just started making putts all of a sudden? How did it happen? Did you get struck by lightning?"

"It's almost that simple" Bob replied. "All of a sudden one day I just knew that every putt I tried, I'd make and sure enough, it worked. What we're trying to figure out now is how to capitalize in this, that's way Greg wanted you to help us. I know my limitations on the golf course and need some help me think my way around. Greg's sure you can help me and I know I need the help. Not only do I need someone to carry my bag I need someone who can keep me from doing stupid things. All I need to do is hit greens, after that everything else is automatic."

Bob's third shot was a simple chip from about 3 yards off the green. He hooded a seven iron and knocked the ball into the center of the green. Greg hit his birdie attempt to within a half revolution and tapped in for his par. Bob lined up his 12 footer and, as usual, knocked it into the center of the cup for his third par.

"You didn't even look at that putt" said Al. "How the hell can you do that?"

"I know it's hard to understand" Bob replied. "I don't understand it myself, all I know is it works every time."

#4 was a par five back down the hill of 524 yards with a street on the right and the Guadalupe River beyond the street paralleling it. Greg's drive was, as usual, right down the middle. Bob hit his driver, trying to keep up with Greg, and wound up slicing his ball into the middle of the street. One hard bounce and it headed toward the river after just missing a car driving north toward them.

Greg turned to Al and said: "Now that's exactly what we need you to help us with Al." No way in hell should Bob have hit driver here. He hits 3 woods right down the middle every time or, hell, he could hit three five irons in a row and if he hit the green still make a birdie."

Bob reloaded, switched to his three wood and, sure enough, hit his third shot about 225 yards right down the center. Another three wood got him to just short of the green; a wedge and the usual one putt earned him a bogey, with one ball out of bounds and the stroke and distance penalty.

The rest of the nine was just about like this with Bob making one birdie on #6, a 157 yard par three with a solid seven iron and his one putt. He parred all the rest not hitting any other of the greens in regulation. He did however, make every putt, including a 40 foot snake with 2 big breaks on #9.

As they walked off #9 Al said: "Okay guys, you've made me a believer. I've never seen anything like this. Let's go in a get a beer and talk this over. We really don't need to play the back do we?"

Bob and Greg looked at each other and shrugged. Greg said: "Up to you Little Al, we can down here to show you want Bobby could do. If you're a believer I'm for getting out of the cold."

Over hot dogs and a cold beer Greg said: "The way I see this working is just what we saw on #3. Bob needs someone to help him think his way around the course and help him make smart decisions. Like hitting a three wood there instead of driver"

"Or" Al added, "like on #1. A smarter shot might have been to play out straight sideways rather than taking a chance on the tree limb. It's just as easy to hit the green from 170 or whatever as it was from 150 and there's no chance of getting deeper in the woods." He looked at Bob who just nodded his head.

"And the rules" Greg added. Bob's a good club player but I'll bet he's clueless on the real honest-to-goodness rules of golf, right Bob?"

"Yeah, well I suppose." Bob replied. "Like I'm never sure when to declare a ball lost and that sort of thing. I'd need someone to keep me from doing anything stupid."

"Okay", I'm sold," Al said, turning to Greg. "Have you got a plan?"

"Yes, I want to get Bob into as many tournaments as I can. I think, in fact, I'm pretty sure I can get him in the first tournaments in Hawaii. I know I can get him in the Palm Springs tournament, whatever it's called now, but the sooner we get this started, the better. I'm not planning to even look for any endorsement deals since no one will believe me until the buzz starts but I can guarantee you that will not take long."

"We'll pay you $500.00 a week until the season starts and then pay the standard 10% of the winnings. You'll make more money next year than you've made your entire career."

"Okay" Al responded, "I'll meet you guys in Dallas next week and Bob, we'll start working on your game."

"This is gonna be fun." Al said, "We'll be doing just the opposite of what all the other players do. They make their moves on the par fives; we'll be making ours on the par threes and the short par fours. The other greens we hit in regulation will just be the gravy." Like all good caddies, Al thought in the "we" tense when thinking good thoughts about his player. When the player screwed up, of course, then it was: "Jeeze did you hear what that guy did today?" But that attitude sort of came with the territory.
Chapter Six

It took Bob a few days to convince his wife that this was the real thing, that, Yes, he was taking a year off to play golf. It was not a pleasant few days but in the end, probably more to shut him up than anything else, she gave in. Another factor was that he had sworn to her that this was a one year project only; that after that one year he'd be back to normal. Of course, he didn't tell her why it was a one year project...

As soon as he got back Greg called the pro at Kapalua in Maui who he had met some years ago. From him, he got the name of the individual, Allan Harper, who was directing the Hundai tournament. The call to him was accepted only because Greg was a PGA pro and it was simply the courteous thing to do. When Greg requested a sponsor's exemption for someone Harper had never heard of he was a little bit more reticent. "Jeeze Greg, I'd like to help but we only have a few slots available." Al said, trying his best to come up with some excuse that would sound legitimate.

"Look Mr. Harper" Greg said," I know this is a little strange but just hear me out. This guy has the potential of being the biggest news the golf world has seen since Tiger Woods turned pro. He has mastered the art of putting. He literally one putts every green."

"He one putts every green..." Harper repeated, not know for sure how to respond to something so ridiculous. "Not here he doesn't, our greens are running at 11 right now and will be faster for the tournament. I doubt there is a pro who can play a round here without 3 or 4 three putts, forget one putts!"

"Okay, then how about this; we'll come out there a week early. We'll play a round with you or anyone you choose. If my guy misses a putt we'll go home quietly and you'll never hear from us again. But, if he can do what I say he can do you'll give him one of your exemptions."

Harper agreed to this, again mostly as a courtesy, no one could one putt every green, and they decided to get together between Christmas and New Years. The tournament was set to start January 4th.

For the next two weeks, cold weather and all, Bob Howard hit more three woods and five irons than he had ever hit in this life. Once he felt his game starting to come around a little he always asked Al if he could not start hitting driver occasionally but Al would have none of it.

"You can hit that three wood right down the middle, every time about 230 yards." Al said. "Why would you take a chance on winding up in rough that covers your shoes just for another 30 yards or so? No... don't answer, I know the answer, you're worried how it will look when everyone is past you that 30 or so yards. Well, get used to it because on the tour they are going to be past you like, 80 yards! They'll be hitting wedges to greens you'll be hitting five irons to. Sure, they'll get their balls closer to the flag and probably get more on the green in regulation but so what?"

"Think about it" Al said, "If you hit every green in one over regulation you'll shoot even par. Then if you can hit 4 or 5 greens in regulation you're 4 or 5 under par. That's 20 under for a tournament. That translates to a boat load of money!"

They spent some time working on bunker shots, shots out of the rough and the like. They spent no time practicing putting. Al asked about it once and Bob replied: "I know how to putt Al, just get me on the green and we're good to go." So Al left it alone.

Ten days before Christmas Greg, Al, Bob and Bob's wife left for Maui.

"No way are you going to Hawaii without me!" Bob's wife had said. "I'll hang out on the beach while you guys play all the golf you want."
Chapter Seven

On December 16th when Bob, Greg and Al left for the Plantation Course it was 74 degrees and the wind was blowing, no surprise there, the wind almost always blew here. Bob's wife headed for the beach right after she learned that is was 33 degrees in North Texas. The guys met Al Harper, as arranged, at the pro shop at 9:00, Harper has arranged a 9:30 tee time for them. After introductions all around and a very curious once-over from Harper, Greg said: "Al is Bob's caddy and isn't going to play. He'll ride with Bob and you and I can ride together if that's okay with you."

"Fine," Harper replied. "I may only be able to play nine holes anyway but that should be enough to see what's what." He turned to Bob: "You really think you can one putt every green we have?"

Bob smiled and said: "What say we go find out? Do we have time to hit a few balls on the range?"

"Sure" said Harper and they all got in their carts already thoughtfully loaded by the very efficient staff and brought around to the door of the pro shop. They drove over to the range and Al took out, what else, Bob's three wood and five iron along with one of his wedges.

"All you're trying to do here" Al said, "is get loose. Hit a dozen wedges then twenty or thirty five irons then about the same number of three woods, half off tees half off the ground. Have targets in mind but don't worry too much if you're not dead on line. All you're trying to do here is get your muscles thinking about your swing."

Bob did as he was told and in no time "Mr. Harper's group" was paged to the tee.

The first hole at the Plantation course is a monster par 4 that would be right at home at any US Open. It's 473 yard long and even though it's usually down wind, and it's always downhill, it's a very long hole. There is some serious trouble on the right and some bunkers to catch drives on the left although for most of the pros these bunkers are not in play being about 230 yards off the tee.

As the host, Harper hit first and hit a decent drive down the right side about 250 yards. He had told the guys he was a 5 and his swing looked a bit better than that. Greg hit next and just crushed a drive out over the bunkers. What with the wind he wound up just past the 150 marker. He had hit his drive well over 330 yards. Bob then addressed his Titlist 4 with his three wood and hit it right down the middle. With the following wind it carried about 250 yards and was just slightly left of Harper's ball.

Harper hit next and pushed what looked like a 2 or 3 iron to the right of the green into the rough. Bob, at Al's direction, Hit a solid 4 iron to a large landing area just in front of the green. He would have an easy chip and run which the hole lent itself to or a simple wedge shot. They drove up to Greg's ball and watched as he just stuffed an 8 or a 9 up close to the flag. It always amazed Bob just how good the pros were in their tee-to-green game, even a pro like Greg who didn't play that often.

They came to Bob's ball and he elected to chip and run the ball to take the gusty wind mostly out of play. He chipped up with his six iron and the ball ran 30 feet past the hole. Harper found his ball is some ugly rough but hit a decent wedge, it looked like a bunker shot swing, to about 20 feet below the hold.

Bob was away and everyone watched with great interest as he lined up his 30 footer. Bob saw quite a bit of break from left to right so lined up more or less on that line and stroked his ball dead into the center of the cup for his par. Harper just looked at him, Greg said: "Nice putt!" He then turned to Harper and said: "And he can do that every time." Harper replied: "It was a nice putt..."

Harper and Greg both two putted for a bogey and par respectfully and the headed for the second tee. #2 was a medium length par 3 of 218 yards playing slightly downwind, with the wind from about 7 o'clock. Greg teed off first and hit a middle iron to the center of the green. Harper hit next and missed the green just slightly to the left. Bob his a 3 iron just literally inches short of the putting surface, he thought it was on until they got up there close enough for a better look. Harper chipped to within 3 feet as did Bob. Bob and Harper made their putts, Greg two putted for his par. As they walked off the green Greg turned to Bob: "You know it might have been better if you had knocked that chip 40 feet past and then drained the putt. You didn't show Harper much with a three footer."

"Yeah, good point" Bob admitted. "But it's still a one putt green and he won't be able to ignore that."

The third and fourth were routine par fours. Bob played both of them in par by hitting the green in three and, again, draining an 18 footer and a long 35 footer. By now Harper was looking at each of Bob's putts with greater interest.

As they stood on the fifth tee he said: "I've got to admit that I've never seen anything quite like this. That last putt must have been over 30 feet and it looked like the ball just had eyes. How do you do it?" "Honestly, I don't know." Bob lied convincingly. "I just seem to be able to see the line and have a feel for the speed. I can do it every time."

Bob got his first birdie on the 5th hole a 530 yard par 5 that requires very good placement on each shot and the ability to move the ball quite a bit if placement isn't perfect. The hole, particularly the last hundred yards, goes left to right big time. Bob hit two very good three woods to just the turn of the final dog leg right then hit a nine iron to the center of the green. He, of course, drained that put for his 4. By now Greg and Harper while still playing, we more busy watching Bob's game than they were worrying about their own.

Number six is a medium length par 3 of 203 yards. The book says to aim at the right of the green and let the wind and the slope take the ball to the hole. Bob did exactly that, hitting a four iron that would up about 20 feet from the pin. Harper also hit the green, with a seven iron. Greg picked up after he missed his first shot of the day dumping a fat iron into the gorge in front of the hole. Bob, as usual, ran his putt into the hole for his second birdie.

On the seventh tee Harper said: "Okay guys, I'm a believer. I've never seen anything like that on any course much less ours. I'll let you have one of our exemptions. Also, Bob, if it's okay with you I'd like to alert our media guys. There is going to be some interesting press attention on this if you can keep this up."

"Sure," replied Bob.

They finished the front nine with Bob not making any more birdies. He bogied the number one handicap 9th hole by hitting his third shot in a hazard so he ended up the front nine at two under par. He had exactly nine putts.

Over lunch Greg said: "One of the things we need to do is get you signed up as a member of the PGA. Really it's remarkable simple. You just have to pay the dues, fill out the application and state that you are going to function as a professional rather than as an amateur and you're good to go. There's normally a lot more involved before you can get a tour card like Q school and the lot but if you can win a tournament or even place well upon the money list you'll have no trouble getting a card. Tiger Woods never went to Q school."

"Another thing," he continued, "we need to start putting feelers out there for sponsors. Ping would pay a lot of money for you to use their putter. Or, do you need to use that old Zebra to make this work?"

"No" Bob replied. "I can use any club but might it not be better for them to come to us? They are going to be just as skeptical as Harper was until they see what I can do. If the press starts the buzz first it might put us in a stronger position."

"You're right about that" Bob replied. "I was just trying to think of some way of getting the money flow started so you don't have to front all this cost yourself. Speaking of that, I think I've figured out a way to place bets in England on your putting. We can do it through essentially a bookie and wire transfer money each way. We probably should get someone to check out the tax ramifications of doing that but it might help with the money issues.

"Don't worry about the money." Bob replied. "The money will take care of itself."

And it did. Bob shot a 283, nine under, for the four day tournament and walked away with a check for over $400,000.00, more money than he had made in the entire last two years. That finish got him an invitation to the Sony Open to be played in Hawaii the next week and just all sorts of press attention. The buzz started after about his fourth hole on the first day. His playing companions who had been a little bit aloof, probably about playing with essentially an amateur they had never heard of, started watching with great interest after Bob one putted the first four holes. At this point he was one under par having birdied the difficult third hole. At about this point Bob noticed that instead of 5 or 6 casual observers following their group there were now a few dozen. It wasn't what you would consider a "gallery" but clearly the word had started to get around the course that something unusual was happening with this group. At the turn the crowd had grown to probably 50-75 who cheered with every putt Bob made. At about this point one of the ground support people from the Golf Channel approached Al and asked: "Could we get a word and a brief interview with your guy?"

"Not now!" Al responded, "I don't want him bothered by you guys just now, talk to him after the round." Al wasn't sure if this was the right thing to do or not but he did know that he really didn't want Bob distracted.

By the end of the first round, Bob finished 3 under, 3 strokes off the lead; he was guided to the press room for the post match question and answer session. The first question was no surprise:

Reporter for ESPN: "Mr. Howard that was the most incredible round of golf I've ever seen. No one has ever played 18 holes before with only 18 putts. How did you do it?"

Bob replied, "First call me Bob and second, I wish I could tell you but I don't have a clue." He had told this lie so many times now it was getting much easier. "I just see the line, try to determine the speed and knock the putt in the hole."

Reporter: "According to the stats the longest putt you made today was on 15 and was about 50 feet with at least two breaks. Can you tell us how you read that putt?"

"Well, like I said" Bob replied, "I just picked out the line, guesstimated the speed and hit it. There's no magic to it. I suppose it would be easier if I could tell you I sprinkled pixie dust on the ball or something but that's not how it works. I hit the same putt everyone else out there hits."

Reporter: "Yeah, but yours all go in!"

The remainder of the new conference was pretty much more of the same. Bob relayed his golfing background, such as it was and generally tried not to sound like the rube he thought he was, following a real golfer like VJ Singe at the news conference.
Chapter Eight

Also on that first day Barbara Kinsolving, the director of promotions for Nike in Oregon, got a call from one of the half-dozen road guys the company employed throughout the country. These guys' job was to keep the ears to the ground, to make sure that the players Nike sponsored whether basketball players or golfers used their equipment and wore their logos properly. It was an easy job... some of the players made more money from endorsements than they earned as players. Her guy in Hawaii, Guy Parker, reported:

"Barbara, the damdest thing is happening here at the Hyundai. Some guy from Texas has just one-putted his first 6 holes. He's evidently a rookie who has not been on the tour before now and I'd guess he's in his forties. He's evidently not sponsored by anyone and I think he's worth approaching. What do you think?"

"Guy, come on," Barbara responded. "That's just a fluke, we don't have the budget to shell out for every guy who comes along one day and does something strange." At the end of the day, when Bob's first round was finished with a total of 18 putts was the lead story on every sports program, Barbara was back on the phone to Guy:

"Guy, is this guy for real? How can anyone one putt every green?"

"Beats me Barb but I followed him for the last 4 holes, along with a growing crowd, and he was making putts from everywhere. I also found out he's managed by a club pro named Greg Murphy who is over here with him. Have you rethought letting me approach him? "

"Yes", she replied, "make an initial contact and feel them out. This has to be a one-shot fluke but it's certainly worth making a pass at them."

Guy introduced himself to Greg over a beer after the first round.

"Greg, I'm with Nike", Guy said, handing Greg his card. "Your guy just had one heck of a round of golf! I noticed he doesn't seem to be sponsored by anyone and was wondering if we could sit down and talk about possibilities?"

"Sure" Greg replied. "He's going to be all the news from now on because not only is he going to win this tournament but he is going to continue to one putt every green!"

Well, he didn't win but his 3rd place finish and Greg' boast, made good, of one putting every green was enough to make Guy ask for an appointment the Monday following the tournament.

They met, Guy, Greg and Bob, over coffee at a Starbucks a few blocks away from the resort. Guy said:

"Guys you had a pretty good tournament for your first trip out. And I've never seen so many one putts, particularly on green as fast as these. How the hell do you do it?"

Bob, now having almost a stock answer to the question everyone seems to ask replied: "Guy, I don't have a clue. I mostly attribute it to Foxtrot Mike and if you don't know what that means go find some pilot and ask them. But really, I just stand over the ball, visualize the line and speed I want and knock the ball in the hole."

Guy replied: "Well it's the damdest thing I've ever seen. You're going to have people making book as to when you'll miss! There's probably a line in Las Vegas on that right now! We at Nike would be interested in talking to you about some level of sponsorship; wearing our logo, using our equipment, that sort of thing. Do you think you would be interested in something like that?"

Greg and Bob looked at each other and Greg responded:

"Of course, what did you have in mind?"

"Something along the lines of the deal we make with all the rookies who we choose to sign up, and, as I'm sure you know, we only take the cream of the crop. We'll furnish your clothing with our logo and pay you a premium for every TV shot of you with our logo. We'll also furnish you with your equipment if you will play with it. I noticed now you are using Titleist clubs with and old Ram Zebra putter."

"Right" said Bob, "I've had that Zebra a long time and as you've seen, I can use it. It would take quite a bit to get me to change. But before we even talk any further let's put this on hold for a time. I'm a bit new at this you know."

Guy knew enough to know that Bob was probably buying some time so he could talk to other prospective sponsors so he said: "Sure, whatever you guys want to do is fine. But remember, you're a hot property right now because of that remarkable putting streak. You're value will drop some when you start putting like everyone else out here."

"Okay, well... we'll see what happens," Bob replied. "Let's keep in touch."
Chapter Nine

Bob got his first win in California at the Humana Challenge which used to be the Bob Hope Desert Classic. This was after another 4th place finish in Hawaii 5 strokes off the -14 winning score for which he got another nice paycheck.

A lot of things came along with that win. An invitation to the Masters, to the Tournament of Champions, a lot more endorsement offers, Greg and Bob still hadn't signed with anyone. The Humana Challenge, it had been called lots of names, was a bit unique on the tour in that not only was it played over a series of different courses but amateurs played alongside the pros for the first few days. Some pros, Tiger Woods being the prime example, never played this tournament for exactly this reason. For many of the pros playing with amateurs could be a drag but not for Bob. Half these guys could play as well as he could. Hell, 30 days ago he could have been one of them, except he dressed a little better. In Bob's group were a rich auto dealer from San Diego, a mortgage broker from Arizona somewhere ("You gotta come out and play with us in Phoenix!" he would say to everyone he met.) and a very quiet oriental gentleman who did not say 10 words during the whole tournament. It wasn't clear to anyone what his background was but he was a serious and competent golfer. The one thing the amateurs did have in common is they were all worth big bucks.

The tournament was a best-ball event so if one of the amateurs took 3 strokes to get out of a bunker he simply picked up and did not slow up the pace of play too much. This tournament was also noteworthy because the courses were relatively easy compared to the regular tour courses and very low scores were common. Bob, in fact, had his first tournament lead mid-way through the first day when he was six under at Bermuda Dunes. He finished that first day at four under, three strokes off the lead and moved over to PGA West for his second round. That round was cancelled and after missing a day he went on to win and collect a nice check with a round the last day of 5 under at the long Classic Club. As usual, he had one putt per green and, without doubt, the largest gallery at the event, with everyone just waiting for that first putt to miss. At this point he had played 12 rounds, plus 8 holes on the rained out second day, on the PGA tour and had made exactly 224 putts. Everyone was talking about it...

But as nice as that win in Palm Springs was and the monster check that went with it, the highlight of the week, at least for Bob, was what happened the second day of the tournament when the rains came to Southern California and the round was postponed about half-way through then, finally, cancelled for the day. It was on this day that Bob more or less got accepted by the other players as one-of-the-guys and not just some freak that in two tournaments had 36 putts.

That came about in a way totally unrelated to golf. It had to do with besting one of the tours most disliked players in a poker game.

Golf, like many sports has a system of giving many of its participant's nicknames. Many are logical; look at Ernie Els' fluid golf swing and "Big Easy" just fits. Stadler, when he was playing, actually looked like a "Walrus". Other nicknames are less than complimentary and a few are in such poor taste that they are never mentioned within hearing range of the holder. Such was the case with a PGA professional whom everyone called, when he was out of earshot, "Pompous Ass", usually abbreviated as "P.A." as in: "What did PA shoot today?" (His name will remain confidential because P.A. is just the kind of guy who would sue!)

On the day of the rain-out Bob was walking through the PGA West locker room, the Humana was played on different courses, and came across an in-progress poker game. One of the players had just left leaving an empty chair and Fred Murphy, one of the tour's regular caddies called to Bob: "Hey Bob want to sit in for a few hands?"

Before Bob could respond P.A. who was sitting at the table as one of the players, came in with:

"Why are you asking him that? He might not even play poker!" P.A. who had always ignored Bob, although that was getting harder to do, was not as unhappy with Bob as he was with the fact that Fred was not only in the locker room and in the poker game but seemed to be winning. Caddies were allowed in the locker room but were expected to not hang around. They were expected to finish their business and leave.

"Are you kidding?" Fred responded. "He's from Texas. Everyone from Texas can play poker, right Bob?"

"Well, yeah, I play poker. None of you guys mind if I sit in?" Fred was right; most guys from Texas did play poker and many, pretty well.

None objected to Bob's joining the group, or no one said so. Even P.A. was not that rude, so Bob sat down.

"What are the stakes?" Bob asked.

"Pot limit with a $5.00 ante." Fred told him. "We play dealers choice but pretty much stick to straight poker. I know all the rage is Texas Hold-em but we don't do that in this game. This is usually draw or stud."

Bob glanced around the table at the chips in front of the other 5 players and guestimated that they each had some $400.00 or so in front of them. He took out $200.00, bought chips and sat down. With pot limit, unlike many other types of poker, you could bet up to the amount in the pot at the time of your bet. It was permissible to reach in your pocket for more money if needed.

They played for an hour with the TV on the wall set to the weather channel so they could keep up with the lines of weather that were holding up the tournament. Bob was winning just a small amount. The big loser so far that day seemed to be P.A. and he was clearly not happy about it.

The deal had worked its way around to the player to Bob's right and he announced:

"Seven card stud, everyone ante up."

The six of them pitched in their 5 dollars and the dealer dealt the first cards. Bob's two hole cards were the ace and 4 of diamonds his up card was the ace of spades giving him a strong start. As Bob had the highest card showing, he said:

"Let's play for ten bucks" and threw in two five dollar chips. His hand was probably worth more but he not only wanted to see what everyone else had but did not want to scare anyone away.

Everyone called around to P.A. sitting to the right of the dealer had a queen of spades showing said:

"I'll raise $50.00"

That was too much for the dealer who folded. Bob with his pair of aces didn't think P.A.'s hand was five times better than his as the raise implied so he called. What Bob didn't know was that P.A also had a pair of queens in the hole giving him a commanding position. Surprisingly, the three players to Bob's left also called and the pot had quickly gotten to $270.00.

The dealer, now a spectator/dealer passed out the second round of cards. Bob got ace of hearts and P.A got the king of clubs. Now, all of a sudden, Bob was in the commanding position with two aces showing. Normally he would have checked to P.A.'s previous raise but you can't simply check a hand that strong so Bob make a smallish bet of $40.00. ("Twenty on each ace" he had said in the hopes that he could keep most of the players in the game.)

It didn't work, the two players to Bob's left dropped out, the next called. P.A sitting there with his three queens said: "I thought you guys from Texas had balls. I'll raise $100.00."

Bob simply called but deep inside he knew he was setting the trap. The best hand P.A could possibly have was three queens and that was unlikely. Even if he had those ladies in the hole Bob had him beat.

The pot was now up to $590.00, by far the biggest of the day with cards yet to be dealt. A small crowd drifted over to watch.

Now with three players left the next cards were dealt. Bob got the three of diamonds, the player to his left got the 10 of hearts, all he could be working on Bob thought was a middle range straight, and P.A. got the 7 of diamonds.

"I'll check to that big raise" Bob said. The next player checked bringing it to P.A.

"What's the pot? $500.00 or so? That's what I'll bet" P.A said loudly and he pitched in 5 one hundred dollar chips. It was the biggest bet of the day and for that matter, the biggest single bet of this short season so far. That and P.A.'s bluster had made the crown even bigger.

Bob looked at his hand and was wishing he had asked for a clarification of the usual rule that "checks can't raise" because if he could, he would. His three aces still had him in command no matter what P.A had so he reached into his pocket for more money and said:

"I call."

That was enough to drive out the third member and it was down to Bob and P.A. who were now surrounded by virtually everyone in the locker room. The sixth cards were dealt. Bob got the five of diamonds and P.A. got the seven of clubs which potentially changed everything.

Bob had figured P.A. for a big pair in the hole or in the worst case, from Bob's point of view, a pair of queens. If he had a big pair he, Bob, was still in command. If he did happen to have those queens then P.A. had just made a full house and Bob was in trouble.

This time Bob checked sincerely hoping that P.A.'s actions might give him some clue as to what he held. P.A.'s betting had been so sporadic that Bob had not been able to get a good read on his habits.

"I'll bet $1,000.00" P.A. said. "$500.00 on each seven" mocking Bob's earlier comment about his aces. "What do you say to that Guy-From-Texas?" Bob wondered if he really didn't know his name.

Bob was squarely between a rock and a hard spot. Now he had to assume P.A. had at least two big pair, probably queens and kings, and that there was a good chance that he had a full house, queens up. That meant Bob had to hit a three, four or five to compete. The last ace had been dealt to one of the hands that had folded. Even another diamond wouldn't help and one of the diamonds, the seven, was sitting over there in P.A.'s hand looking back at him.

But is his count was right and he was pretty sure it was, there were still 7 or 8 cards in the deck that could make him pretty much the sure winner at this point. So Bob called after reaching into his pocket and taking out the last $1,200.00 he had with him.

"I'm going to have to find an ATM if we keep this up much longer."

The last cards were dealt down. P.A caught the fourth queen and if looked up in the dictionary the opposite of "poker face" it would have been his expression. You could almost see him waiting for Bob inevitable "check" so he could pounce with his four queens.

Bob got the one card he hadn't even considered in his calculations. He got the 2 of diamonds giving him an unbeatable, at least in this game, straight-flush.

Bob said: "Guys, I was serious about the ATM. I want to play but I don't have any more ready cash. Would it be alright if I went out to an ATM or somewhere I can cash a check?"

One of the guys in the crowd said:

"Hell Bob" in the last two weeks you've won over $1,200,000.00! I can't imagine anyone here not extending you a little credit!" That got a laugh from everyone except P.A. but not even he was enough of an ass to object. He did say though:

"Okay, I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll let you play lite if you'll agree to remove the table stakes limit and let us make this last round be open limit."

"Okay by me" Bob replied.

P.A. reached into his pocket and got out a pen. He scribbled a note on it, pitched it in the middle of the table and said:

"I'll bet $10,000.00", which brought the room to absolute dead silence.

"The only problem with that" Bob replied, "is it's not your bet, it's mine, my aces still control the table. But I like that number so I'll bet that same amount." And he created a quick IOU of his own to add to the pot.

P.A looked at Bob's up cards, two aces, a three and a five and knowing as Bob did that one of the aces was gone, simply did not see how he could lose. He said:

"Okay Goddammit here's your $10,000.00 plus I'll raise $10,000.00." He quickly scribbled another not.

Bob thought it through. He knew he had the winning hand but old habit and good poker-sense make him hesitate. He assumed there was a three raise limit so he tried to suck P.A in a bit further.

"Jeeze, what have you got under there, two more queens?" he said glancing with feigned nervousness at his hole cards. "I'll not go that high but I'll raise $5,000.00."

"You're called and I'll raise $20,000.00" P.A said adding yet another note to the growing stack.

"That's the last raise, so I'll call" Bob said and at the same time turned over his three hole cards. "I make it that you have $45,000.00 in markers in the pot. How do you want to handle that?"

P.A. had turned over his two hole queens showing all four at the same time Bob flipped his cards but it took him a good five seconds to realize that he had lost.

The room was absolutely still with everyone looking at P.A. Finally, he slumped back in his chair and just mumbled something incoherent.

The room erupted. Everyone started talking at once.

"Wow! That's the biggest pot I've ever seen!

And, "Did you see the look on P.A.'s face when it sunk it his queens were losers?" He had actually said "P.A" out loud but in all the turmoil everyone missed it.

Bob said as he raked in the chips and the markers: "How do you want to handle this? Do you want to settle up now or do you want to keep playing?"

"No, no..." P.A said, still in a semi-state of shock. "Stop by my locker later and I'll write you a check."

Later as many of the players were congratulating Bob on his good fortune one of them said: "You know I'd rather win $50.00 from PA than $500.00 from any of you guys."

Another said: "And I'd rather see PA lose a bundle to a rookie than just about anyone." And that got a laugh from the group.

A third said to Bob: "Bob, you should send your caddy down to PA's locker to get the check."

Bob shook his head at that suggestion just knowing that would be going a bit too far on the humiliation scale.

In fact, Bob did not have to go to PA's locker at all. A few minutes later PA found Bob and hand-delivered his check, without comment.
Chapter Ten

By now, endorsement offers were coming in from all over and Greg was spending most of his time, along with the attorney they had retained, sorting those out. It was Bob's wife who came up with the perfect answer to the endorsement issue. They had all realized that if they tied Bob's rewards to his performance with some sort of accelerated system which most companies would be happy to do they could literally bankrupt some of them. If Ping, for example, offered to give Bob $100,000.00 for the first tournament they sponsored in which he had 18 putts then agreed to double that amount for all subsequent tournaments where Bob repeated that performance they would be out of money in a hurry. They, of course, did not believe that since they along with everyone else, knew Bob would miss a putt probably sooner than later.

At a meeting in early February with Greg, Bob and their lawyer Bob's wife's said: "I've done some research on all this and I have an idea. You guys know that Titleist is owned by Acushnet. What you may not know is that Acushnet is, in turn, owned by Fortune Brands, Inc and they are just huge. Let's do a deal so for every tournament in which Bob has 18 putts Titleist will pay Bob in FO stock. It will be a good deal for them since not only will they think Bob can't keep making putts but even if he does all they have to do is issue some more stock. Their stock has been trading in the high 30s." They are a solid company and sooner or later will get bought out by the Chinese or Koreans or someone.

"Great idea!" Greg said. "Let's see if they will do a deal for maybe 10,000 shares of stock, going up 50% every week the streak continues." Greg now no longer thought of "when" but sort of switched to the thought that the streak might never end. "That means with the 5th or 6th tournament Bob will be earning about a million per week. Let's see if they'll go for that? Okay Bob?"

"Sounds good to me," Bob replied. "We'll work out all your percentages based on the stock value the day it's issued. We need to think of some way to get some of this to Little Al too. He deserves more than he's making now."

He'll appreciate that" Greg responded. "But you sure don't need to do it. I know for a fact he's making more money this year than he's ever made before. That and letting him bring his wife in the jet from time to time has put golden handcuffs on him. He's not going anywhere." Greg had, at Bob's request, made inquiries about leasing time on one of the fractionalized jet aircraft services and had entered into a short term deal with one of them.

"Still, "Bob said, "I'd like to let him share in this. No telling how long it's going to last." Of course, Bob knew just exactly how long it would last.
Chapter Eleven:

The Masters

March rolled around and Bob and Al started looking toward the Masters. So far in the year things had gone pretty much as planned. He had won in Palm Springs and again in February at Rivera at the Northern Turst. In addition, he had finished in the top ten in every tournament he entered with the exception of the match play championship. At that tournament, with its unusual format, he exited early which was good because it was late February and he was getting tired...

He had gotten to play a few rounds with Tiger Woods who was now pretty much playing full time and even though he was being out driven by 100 yards or more by Woods, still managed to do well. Naturally he was leading the tour in average putts with exactly 1.0. Woods, by comparison, was at 1.7. Also, surprisingly to him, he was in the top three in fairways hit, a result of hitting his three wood on almost every hole. Al had been right...straight was better than far every time.

Bob was in second position on the money list, Woods, was leading. The down side was that Bob was starting to get tired. So it was sort of a group decision to take some time off before the Masters and skip the two tournaments in Texas. That would make many of his home town friends unhappy, they were planning to drive to Houston and San Antonio to attend, but Bob needed a break.

So the day after the Bay Hill, Bob finished third, they flew to Augusta, Georgia.

More has probably been written about the Masters Golf tournament held the first week in April than all other tournaments combined. It had been played since 1934, every year since 1940, and interesting stories were legion.

One of the things the Masters was known for was having the fastest and most difficult green to putt on the tour. Players were said to practice putting for the Masters by putting on the concrete of their garage floors at their homes. Any number of people had said of Bob: "No way can he putt that well at Augusta." Bob, of course, knew better.

His performances were now the talk of the golfing community. And one prediction had come true: There was now a line in England, where you could bet on everything, as to when he would miss his first putt. Bob made a mental note to place a big bet when they went to England in July.

In Augusta the hotels and nicer homes available for rent were usually rented well in advance, often by the same people from year to year. However, with his status of one of the more interesting draws in golf Bob, Al and Greg had no trouble getting a nice residence at which to stay for not only the weeks leading up to the tournament but during the tournament as well.

The tournament officials were very helpful and told them they could play practice rounds as often as they wanted. They all looked forward to that as neither Al nor Greg and certainly not Bob had ever been to the Masters. Like all serious golfers they knew the course well but it was still a treat to leisurely walk through the azaleas.

They were impressed by how long it had become with two par 5s at 570 or more yards, one par 4 at 505 and another at 495. Except for the 240 yard 4th this was somewhat offset by the relatively short par 3s. The Masters powers-that-be knew that their greens were the equalizer on those shorter holes. When Bob was told exactly that by an official to himself he said: "Not this year pal."

Bob and Al played two practice rounds, one the week before the tournament and one the week of the tournament. He skipped, much to the consternation of the officials, the par 3 tournament. They walked the practice rounds as they always did, trying to determine where on each hole they wanted to place each shot. The practice rounds went pretty well and they felt good about their chances.

Their first round was at 9:00, they were about the 10th group out, and were teamed with Michael Campbell the likable New Zealander and Lucas Glover one of the many young Americans who could hit a golf ball four miles.

No matter whom you are the first time you stand on the #1 tee box at Augusta and have your name announced you're nervous. Bob was having to make himself unclench his fingers which had a strangle hold on his golf club.

"Playing in his first Masters Tournament out of Fort Worth, Texas and the winner of the Humana Challenge please welcome Bob Howard." The patrons politely applauded. At any other golf course the spectators were "the gallery" or "the fans". Here in Augusta they were "the patrons". Augusta was ridiculously anal about lots of things. The caddies were required to wear those ridiculous white coveralls, Augusta insisted on calling their guests "patrons", they had refused to let Gary McCord, the second-best golf announcer out there according to Bob, right behind Johnny Miller, return after McCord had made some offhand comment about the speed of the Master's greens. McCord said he thought they had been "bikini waxed" because they were so fast, an image that the stuffy Masters consigliore could not let pass so Mc Cord was not invited back. P.A. would be right at home here...

Bob, hitting first, addressed his ball with a bit of a knot in his stomach. The first hole at Augusta is a longish par four essentially straight. There is a large bunker down the right side out about 280 yards but for Bob's regular three wood, it was not in play. He hit his drive, with immense relief, right down the middle leaving himself about 190 yards to the green. Campbell hit next and found the right bunker. Glover would have flown the bunker had he gone that direction but instead hit a perfect power fade that worked its way from the left side of the fairway back to the center. His ball was no more than 120 yards from the green.

To make himself feel even better Bob, who was, of course, away, hit a four iron right in the center of the green. He knew he had his first birdie locked up. Campbell turned his head and gave him a "good shot" nod. Most players at the Masters agonize with their carries for minutes over every approach shot because where the ball ends up on the green is so critical. Not so for Bob; he simply took the club Al handed him and aimed for the front of the green. Even as hard and fast as the greens were he knew that a ball landing a few feet short of the green would, in most cases, stop on the putting surface with no problem; exactly as his did.

Bob made his putt of course as did Glover who had hit a wedge to within 10 feet. Campbell parred with a good chip and one putt after being a bit short with his sand shot.

The second hole is a 575 yard par 5 with big trees on both sides of the fairway and a dog leg left for the third shot. There is a bunker on the right side to catch the errant drive but it is about 290 off the tee. Not for nothing is it the #2 handicap hole on the course. Bob hit his standard three wood about 230 yards, well short of the bunker and then a second three wood about the same distance which brought him directly to the turn of the dog leg. That left him an easy 115 yards to the green, an easy 9 iron, and the second consecutive birdie was in the bag.

"Bob, you just birdied the second hardest hole out here!" Little Al said. "We're on our way!"

The third tee box is right next to #2 and #7 greens and they had to wait a few minutes for the players on 7 green to finish their putts. The hole is a short par 4, a slight dog leg left with four bunkers out about 230 off the tee. Bob landed short of those, as planned, but then pulled his approach shot into the single bunker to the left of the green. He got a bit of a dirty look from Al who handed him his sand wedge and said:

"Shake it off, just get it out to the center and we'll lock up the par."

Bob did exactly that aiming well away from the pin for the heart of the green. The sand was very soft and he played the shot well. He knocked in about a 40 foot putt for par, the same score as his playing partners.

The fourth hole is a very long par three of 240 yards. There is a big bunker in front and two to the left. Bob, who still had the honors, hit his three wood as hard as he could and was a few yards short of the front bunker. His playing partners hit 4 and 5 irons, one on the green the other pulled his slightly and just missed one of the left bunkers. Bob chipped to within 8 feet and, as usual, made his putt.

The fifth, another 450 yard par 4, was a dog leg left. Since Bob's usual shot-shape was right-to-left he felt the hole was set up perfectly for him and asked Little Al for his driver.

Al said: "Are you sure? What about all that talk about staying in your game?"

"I am staying in my game. This hold is set up perfectly for me."

Little Al didn't like it but at the end of the day he was still an employee so he handed Bob his driver.

Bob hit second, Campbell had birdied the par three 4th, and instead of hitting his usual 250 yard draw hit a big fade that wound up deep in the trees along the right side of the fairway. Very deep in the trees, 5 yards further and he would have been in the industrial park bordering that side of the course.

Al was muttering to himself as they left the tee box. Bob wasn't sure what he was saying but was sure it was something along the lines of: "Tomorrow we're leaving this friggen' club in the trunk of the car." Bob could hardly blame him for the thought. He vowed to stick with the original idea; plan-your-flight-then-fly-your-plan came to his mind from his long ago flying days.

Bob's second shot by necessity was straight sideways but he did manage to get back in the fairway albeit some 220 yards off the green. His third shot hit in front of the green but the ground was so hard the ball skipped into the greenside bunker at the back left, the only bunker by the green. A simple sand shot out, green-side sand shots are all simple when you don't have to worry about stopping the ball at a specific spot for the putt, the usual one putt and Bob was now 1 under par.

He walked to the next tee trying to ignore Little Al walking beside him and thinking that the hole he had just played was a good example of how he had lived his whole life. All his life, whether it had been baseball as a kid, chasing girls in college or running his business he had often tried to stretch just a bit further than he know he should. The smart shot last hole would have been to hit his three-wood right down the middle which he knew he could do almost every time. But dammit, it just wasn't as much fun as hitting his driver. There was a fine line between doing what you intellectually knew you should do and doing what you wanted to do for that one instant of gratification. Maybe "maturity" was knowing one from the other and having the sense to choose path A over path B. It was probably a good thing he hadn't hit that drive well, he would have wanted to do it again...

The sixth hole, even with a difficult green, is the second easiest hole at Augusta National. All the players in Bob's group hit the green. Bob and Glover one-putted for birdies. Bob also birdied the par 5 8th and finished the front nine at 3 under. While Bob' putting was still big news and got comments from everyone who saw or heard about it, their gallery was relatively sparse. Of course the Masters spectators, excuse me, patrons, were a bit of an unusual group. They tended not to be quite as demonstrative as other galleries. In California, even at 9:00 in the morning, you would see fans drinking beer. Not at Augusta and that probably contributed to the decorum. In any event, about 25 people were following their group, four of them Lucas Glover's relatives. They applauded Glover's every shot, he was two under and playing well.

The back nine for Bob and his group was pretty much uneventful. Bob birdied the 12th, the par three in Amen Corner, the 530 yard par 5 15th and the short par 3 16th, the easiest hole on the course, to finish his first day at 5 under, a few strokes off the lead. Everything else was a routine one-putt par, as routine as one-putting every hole could be. His putt on 18 for par was probably 60 feet long and got a big round of applause from the large gallery seated around the green.

As they walked to the scoring shed to sign their cards Bob was approached by Larry Abrams whom he knew as a PGA official.

"Bob, don't forget to stop by the interview room after you sign your card."

"No problem, I'll be in there in just a minute." Bob replied.

Little Al leaned over: "Bob, the TV guys want to talk to you too."

"O.K." Bob replied. "Let me get the bookkeeping done and I'll be right out. How about getting me a cold beer for the interview room?"

He signed his card, accepted congratulations from everyone in the room and headed back outside. The TV interview was pretty much a rehash of the standard questions he always got: "How do you manage to make all those putts?" "Where have you been? Why weren't you out here last year?" "How do you like your chances for the tournament?"

Bob answered all of them as succinctly as he could and headed for the interview room. Al handed him a large Coke Cola cup filled with beer. The interview room discouraged people openly drinking alcohol, although that didn't stop some of the reporters, and Bob couldn't help but wonder how much Augusta National was making because he was holding a Coke and not a Pepsi cup.

The interview room was packed with at least 50 reporters compared to the 15 or 20 Bob had seen in the past at end-of-round interviews. Again the questions and Bob's answers were fairly predictable until a question got asked by a reporter who identified himself as from The Washington Post.

"What happened on #5? It looked to me like you came within a few feet of being out of bounds. That wasn't the only fairway you missed but it was the only one you missed badly. What happened there? Was that a driver you hit?"

"Good question," Bob responded. "I just got up there and knew I could bend a driver around that corner. I get so tired of having all the other guys out drive me" with a head-nod to Michael Campbell who had just come in for his interview, "that I just wanted to at least hit one to be in the same zip code with them. I guess it's an ego thing. When I was a kid I was the longest hitter in the group I played with. Now everyone hits it nine miles past me and when I see an opportunity and a hole that sets up for me it's hard to pass up an opportunity to try. Obviously a big mistake, it was my only bogey."

He stopped to take a breath and continued: "Did you say the Washington Post? I didn't know the Post had a golf writer."

That got a laugh from the group and someone in the back yelled out: "They don't!" and that got a bigger laugh.

Bob next pointed to a girl, one of the few female sports writers he'd ever seen, sitting in the front row with her hand up.

"Okay how about you there in the red top. Got a question?"

"Yes" she replied, "I'd like to follow up on that same line of questioning if I could. We followed you around most of the day and if it were not for your phenomenal putting you would be well back in the pack."

Bob interrupted her: "If it were not for my phenomenal putting I'd be back in Texas selling coupons and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

After the interview Bob headed for the locker room and another beer. Bob and Al had a minor ritual that after each round they would sit down over a beer and discuss the round. Most of the other golfers headed for the practice tees and practice putting greens but Bob and Al felt their time was better spent going over what they did right and what had gone wrong and what they could do to fix it. By now even Bob realized that most of his problems, when he had any, were not due to mechanics as much as his mental state. Someone had said, quite accurately, years ago that golf was played between your ears. Today Bob ran down Al who was waiting for him in the locker room.

"Little Al let's skip our rehash today. I think we both know the only really stupid thing I did was that drive on 5. That was no one's fault but mine. I promise I'll listen to you tomorrow!" Al had heard that before but he let it go.

"Also", Bob continued, so let's just meet as usual on the range tomorrow morning, Okay?"

Not much Al could say to that except agree.

On Friday Bob had a later tee time and was with the same group. His day was almost a carbon copy of the day before except he listened to Little Al on #5 and hit a three wood to the middle of the fairway. He missed the green but got up and down for his par. He had 5 birdies and one bogey, caused by failure to get out of a very ugly bunker on #17, and ended the day at nine under par and tied for the lead with Mike Weir. Woods and a flock of others were a few shots back. As a comparison, the record for the lowest first 36 ever was 131 or 13 under. Bob felt if he could keep up this pace he could win.

Saturday lived up to its name of "moving day". Tiger Woods shot a 65 and went to first place. Mike Weir lost 5 shots to par and dropped back to the second page. Bob shot another conventional, for him, round of 3 under 69 and ended up the day tied with Woods for the lead.

After the round of television and press interviews where the lead question was: "How is it going to feel to be in the last group with Tiger Woods?" instead of: "How in the hell do you one putt every green?" Bob, Greg, Al and Barbara, who had come into town late Friday night, left the Club to find a quiet restaurant where they would not be bothered by fans, sorry, patrons, or the press. That was getting harder and harder to do. Many places he went now, even away from the golf courses, Bob would realize people were staring at him. He wondered how someone like a Tiger Woods could even go out for a hamburger. He imagined that he probably didn't.

Over dinner they discussed the strategy for tomorrow.

"Pretty straight forward" said Al. "Just keep on doing what you've been doing. Concentrate on hitting the center of the fairways and greens and try to ignore what's going to be going on around you. Tiger will go out of his way to not let the gallery interfere with your play. He's very good about that."

Greg added: "I wonder if that will be true if they get to Amen Corner tomorrow tied. Woods likes nothing better than to win. I've heard he's pretty good at the head games in addition to being a hell of a player."

Bob said: "I gotta tell you, it's what, 16 hours before we tee off? There's a knot in my stomach right now; I don't know how I'm going to feel tomorrow," and with that, finished his scotch. "Another double Dewar's on the rocks" he said to the hovering waiter. Perhaps there was some advantage to being recognized almost everywhere. He sure got better service.

Sunday dawned just beautifully; the Augusta Chamber of Commerce could not have ordered a better day. The azaleas were in full bloom with no assist needed to help out Mother Nature. Bob had heard that there were warm years in which the powers-that-be at Augusta National literally packed the azaleas with ice so they would not bloom before the tournament dates. That hadn't happened this year and they were all beautiful.

Bob's tee time was at 2:15 so he got to the course about noon. He had lunch, hit enough balls on the range, almost exclusively his three wood and some middle irons and tried to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He reflected that this time last year he was sitting at home watching this tournament and was, in fact, watching the very man now standing on the #1 tee waiting to start their round, Tiger Woods.

They shook hands all around, wished each other luck and as the ritual announcements were made Bob could almost see Wood's face sort of drift away to what could only be described as his game face. Clearly, he was now concentrating on the task at hand and the time for small talk was over.

The front nine was by and large uneventful. Bob missed one fairway on the par 4 7th hole but managed to get on the green in three and save his par. He birdied the par 4 5th hole as well as the par 3 6th hole. Woods eagled the 8th hole but he had bogied the difficult 4th, the 240 yard par 3, so at the turn Bob was one stroke up. A glance at the leader board showed that no one was making a big move and that many players were falling a bit back.

Bob won the tournament essentially in Amen Corner where he birdied two of the three holes and Woods played the same holes one over. Bob parred the ridiculously long par 4 11th, a 505 yard monster that anywhere else would be a par 5; his drive just made the fairway, he hit his trusty three wood to just short of the green and a wedge to the middle. He birdied the 12th the short par 3 with the very difficult green and made another pretty much routine birdie on the 510 yard par 5 13th. The last five holes were pretty much anticlimactic with Bob getting another birdie on the par three 16th and paring the remainder. He did give the patrons a thrill by leaving himself about a 50 foot putt on the final hole which, of course, he drained.

He went through the Green Jacket ceremony and the press conference with relief. He was still thinking about the most interesting question he had gotten there. Some reporter, he had forgotten from where asked:

"What are you going to choose for the Masters Club?"

Bob had a blank look on his face until someone else spoke up and said:

"That's what the Blue Bloods around here call the Champion's Dinner."

That got a laugh from the assembled journalists all of whom did not care for all of Augusta's somewhat stogy traditions. They also pointedly ignored the staff members who were looking around trying to identify the journalist who had made the comment.

Bob remembered the tradition of the winner of the previous year picking the dinner for the banquet to be held the Tuesday night of tournament week the next year.

"Geeze, I don't have a clue but I'll think of something special and inexpensive since if I remember correctly the winner also has to pick up the tab."

That got another laugh from the crowd and on that note Bob left the podium. What was going through his mind was if he would even come next year. He had pretty much decided to not compete next year in any events since he was now confident Bruce would be as good as his word and that next year he would be back to his regular game. He would always be welcome at Augusta National of course, former champions always are, but he would not what to embarrass everyone including himself by shooting a 90 out here and he doubted he could do that. Perhaps he could have some serious "injury" that would preclude playing next year. Or, and this seemed more likely, he could just retire. He probably could milk the circuit out of a big stack of appearance fees and the like for some time until everyone got tired of watching just some average golfer play and he had no taste for that.

The rest of the year, after the silly season, just flew by. Bob and Greg were getting calls every day about their plans for the next year. Well, Greg was, Bob was ducking them like crazy. On November 1st Bob decided to get out of town to some place where no one, he hoped, knew who he was and where he could continue to avoid the queries about his plans. He knew what was going to happen in exactly two weeks and didn't know, for sure, how he was going to handle it. He knew he didn't want to embarrass himself by continuing to play although he would have plenty of exemptions if he wanted them. But, he liked the action and while he would never admit it out loud, the attention he got; he had found that being a celebrity was a bit of fun. He wound up booking a commercial flight to Papara, Tahiti using his middle name, Brad, which allowed him to use his passport. And he was right... no one here had a clue who he was. He spent the next two weeks mostly lying on the beach and drinking Okolehao, he supposed imported from Hawaii.

On the morning of the 15the, the last day of "The Year" he called the Olivier Bréaud International Golf Course and made a mid-morning tee time. He decided he may as well go out and get the bad news sooner rather than later.

He got to the club house, checked in with the pro shop, arranged for some rental clubs; he had not bothered to bring any of his own, paid his green fee, a ridiculously low $45.00. As he put away his American Express card he realized that this would be the first round of golf he had actually had to pay for since the round he and Greg had played in Sequin, Texas almost a year ago.

He hit a few balls on the driving range and ignored the practice putting green. It was on the first hole, he knew, that the year would end.

As he drifted back toward the clubhouse he heard:

"Mr. Howard, Mr. Brad Howard, please check in the pro shop." Bob walked over to the pro shop and standing there in front of the desk was a woman. The man behind the desk said:

"Mr. Howard, this is Joan Martin, like you, she's playing by herself and we would like to put you together as a twosome if you don't mind." Joan was tall, slender, certainly dressed like a golfer and there were few things sexier than an attractive woman golfer. Bob looked into the greenest eyes he had ever seen and said:

"Sure glad to have the company. I hope you know the course, I've never played here."

Joan laughed and said: "Yes I know it well..."

They loaded Joan's clubs onto Bob's cart, he noticed they were absolutely the top of Callaway's line, and headed for the starter's shack.

"So, you've played here often? Do you live in Tahiti?" Bob asked.

"Actually, no I've never played here." Joan replied.

"Okay," Bob responded, "Then how do you "know it well"?

"I know lots of things." Joan replied, looking at him with those green eyes. "I know you are usually Bob Howard and not Brad. I know you're from Texas. I know you're here trying to figure out what to do with the rest of your life. I think I might be able to help."

Bob almost hit a sign as he swerved off the path and stopped the cart.

"Just who the hell are you?" Bob demanded.

"Well..." Joan replied looking him straight in the eyes, "Why don't you just think of me as the exact opposite of Bruce."

