AT FIRST GLANCE, the shot seemed routine.
Arman Yasin faced a straight, uphill two-footer to extend a playoff for the U.S. Amateur Championship. Such a simple putt would normally be a no-brainer for the talented twenty-two-year-old, but a spike mark the size of Mount Everest stood guard directly in front of the hole.
Scanning the line, Arman’s caddie buried his face in both hands.
“Let’s summon an official to make a ruling.”
“What’s the point? The rule on spike marks won’t change until 2019.”
“Can’t hurt. The worst he can say is ‘no.’ Right? Maybe the damage was caused by some outside agent.”
“Such as?”
“What if someone stubbed the green with the flagstick?”
Arman rolled his eyes. “It’s obviously a spike mark. Need I remind you, golf is a game of honor?”
Rules Official Bob Mann ambled onto the green with transmitter in hand, wearing his trademark floppy hat and an expression of doom. He stopped adjacent to the protruding monticule and shook his head.
“Tough break. I think you already know what I’m about to say.”
Arman nodded. “Probably. Guess I was hoping for some kind of miracle.”
“Rule 16-1 clearly states that repair of spike marks is prohibited. Sorry, you must play the ball as it lies.”
Arman took his time, analyzing the problematic situation from all angles. He briefly considered chipping, but that would require holing out on the fly off the tightest of lies. There was no way around it. His only option was to bang the putt at the formidable barrier and hope for a favorable hop.
The insufferable, sultry conditions left him feeling feeble. Arman shielded his eyes from the glaring sun and took one last look down the line while shaking his head. He settled over the putt but was forced to back off when a stinging bead of sweat blinded him. The beleaguered young man signaled his caddie for a towel.
“What are the odds?” he commented, wiping away the burn.
“You got this. Piece of cake,” the caddie lied through his teeth.
The ball came off Arman’s putter hotter than a flaming match head and stuck to the green like Velcro until it began the arduous trek up the mount’s southern slope. The mission was aborted three-quarters of the way up the precipice when the ball flung from the face of the escarpment at an obtuse angle before devilishly flirting with the hole.
The collective groan that rose from the incredulous assemblage of spectators tore through the middle of Arman’s chest as if a wooden stake had pierced his heart.
He squeezed both eyes shut, but reality stood hard and firm as the little white sphere mocked him. The Titleist had settled only inches from the cup, but it may as well have been miles away. While helplessly looking on, his gut did a full belly flop as he suppressed the urge to purge the hot, acidic slurry eating its way up his throat.
Caddie Farjaad yelled in his brother’s ear. “Arman, snap out of it! It’s not the end of the world. You’re still going to the Masters.”
“The Masters?”
“Did you forget? The runner-up also receives an invitation.”
Arman’s soul lightened and his roiling entrails flatlined. “The Masters? That’s right! I’m going to the Masters!”
“Damn straight, bro.”
His heart was infused with an overwhelming sense of joy. He grasped his brother’s hands and began to dance in circles, laughing his fool head off, much to the amusement of the gallery.
The victor, Rob Neff, removed his hat and wandered over to shake hands. “Sorry it had to end this way.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Arman said. “You played well and deserve the win.”
Ten minutes later, after concluding his interview with the winner, television personality Pat Greely stood by with Arman. Realizing it was showtime, he switched on the microphone and flashed his hundred-watt smile.
“That spike mark was a most unfortunate break, but I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a happier golfer—even more remarkable in light of such a demoralizing defeat. What’s going through your mind?”
Arman leaned into the microphone that had been thrust toward his face. “My brother, who is also my caddie, just reminded me that I’m going to the Masters. What could be better than that?”
“You’ve got a point, but a U.S. Amateur trophy would’ve made the trip that much sweeter.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective. It’s not what was lost but what has been gained. I’ve had the opportunity to play golf on the best courses, against the most skilled players, in the greatest country in the world.”
“Well, that’s certainly an interesting outlook—one I’m sure viewers didn’t see coming. Good luck to you at the Masters. Now, back up to you, Lanny.”
Greely turned the mic off. “Arman, I was wondering if you could hang around for a bit. We’d like to tape an interview that’ll be aired on Golf Channel later.”
“Make me an offer I can refuse,” the jubilant golfer suggested lightheartedly. “Think it’ll take long?”
“Shouldn’t take more than half an hour at most.”
ARMAN WAS HEADING to the locker room when Jim Cowl, a Stanford teammate who’d competed earlier in the week, interceded.
“Man, what a barf fest that was! You took it in the shorts for sure. Looks like you could use a stiff one,” he teased.
Arman smiled at the intentional double entendre. “Nothing stiffer than a cold brew for me, thanks.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been bi-curious,” Jim taunted.
“In my home country, such acts are punishable by death, which tends to discourage that kind of activity. Besides, the thought of your junk—God forbid—makes me nauseous,” he said with mock disgust.
“I’m only trying to expand my international appetite for such proclivities. Can’t blame a guy for trying, can ya?”
“Guess not. Think I’ll just settle for that drink right now.”
“What about later?” Jim said with a devilish grin and a wink.
“Stop before I’m forced to file a sexual harassment suit against you,” Arman said, playfully pushing his friend toward the bar.
Arman surveyed the plush setting as they seated themselves in the dimly lit lounge. He pinched his arm and gave the skin a twist.
“In some circles that might be considered self-abuse,” Jim commented.
“You never give up, do ya? Just checking to make sure I’m not dreaming. Seems like only yesterday I was watching my mother huddled over a smoky oven on a dirt floor cooking naan, the traditional bread of our country. The wealth of this nation never ceases to amaze me, and the dough athletes rake in really blows my mind.”
“May be true, but rarely do you hear about the struggling golfers who fade into obscurity, broke and defeated. Bad luck here and there, like you got today, could make or break a player. That being said, you got the royal weenie today, buddy. What else can you say?”
Arman used a fingertip to swirl the thick head of foam topping a pint of Guinness.
“Hey, as we all know, golf—as life itself—is not fair a good portion of the time, but like they say, ‘It is what it is.’ Harboring regret generates negative energy. One thing I don’t need heading into the Masters is the life force sucked out of me.”
“Wish I could be that chill. I’d be hunting down the son of a bitch that screwed me over.”
“Lighten up. It was an accident. Golfers don’t intentionally sabotage the games of other players.”
“You might get a different opinion if you were to interview many of Seve’s opponents.”
“There’s a big difference between gamesmanship and sabotage, although I’m sure once he got into your head it might be hard to differentiate between the two.”
“Well, you’re a better man than me, Gunga Din. I say, ‘Off with his head!’”
“Remind me to stay on your good side. Your evil twin is scaring the hell out of me.”
“You know, now that you’ve got a rep, guys are going to be gunning for you.”
“Bring it on. I can only control my game. Some days you’re the hammer; other times, the nail.”
“Never realized what a deep thinker you are. Perhaps you should change your major to philosophy. Where do you come up with all this stuff?” Jim asked.
“Generally, I base my ideology on the crack of a fortune cookie. But when that fails to answer life’s most pressing questions, I turn to presidential tweets.”
“It’s a wonder you’re so well-rounded with such a square head.”
Arman’s victorious opponent sashayed over with his newly acquired entourage shadowing every move.
“Great match. Momentum was on your side. If your putt had dropped, I suspect the outcome would’ve been different.”
“That’s the way the cookie crumbles. I’m sure you’ll be a great ambassador as the reigning champion.”
“Guess the next time we meet will be at the Masters.”
“Not a bad gathering place, I must say.”
“I’ve played worse goat tracks,” the victor snickered. “See you there.”
Jim capped off the dregs of his beer with a burp. “I still don’t see how you’re able to casually shrug off adversity the way you do.”
“I’m a firm believer in keeping everything in perspective. Sure, golf’s important to me and sure, I want to win, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s only a small part of who I am—not what I am. There are so many other issues in life that bear much more weight than a game of golf.”
“Sounds to me like a mystical philosophy illuminated by some guru seated on a Tibetan mountaintop, but I know what you mean. I see so many players with big egos who live and die with each stroke, each putt, or each round. They often forget what and who they are. Their world is so small, you could fit it inside a thimble—”
Jim stopped short. “Is that guy waving at us? He’s looking right this way.”
Pat Greely stood on his tiptoes to scan the lounge and waved frantically at Arman when he spotted him. Impeccably dressed, Mr. Hollywood’s perfectly fitted set of gleaming veneers could be seen across the room.
“There you are,” he said as he approached. “Been hunting all over hell and back for you. About ready to become a celebrity?”
“I guess this would be considered my fifteen seconds of fame?” Arman quipped.
“No doubt you’ll be receiving a lot more attention in the coming months as the Masters nears. As a human interest story you’ve already become somewhat of a celebrity. You nervous?”
“Not nearly as nervous as I was while standing over the two-footer that cost me the Am trophy.”
“Good to hear. The commentator will ask a few simple questions about your past and how you were introduced to the game. Don’t worry. There’ll be no embarrassing or trick questions.”
“That’s a relief. Hate to mess myself in front of a national audience.”
“A word of advice, though. It shouldn’t come up, but for sure I’d stay away from any political statements, especially on the subject of the war being waged in your country. It’s a no-win situation regardless of the stance you take.”
“Religion also,” Arman said. “I doubt most Americans would want to hear quotations from the Quran.”
“Yeah, smart choice. Those two hot-button topics have been the cause of more than one war.”
“Who’s conducting the interview?”
“None other than Brandel Chamblee.”
“He comes across as a nice enough guy on television.”
“Believe it or not, he’s even more personable off camera.”
Jim stood to shake Arman’s hand. “Maybe I should get your autograph before you become a superstar. Might be worth more on eBay that way.”
“That right there’s money in the bank. Maybe I’ll even sign a photo for you. I wouldn’t want to forget the little people I used as stepping stones on my way to stardom,” Arman deadpanned.
“The higher you rise, the farther the fall,” Jim countered.
IF ARMAN DIDN’T know better, he would’ve thought Pat Greely was running for office. The man kissed more babies, shook more hands, and slapped more backs than Trump did during his presidential bid. He wouldn’t be surprised if Greely might someday use his VIP status to gain entry into the whitest house in America. After all, one need only look to celebrities such as Reagan or Trump to see how far fame can take you. It’s not that he didn’t like the guy. He was just too phony and shallow for his taste, which in reality is what it takes to get elected to public office.
Arman was marshaled to one of the NBC compound trailers that interfaced with Golf Channel. He directed his attention to the slew of television screens, electrical equipment, and personnel packed into the caravans like sardines.
“I never realized what a monumental effort goes into the production of a live telecast.”
“You haven’t seen nothing, kid. This only scratches the surface.”
A very attractive female makeup artist in her early twenties greeted him on the set, which had already been staged for the interview.
Beauty was only one aspect of her allure. Blessed with an inexplicable magnetic appeal that demanded and held Arman’s attention from the get-go, her provocative scent was an intoxicating drug that titillated his senses, leaving him slightly vertiginous.
She steadied him by lightly touching his back. “You okay? Look a little unsteady there. Here, have a seat.”
He gazed hypnotically into her eyes. “Think I might need something to eat. That’s all.”
“The staff is having an impromptu late lunch. You’re welcome to be my guest if you’re interested.”
Arman squirmed as a bevy of fluttering butterflies migrated to his stomach. “Best offer I’ve had all day. How can I refuse?”
She tied on a bib to protect his clothing and commenced application of minimal makeup. “Saw what happened on that last putt,” she said while drawing a thin line above his upper eyelashes. “What a bummer.”
“If that’s the worst thing that happens to me today, I’m a fortunate man.”
She stopped applying the eyeliner, parted her lips in a most alluring way, and stared at him for just a second.
“Well, that certainly is refreshing. I’m Jessie, by the way. Loved that little dance you did at the end. You seem pretty psyched to be going to the Masters.”
“Who wouldn’t be? It’s every boy’s dream.”
“Don’t forget about us girls. Through a connection or two, I managed to score a ticket. It’s almost like winning the lottery.”
“So, I assume you play golf?”
“Well, I play at it. My game’s certainly not the same one you play. Yours is an entirely different animal.”
“That you find it enjoyable is what’s important. I see way too many amateurs overestimate their game, and when they fail to live up to those high expectations, frustration and anger sully the pleasurable pastime golf was meant to be.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Contrary to what is taught, I find lowered expectations equal lower stress—not that I don’t try, mind you. I have more difficulty controlling my highs rather than my lows.”
“You ought to write a book. That’s pretty impressive advice if you ask me.”
“Everyone’s different, so what works for me might not work for you.”
“Apparently, you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“Just enough to keep my game above water. It’s easy to get carried away with too much analysis. Sometimes the simplest way is the best way.”
“You know, Mr. Yasin, I think there’s a lot more going on behind those big brown eyes than you’re letting on.”
“It’s all a front. Truth be known, deep down I’m a scared child with more questions than answers.”
“See, that’s what I mean. How many guys have the maturity to seek knowledge rather than trying to inflate their importance, ultimately revealing how little they really know?”
Pat Greely popped in wearing his trademark perpetual plastic smile. “Ready to go, champ? It’s showtime.”
Jessie removed his bib and patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck. If you’re still hungry after the interview, come look me up.”
“There’re a lot of uncertainties in life, but missing lunch with you is not one of them.”
“Why, Mr. Yasin, you sure know how to charm a girl,” she said, her words falling ever-so-softly upon his ears.
Greely led him to the staged setup and seated him in front of a camera. “How’d you manage to melt the ice queen?”
“You talking about Jessie?”
“Been trying to bang her ever since she hired on, but the bitch won’t give me the time of day.”
Arman noticed his wedding ring. “Maybe it’s because you’re married.”
“Didn’t wear it when she was around at first, but still no luck.”
“I’d chalk it up to women’s intuition. The fairer sex has an uncanny ability to smell a rat when it comes to things like that—almost a sixth sense.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say I just got slammed,” he said with a sarcastic guffaw. “Sounds to me like you’re a player.”
“I’ve been played a few times, that’s for sure.”
The technicians turned on the studio lights.
“You about ready there, sport?” Greely asked.
Arman took a deep breath and nodded.