ROB NEFF SHOOK Arman until his eyelids barely cracked open into tiny slits. “Come on, man! It’s time to get up.”
Arman noticed the other beds were still occupied.
The tired young man massaged kinks out of his back and quickly gazed at the pre-dawn glow on the horizon. “Go away. The roosters aren’t even up yet.”
Rob pulled away the bedcovers. “You have the rest of your life to sleep, for God’s sake. We’re at the Masters! Let’s get out there before we have to phone and make a tee time,” he joked.
Joe Call, the Mid-Am champion, rolled onto his side and glanced at the clock with one eye open. “Why don’t you two take it somewhere else? It’s only 5:15, for Christ’s sake,” he said before pulling the pillow over his head.
Arman stumbled toward the single bathroom in zombie fashion, only to find it occupied. He promptly turned around and flopped back into bed.
Rob was on him like dimples on a golf ball.
“No way. What you need is a joltin’ cup of joe.”
“Yeah, just the thing needed: jumpy nerves on one of those infamous downhill putts,” Arman said while pulling on a pair of slacks.
He then tossed a coin into the air, which Rob promptly intercepted.
“What’s this?”
“It’s my lucky ball mark, called a 500 afghanis coin. Earned it on the first caddie job I had. The golfer was a rich merchant, and I felt like a millionaire with the seven dollars it was worth. Stricken with guilt, I withheld it from my family. It is a treasure I couldn’t part with—a rare indulgence I kept for myself.”
“Got any more of these? If I could putt like you, I’d be willing to carry a millstone around my neck if it would help.”
“Sorry, but you’d have to walk a mile in my shoes—or in my case, bare feet—before it would work as a talisman for you.”
On the way out, Rob halted their progress in front of the Augusta National crest that adorned the library door.
“Traditionally, Sam Snead, an extraordinarily limber man, would kick the crest as he entered the library for the Masters Club, the exclusive Tuesday gathering held every year, also known as the Champions Dinner. I’ve seen pictures of him in his seventies kicking his leg over his head to touch an eight-foot ceiling.”
Arman backed off a few steps and kicked his leg up, but it wouldn’t extend much higher than his waist.
Rob shook his head. “Maybe our first stop should be the fitness trailer,” he joked. “Taut steel cables have more flexibility than your hammies.”
ARMAN PALMED A brand-new Titleist V1 from the pile of range balls. “Man, I’ve come a long way from hitting donkey dung for practice shots.”
“Donkey dung? Sounds like a pretty shitty driving range if you ask me,” Rob said in jest.
“The only positive was that if I hit a bad shot, I could blame it on the crappy balls,” Arman volleyed in a sharp retort.
Early into their practice session, Rob turned around to ask about the reason for the persistent grumbling he kept hearing behind him. “Got a problem?”
Arman ranked another ball into place. “From out of nowhere, I’ve developed this god-awful pull.”
“I’m no golf guru, but if it’ll silence you, I’d be willing to throw my two cents in.”
Rob positioned himself behind the struggling golfer. “Where you aiming?”
“That blue flag out there,” Arman said, pointing.
“Didn’t you used to hit a nice little fade?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been working on a draw. It suits this course better.”
Rob laid a club across Arman’s toe line. “Now, come back here and take a look at this.”
“Unreal. I thought I was aiming right for the draw, but not that far right.”
“You’re subconsciously coming slightly over the top, trying to pull it back on line.”
Rob repositioned his friend’s feet to be more in line with the target. “Try that, and see what happens.”
Arman hit a nice draw that almost struck the flag. “I see what you’re doing. In the event I beat you, all the credit will still go your way.”
“An odd way of saying ‘Thanks,’ but I’ll take whatever I can get. What do you say we make it to the first tee before you forget what you’re doing?”
THE STILL, COOL morning air facilitated a light mist that gently settled on the fairway, transposing it into an apparition that shimmered like sparkling diamonds when the sun’s rays kissed the dew.
Rob had trouble keeping up with Arman as they headed toward the tee. “Hey man, slow it down. If you’re already this hyped, I don’t even want to consider what the excitement will do to your game once we hit the course.”
Arman dropped back in line with Rob. “You’re right. I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“Remember, golf is golf no matter whether you’re playing Kabul Golf Club or Augusta National. And if you can convince yourself of that, you’re a better man than I,” Rob managed to add with a straight face.
The 455-yard first hole generally played over par, as did all the holes with the exception of the par fives and the short, 350-yard third called Pink Dogwood.
An electric charge coursed through Arman’s body as he stood on the tee where visions of past champions flashed through his mind like an old-time, private picture show. He visualized Arnie hitching up his pants and the violent swing action that followed. In his mind’s eye he admired the smooth, oily glide through the ball that only Slammin’ Sammy could replicate.
“Why don’t you lead us off?” Rob insisted.
“Go ahead. I have to do some deep breathing before I’ll be able to get my tee in the ground.”
“You’d better do something about those nerves before Thursday.”
Rob took the honors but backed out of the tee box when a familiar voice rang out.
“Would you guys mind if we join you?”
Arman’s knees buckled when he turned to see Phil Mickelson and Jon Rahm approaching, poised with drivers in hand.
“As long as you don’t make us look too bad,” Rob exclaimed.
“I can’t speak for Jon, but I’m in a pretty bad slump. I haven’t won in four years,” Phil said with a wry smile.
“I’d trade my A game for your slump any day,” Arman piped up.
“What do you fellows want to play for? How about a hundred, best ball?”
Arman looked crestfallen. “I assume you’re talking dollars.”
Phil read him like a book. “How about we give you one a side?”
“Excuse me while I confer with my partner,” Rob said, pulling Arman out of earshot of the pros. “If you’re gonna play with the big boys, you’re gonna have to pay your dues. This will be the cheapest and only golf lesson you’ll ever receive from a Hall of Famer.”
“Hey, I’m living on a shoestring as it is. A hundred smackers will knock the stuffing out of my budget.”
“Who says we’re gonna lose?”
“Get real.”
“Tell ya what. I’ll spot you the hundred. Pay me back if and when you can.”
“Gentlemen, we have ourselves a game!” Rob declared.
Arman scoped out every move his idol made. He marveled at how full and fluid Phil’s swing was, even at his age.
Never one to disappoint, the Hall of Famer outdrove both Arman and Rob by more than a few yards. Typically, Phil began the mind games early. “Damn, if I don’t start hitting the clubface, I may as well pack up and go home.”
“Trade you,” Arman proposed, much to Mickelson’s amusement.
Rahm blew everyone away with his short, quick backswing. His ball was singing that Linda Ronstadt classic “Blue Bayou” as his drive never looked back.
“Don’t bother telling me you didn’t get all of that one,” Rob said.
Rahm half-smiled, betraying his intent. “A bit on the toe, but I’ll take it.”
Arman’s confidence grew as the match wore on. His team kept up with the veterans until the thirteenth when the Mickelson twosome went on a tear, scoring eagle, birdie, eagle, birdie, birdie, birdie.
Phil wore a big smile as he replaced the pin on eighteen and removed his hat. “Good game, guys. We just got lucky at the end.”
After shaking hands, an awkward silence ensued as the victors awaited their spoils.
Pressured by the financial burden, Arman unconsciously blurted out to Phil. “How about we go double or nothing on flop shots from over there?” he asked, pointing to a spot on the short side of the pin. “My choice of clubs.”
Phil’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He looked toward Rahm and said to him, “If it’s all right with you, I’ll represent our team.”
His partner extended a sweeping arm.
“Time out,” Rob interjected, fashioning his hands into a T while pulling his man aside. “No way, dude,” he whispered. “You’re insane to even think about going against the best flopper on the planet. Sorry, but I can’t back you on this one. It’s all on you.”
Arman patted him on the back. “To paraphrase a line from Trevino, ‘Pressure is playing for five bucks when you only have two bucks in your pocket.’ Watch and learn, my friend. Phil’s not the only hustler in this group.”
Mickelson waited patiently nearby with his sixty-four-degree wedge in hand.
Arman pulled a two-iron from his bag and waved it in front of Phil’s nose. “My club of choice, remember.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! A flopper with a two-iron?”
“If you’re not up to it, I understand. It’s not a shot everyone has in the bag,” Arman said, confident he had a fish on the line.
Phil couldn’t stop shaking his head. “Hey, I’m game if you are. It’s worth a Benny to see what you’ve got. Go ahead; show me how it’s done.”
Arman placed his ball on a perfect lie atop the rough surrounding the green. He then summoned all the strength and courage he had conjured that day he had pulled off the same impossible feat in front of Mohammad.
The amateur held his breath as the blade sliced cleanly under the ball. To his surprise, it attained a height he had never achieved before. The ball bounced off the frog hair and took two small hops.
He watched with trepidation as it began to tumble end over end toward the hole. As the ball rolled past the pin toward the lower terrace on the two-tier green, he looked away.
Then he heard Phil exclaim, “Oh, my God! I don’t believe it!”
Arman looked up. His ball was perched precariously on the precipice of the fall line. He immediately ran past the hole and marked it.
Phil clapped his hands. “That was not only a great shot but also a veteran move in marking that ball.”
The pro choked his two-iron down to the metal and rehearsed the shot. His long, flowing swing was reminiscent of those he’d used on miracle shots Arman had witnessed so often on television.
He opened the face until it looked as though he could pop it straight up and hit himself in the forehead. The ball came off at a slightly shallower angle but landed at the edge of the rough, which killed some of the speed. Filled to the brim with child-like excitement, he began to run after his ball.
“Slow down, honey!” he shouted, motioning downward with the palms of his hands.
The Callaway seemed to obey as it crept painfully slow until it rested near the fall line. It appeared to have stopped inches inside Arman’s marked ball.
“Tough luck. You had me there for a second,” Phil said, bending to retrieve his ball.
“Hold it!” Arman shouted. “It moved.”
Phil’s hand hovered over the ball while he astutely observed the white sphere.
“I don’t see anything. I think it’s dead in the water,” he said.
Arman knew that welshing on a bet with the great Phil Mickelson was not an option. Then, to his sheer delight, the ball moved only a dimple, then two, then three, before it picked up speed and ran to the front of the green.
“That was certainly rude,” Phil said, throwing both hands in the air. “Somehow I get the feeling that’s not the first time you’ve ever hit that shot,” he commented with a quizzical grin plastered across his face.
“Ask no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” Arman evasively quipped before walking off the green with the Benjamin still secure in his wallet.
“I’ve got five bills that say you won’t pull that shot off during competition.”
“No worries there. Your money’s safe. Although, if I’m hopelessly out of the tournament, it might be worth it for five big ones.”
“I’d love to hear what the commentators would say about that. You guys have a good one, and best of luck to you.”
Rob couldn’t stop shaking his head as he and Arman walked back to the Nest. “Man, I’ll tell you something. You totally blew my mind. Where’d you come up with that?”
“Necessity is the mother of invention. At one time, I owned only one club, a two-iron, which had to serve the purpose of the thirteen others I was missing. That flopper was a piece of cake compared to an explosion from a buried lie.”
“Now you’ve gone from the sublime to the absurd, my friend. With shots like that, you could start touring in a one-man freak show.”