THROUGH THE TALL GLASS windows of the terminal, I watch Simon from behind as he walks up to the Eastern Air Lines counter, picks up his boarding pass, and hustles toward his gate. Unlike him, I’m in no rush. My flight to O’Hare isn’t till morning and for a few minutes—ten, fifteen, maybe more—I sit at the curb with the engine running and sift through the wreckage.
Instead of reliving the catastrophe on 18 and the botched holes and lousy swings that made the difference between twelfth and eighth, I return to last night’s dinner at Sandy’s, where after wiping the barbecue sauce from his mouth, Simon told me he was turning pro. Rather than tormenting myself about this or that putt that didn’t drop or the dubious thinking down the stretch, I focus on the pleasure I got from turning over the prize money to Simon. Golf figures less in the replay than my recollections of working side by side for four days. And some of my fondest recollections are the least eventful—eating meals together, sitting on our hotel beds catching the highlights on ESPN, enjoying each other’s company and bad jokes, and simply sharing time.
When I finally pull away from the curb, the sun has set and the sky is streaked with orange. Driving as slowly as the white-haired men and blue-haired women who have just dropped off or picked up their grandchildren, I slip into the easy Sunday-evening procession back toward town. The road that leads to the freeway is lined with small strip malls whose modest businesses are closed for the evening. The only light comes from gas stations, low-budget motels, and the occasional billboard.
I’m heading with little enthusiasm in the direction of the hotel when a brightly colored food truck catches my eye, along with the impressive line of people waiting to order. Grateful for an option other than room service or a loud antiseptic restaurant, I switch lanes and turn into a dim parking lot sprinkled with beat-up old cars and pickups. The people in line are all men, and based on their sweat-stained shirts and hats, they’ve had a harder and longer workday than me. The fragments of overheard conversation are in Spanish.
As I’m waiting in line, my cell goes off in my pocket, and although I don’t recognize the number, I answer it.
“Travis, this is Bob Herbert. I cover golf for the Tucson Gazette, the morning daily out here. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“I heard about what you did on eighteen and taking a seven. Can you take me through that decision?”
“It was pretty simple. I wasn’t sure if the ball hit me and I’m still not. So I had no choice.”
“Part of the reason I’m asking is that there was a cameraman shooting color for KXP News and he happened to film your shot out of the bunker.”
“And?”
“I’m calling from their editing truck. We just went through the sequence frame by frame and it clearly showed that the ball never hit you or any part of your clothing.”
“You’re absolutely sure about that?”
“One hundred percent.”
Rather than respond, I gaze above the truck at the orange-streaked sky.
“Travis, I know this has to be upsetting, but can you share your reaction to this news?”
“So be it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I repeat, but what I’m thinking is that after forty-seven years, me and Richie are finally all square. “And thanks for the call. I was going to find out sooner or later and I’d just as soon find out now.”
I order two quesadillas and a Tecate and hunker down on the curb. The orange has drained from the sky and a dramatic sunset has eased into a chilly desert night, and although the seating is a tad harsh for a bony middle-aged butt, I feel entirely at ease and the food is delicious. If by some miracle I ever make it back to the tour and Tucson, I’ll keep an eye peeled for a red and green truck emblazoned with AQUI CON EL NENE (“here with the baby”) in fat blue script.