I COME CLOSE TO hitting the 5-wood of my and Seamus’s dreams. Excruciatingly close. I crawl into the quiet spot he urged me to find before every shot and the swing I put on it embodies everything about my game that is worthwhile. I flush it and the ball climbs into the cold damp air and banks left in a tight almost Tiger-esque draw. It bounces fifteen feet onto the green and rolls toward the back flag, but along the way it drifts ever so slightly right. That’s all it takes to roll off the side and slip through the short fringe. When the ball finally stops, it sits precariously in the middle of the road like a disoriented turtle.
“That is exactly why the correct play was short in front,” says Seamus, “but we got lucky.”
Seeing me in the road gives Tiger all the more reason to hit the short percentage shot, but perhaps he is tired of me clinging to his pant leg and wants to settle this thing now, because he flights his 8-iron right at the hole. His swoosh-festooned ball travels an eerily similar arc to mine, and also rolls over the edge, through the fringe, and onto the road. The only difference is that Tiger’s ball carries enough pace to roll through the road and comes to rest on a strip of grass between the macadam and a wall.
Our distances from the hole are close enough that the official with our group pulls out a tape measure, and while he determines who is away, Seamus and I take a good look at Tiger’s lie. You’d think Tiger reaching the grass and us in the road would put us at a disadvantage, but it’s the opposite. Chipping off macadam is hard for the club, not the golfer. The ball sits high, and knowing it’s impossible to hit it fat removes most of the guesswork. After the official concludes that I’m far, I chip it cleanly and the ball skids to a stop, three feet from the hole.
A handful of players who’ve already completed their rounds have walked back from the clubhouse to watch these last couple of holes in person. Among them are Colin Montgomerie, Tom Lehman, Tiger’s friend Notah Begay, and the Swedish star Jesper Parnevik. Parnevik is accompanied by his wife and children, the youngest of whom is carried by his blond nanny. Perhaps Tiger is human after all, because as the gallery backs away to give him room, he smiles flirtatiously at the striking young woman.
But what happens next is even more unlikely. Tiger’s ball has come to rest on a strip of grass between the road and a wall about six feet short of a fire hydrant painted the same municipal yellow as the boot affixed to my rear tire, and although the hydrant is not close enough to impede his swing or pose a threat, Tiger stares at it intensely as if hypnotized. It’s hard to fathom. Who other than Louie would be mesmerized by a fire hydrant, and maybe I’m imagining it, but when he finally turns away he seems shaken. In any case, he doesn’t evince his usual razor-sharp focus and his pitch runs ten feet past the hole. When he leaves his comeback short and I clean up my three-footer, Tiger and I are tied for the lead.