Free Fast Greens by Turk Pipkin

where it could nestle a little closer to home.
    Once again, the pressure was on Sandy. Looking at his clubs, he considered the task facing him. His hand hesitated, this time between the five-iron and the driver: safe or maybe sorry.
    March cheered him on softly. “Swing away, Sandy. Show him how it’s done.”
    Sandy took out the driver.
    It was a lovely swing, but just as he hit a light breeze came up in our faces. It was a lovely swing, but there was no sonic boom, no burning air. It was a lovely swing, but he wasn’t Beast. The ball flew almost on the same track as Beast’s, but it came down a few feet short of the opposite bank with a splash. The noise scared up a small flock of mallards who circled toward us, flashing their iridescent green and blue wings in a banking turn as they headed off in search of a course with better golfers.
    â€œPo’ little ducks,” said Fromholz.
    It was up to March. He pulled out a three-wood with a little apology.
    â€œUs short knockers gotta use a wood just to lay up.”
    Taking the club back slowly as if he was in no hurry to win, March made his prettiest swing of the day.
    â€œMost beautimous,” said Fromholz.
    But Sandy knew better. “Hit soft,” he whispered. “Hit soft.”
    It didn’t hit soft. The ball hit hard on the sloping fairway and bounced left, picking up speed and barreling toward the water.
    â€œWhoa ball!” yelled March. “Whoa! Hold up now! Take a rest! Grow hair!”
    But the ball didn’t grow hair. It just kept rolling.
    â€œHave a wreck! Hit something! Stop!”
    It hit something—the water—and sank like a stone.
    March began to holler at the ball as if it had stepped heavily on his bunions.
    â€œThat’s a crock of fig-plucking rat-spit! Hey, ball! Why don’t you take a flying—”
    March might have given us an interesting tirade if he hadn’t been cut short by a fit of coughing that blew up his face like a red balloon until the muscles in his upper body were constricted to rigor, his strong right hand squeezing the life out of his driver. We stood frozen in tableau as the color drained from his face, the muscles gave way, and the driver dropped to the ground. Gasping for breath, he stumbled toward his golf cart and pulled out his medicine. Somehow he managed to get a couple of pills in his mouth, and within moments the attack was over, and March was once again looking and acting his own self.
    â€œGoddam bum ticker, that’s what I got.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Whew! Sweet Mother of Jesus, I hate that! Good thing we’re just playing nine.”
    â€œHey, old-timer,” said Fromholz. “You look like you been ate by the coyotes and shit off a cliff.”
    Sandy pushed Fromholz aside and put an arm around March to support his weight.
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œSon,” said March. “I’m just trying to hit every shot like it’s gonna be my last.”
    â€œListen,” Sandy said as he climbed in to drive March’s cart. “Why don’t we toss in the towel?”
    â€œForfeit? What about your going on the Tour?”
    â€œMarch, the game’s not worth dying over!”
    March forced a doleful smile. “Maybe not, but why don’t you play like it is.”
    Just then, Roscoe sauntered over to check on March.
    He ain’t so mean, I thought.
    â€œMarch. I been thinking,” Roscoe said. “Let’s play for it all.”
    â€œRoscoe, I as good as lost this hole already. That means I’m two down with six holes to go, my chest can’t decide whether to explode like a well or cave in like a mine, and now you wanna play for my land?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œYou’re on,” March told him. “Sign the deed and give it to Fromholz.”
    â€œNot so fast,” said Beast. “Does the winning pro get a share of this crummy ranch or golf course or