Free Miracle at Augusta by James Patterson Page B

usual four blocks reminds me how much the neighborhood has changed since Sarah and I moved in twenty-seven years ago. Every other house has been razed, rebuilt, or added to within an inch of its life, and the new construction is bloated and out of scale for the half-acre lots. In many cases, there’s no yard left, and what’s the point of paying down a mortgage if you can’t walk out on a summer evening and have a catch or hit a few chips?
    A block away and across the street is a turreted eyesore, and in front of it, a dozen slouching teens wait on their bus. Standing among them—but not with them—is a tall student wearing a green wool cap.
    “Hey, Louie, look. It’s Jerzy.”
    I wave but fail to get Jerzy’s attention. As he gazes into the distance like an explorer scanning the horizon, three classmates in shiny black parkas saunter over. By way of greeting, the middle one punches him in the stomach. Then the other two, who are bigger, join the fun. As Louie and I look on, pinned to the wrong side of the street by brisk commuter traffic, one knocks the books from Jerzy’s hands. The third kicks them down the street.

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    TRANSFORMING BIG OAKS INTO Augusta National requires not only concentration but a certain level of optimism, and after witnessing what happened to Jerzy, I’m not feeling it. Instead of dogwoods and doglegs, I see a school bus rolling down an upscale suburban street, and instead of my line and trajectory, I picture Jerzy trapped inside, doing his best to act like what just happened didn’t, avoiding eye contact with his classmates as assiduously as they avoid his.
    Unable to float a color-corrected daydream, I lower my sights and aim my 8-iron at the filthy Srixon banner hanging from the wire mesh at the end of the range. I had a feeling Jerzy saw me waving from across the street, and now I’m certain of it. His not wanting to acknowledge me suggests he knew what was about to happen, and that probably means it happens a lot. And so much for that explanation for the wound on his forehead.
    After a dozen desultory swings, I abort my practice and walk across the street to a diner, where I nurse a coffee till it’s time to pick up Noah. Reflecting on this morning leads inevitably to thoughts of Noah, who, like me, took an instant shine to Jerzy. Let’s face it, Noah is a bit of an odd duck himself. Does that mean he’s going to have to deal with this crap in a few years?
    At Belltown Grammar, three yellow and black buses are lined up in the lot. Manufacturers must make them look antiquated on purpose. In forty years, they’ve barely changed. Is that why they stir such strong feelings and pop up in so many coffee commercials? This afternoon, they seem sinister in their indifference.
    Lost in thought, I don’t notice Noah until he opens the front door.
    “How was practice, Dad? Bring Augusta to its knees?”
    “Actually, I just hit balls.”
    “Really?”
    Now he’s the one worried about me.

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    THE NEXT MORNING IS worse, because like Jerzy, I know it’s going to happen again.
    I had hoped to reach the bus stop sooner, but Louie doesn’t take well to being hustled, and by the time the turrets loom, the school bus has made the turn onto Parade Hill Road. Like yesterday, Jerzy is conspicuous for his height, isolation, and attire, which bears little relation to the season or decade. Despite the twenty degrees, he wears a too-small blazer over a white shirt, and his signature green cap. In their dark parkas, his tormentors are easy to spot as well. For the moment, they ignore Jerzy, but even from across the street, I can tell that the reason they’re hanging back is to instill dread, which for characters like these is half the fun.
    The leader and his backup muscle don’t sidle over until the bus is a hundred feet away, and this time Jerzy ends up on his knees on the curb and his books end up in a puddle. Once again, Louie and I are too late, and when we cross the street the bus doors are