Free Sports in Hell by Rick Reilly Page B

screamer—an absolute rocket-propelled grenade—that looked like it might part Tony’s hair. It sailed right over him and was still howling as it crossed the cliff. My primo pound of the day.
    On the radio, there was a “Crap.”
    Crap?
    â€œWe didn’t have anybody down there,” Tony said.
    It took me a good forty minutes to get down this time—sometimes going belly-down cliffs and feeling my way for footholds—all while holding golf clubs. Aubrey, though, looked like she was maybe shopping at Nordstrom’s. Who
was
this girl?
    When we got there nobody could find it. We looked for fifteen minutes and finally gave up. A lost ball already. My next shot would be my fifth. Winning was out of the question. Surviving was the best a guy could hope for now. I sat on a rock ledge to take a rest while the spotters scampered down to get in position again. I was just sitting there—swear to God—when I looked behind me and there it was, sitting under a ledge. As though it had decided to just get some shade and chill. I pointed wordlessly to Aubrey and then to the ball. Seeing as how there is no five-minute rule, she allowed it.
    Buoyed, I let the next one rip, very high, a little leaky, straight downhill. I radioed ahead: “You guys got it?”
    â€œGot what?” Tony said.
    â€œMy ball.”
    â€œYeah, we’re ready.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTell us when.”
    â€œWhen what?”
    â€œTell us when you’re gonna hit.”
    â€œI already hit.”
    â€œYou already hit?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œUh-oh.”
    â€œPlease tell me you’re kidding.”
    â€œNo. We didn’t know you hit. We have no idea where it is.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œAbsolutely no clue.”
    â€œCrap.”
    The thing was as lost as Amelia Earhart. We finally gave up. That meant I was now going to be hitting six.
    â€œYou really gotta make sure we know you’re hitting,” Tony said. You think?
    Now it was really getting hot. My boxers were crawling. My jeans felt about 165 degrees. The horseflies were holding a convention near my ears. And I was losing my swing. My spotters were moving from the last glow of inebriation to the first shafts of headaches. They looked like they might stage a mutiny, especially after my sixth shot—a Newt Gingrich: short and right.
    But that’s when I saw Dennis.
    He’d changed clothes already—“I sweat so much,” he admitted. And no wonder. The guy hit it farther than many SkyWest flights. About 50 percent farther than me.
    â€œWow,” I said. “What do you lie?”
    â€œThat was six,” he said.
    Holy cow! It was a revelation.
    Self:
We’re in this thing!
    Buzzkill self:
What about Caleb, you cheesebrain?
    â€œSeen Caleb?” I tried, casually.
    â€œUh, I think he’s having trouble,” Dennis said. “Lotta lost balls.”
    Holy Christ! You’re a real boy, Pinocchio!
I started picturing myself giving the winner’s speech.
“Well,”
I’d say,
“if there was one hole that was the key to my round, I’d say …”
    I knocked my last shot off the mountain. From there on, it was strictly straight drivers over endless vistas of flat cactus and scrub. Dennis and I seemed to be doing it together, but he was denuding the ball and I was merely hitting it. It was like the difference between a Corvette and a Corvair. Still, it looked like he was havingtrouble finding some of his moon launches. The sun mocked us. It was exhausting, like being on a Lubbock tar crew. Were there no goddamn cart girls on this freaking hole?
    â€œWhat was that, eleven?” I asked Aubrey, sweat pouring into my retinas.
    â€œThirteen,” she said, hair blowing back from her face in her own spring breeze.
    Finally, mercifully, the twenty-foot flagstick came into view. Another couple of slugs and Dennis and I would be there. Then I thought of Mike