Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Standing on the 17th tee, Balls was focused and angry.  Goodell’s caddy had been blabbering about baseball from the 10th tee until now, only pausing when shots were about to be hit.  Goodell indulged him, as he could see that his banter was irritating to Balls.  Balls had played very well, but had only managed to tie the match.  Goodell took his two customary practice swings and then hit the drive.

From the beginning, it looked off.  Another rare mistake.  This time, the ball landed in the thick rough on the right side of the fairway.  Balls prayed that Goodell’s ball would be unplayable or, better still, lost.  He knew it was a golden opportunity he could not afford to slip away.  Balls began to take the club back.  Something moved at the corner of his right eye.

From nowhere, the shadow of Goodell’s head approached the ball on the ground, engulfed it, and moved on.  Balls let his swing take itself to pieces in sections.  Then he stood away from his ball and looked up.

‘Shades please, Goodell.’  Balls’ voice was furiously controlled.

Goodell stopped and looked slowly at Balls.  The eyebrows were raised a fraction in inquiry.  He moved back and stood still, saying nothing.  Balls went back to his ball.  Now then, relax!  Just stand still and hit it.

There was a moment when the world stood still, then … then somehow Balls did hit it – on a low trajectory that mounted gracefully to carry the distant surf of the bunkers.  The ball hit the bank below the green, bounced high and rolled onto the green within ten feet.  An easy three.  Possible two.

Hawker had gone on ahead.  He had already laid down his bag and was busily – far too busily to Balls’ way of thinking – searching for Goodell’s ball when they came up.  It was bad stuff – jungle country, deep thick luxuriant grass whose roots still held last night’s dew.  Unless they were very lucky, they couldn’t hope to find the ball.  After a few minutes’ search,  Goodell and his caddie drifted away still wider to where the rough thinned out into isolated tufts.

That’s good, thought Balls.  That wasn’t anything like the line.  Suddently, he trod on something.  He bent down and gently uncovered the ball so as not to improve the lie.  Yes, it was a Nike. ‘Here you are, ‘ he called grudgingly, ‘Oh no, sorry.  You play with a #1, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ came back Goodell’s voice, impatiently.

‘Well, this is a #4.’ Balls picked it up and walked over to Goodell.  Goodell gave the ball a cursory glance.  He said, ‘Not mine’ and went on poking among the tufts with the head of his driver.  It was a good ball, unmarked and almost new, so Balls put it in his pocket and went back to his search.  The statutory five minutes was almost up.

‘Nearly time, I’m afraid.’

Goodell grunted.  He started to say something when there came a cry from his caddie, ‘Here you are, sir.  Number 1 Nike!’

Balls followed Goodell over to where the caddie stood on a small plateau of higher ground.  Yes, it was a Nike 1 and in an astonishingly good lie.  It was miraculous.  More than miraculous. ‘Must have had a hell of a lucky kick’, he said mildly.

The caddie shrugged his shoulders and made a face

Damn him! Balls walked thoughtfully away and then turned to watch the shot.  It was one of Goodell’s best. It landed ten yards from the cup and gently rolled to within three feet.  As they walked towards the green, Balls turned to Hawker and said, ‘Miracle finding that ball’

‘It wasn’t his ball, sir.’ Hawker was stating a fact.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because his ball was lying under my bag of clubs, sir.’  When he saw Balls’ open-mouthed expression he added apologeticaly, ‘Sorry, sir.  Had to do it after what he’s been doing to you.  Wouldn’t have mentioned it, but I had to let you know he’s fixed you again.  The caddie must have dropped the other ball down his pants leg.’

Balls had to laugh.  He said admiringly, ‘Well, you ARE a card, Hawker!  Let’s have a little fun with Mr. Goodell. I know how to do it now.’

The switch was successfully made after Balls drained the ten-footer and conceded the putt to Goodell.  Now it was just a question of whether Goodell would notice. Now Goodell was on the tee.  Now he had bent down.  The ball was on the peg, its lying face turned up at him.  But Goodell had straightened, had stood back, was taking his two deliberate practice swings.  He stepped up to the ball, cautiously, deliberately.  Surely he would see!

But now the club head was going back, coming down, the left knee bending correctly in towards the ball, the left arm straight as a ramrod.  Crack!  The ball sailed off, a beautiful drive, as good as Goodell had hit, straight down the fairway.

Balls’ heart sang.  Got you, you bastard!  Got you!

If he won the match, as he now had, he would be two up on Goodell – an intolerable state of affairs, Balls guessed, to a man that saw himself as all-powerful.  This man Balls, Goodell would say to himself, has SOMETHING.  He has qualities I can use.  This is the sort of man I need for – for what?  Balls didn’t know.  He just knew he needed to get closer to Goodell and his dealings.  This was as good a way as any.

After taking pains to appear threatening, Balls finally let Goodell have the short-lived victory.  The rage on Goodell’s face when he realized what Balls had done was worth the torture of listening to Goodell’s caddie all day.

When they had parted at the club, Goodell had been cordial in a rather forced, oily fashion.  He had asked where to send his winnings and Balls had given him the address of Universal Export.  This time they would go to the White Cross.  Goodell had departed saying, ‘ Well, Mr. Balls, it’s been an interesting day.’  Balls had replied, ‘Many thanks for the match.  Perhaps we shall run into each other again some day.’

‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised, Mr. Balls.’

Balls turned the phrase over in his head later that night.  It could mean that Goodell intended to contact Balls or it could mean that Balls must try and keep touch with Goodell.  Heads the former, tails the latter.  Balls took a coin from the dresser and flipped it.  It came down tails.  So be it.  He contacted MP and found out Goodell was scheduled to attend the game at Wembley.  She got him an all-access pass.  His cover would have to be pretty darn good the next time they ‘ran into’ each other.  Balls was back into bed and was instantly asleep.

to be continued…