Loopy (24 page)

Neumann produced a creditable effort, a delicate, floating chip that earned a sprinkling of applause even though it scurried fifteen feet past the hole. With no way of applying backspin to such a short shot, he could hope for no better. Being farthest from the hole, he was first to putt. He looked as startled as everyone else when it rattled into the cup for a par three.

Again Weeshy merely grunted at this cruel setback. However, he did spend noticeably longer than usual lining up Loopy's putt. Cocking his head this way and that, he sank to one knee to get a better view of the terrain that lay between the ball and the cup. Eventually he rose to his feet and whispered, “No break. Hit it hard to the back of the cup.”

With a ten-foot putt to win the hole and go two up on the defending champion, Loopy might have been forgiven for feeling nervous. But he wasn't. Not in the least. The trancelike feeling remained with him, as it was to do for the rest of the match. It had arrived as he'd watched his opponent bring off the two minor miracles in one hole that had rewarded him with the luckiest of pars. Miracle number one was that Neumann's ball had stayed in bounds after his errant tee shot, and then, when it was obviously unplayable, the American was awarded a free drop. Miracle number two was the sizzling putt that might so easily have skidded off the green had it not struck the back of the cup and dropped into the hole.

None of this troubled Loopy. It did not even enter his consciousness. All he could see was the ball and the hole ten feet away. Hovering over the putt, he could think of nothing else but the inside of the white-painted cup. Even before he struck the putt, in his mind's eye he could see the ball roll smoothly up the slope, check for the briefest of moments, then disappear into the hole. In reality, he struck the ball harder than he had intended. It hit the back of the cup quite hard and jumped up a few heart-stopping inches into the air before dropping back, exhausted, into the hole for a birdie two.

Two up after two. Life did not get any better than this. Complete strangers were walking up to him and slapping him on the back as he made his way to the third tee. Edward Linhurst sidled over with Amy on his arm. She gave Loopy a hug and just smiled at him as her father murmured, “Keep up the good work,” before drifting off into the gaggle of spectators that was growing with every minute that passed. News was spreading across the course that the defending champion was in trouble against an unknown wild card. Other matches were being deserted by spectators eager to witness what just might be a sensational upset.

The third hole was a par five that almost, but not quite, paralleled the first. The public road that Neumann was so lucky not to have ended up on, even though he still lost the hole, ran the entire length of the par five. At 590 yards it was the longest hole by far of the eighteen. Sports-writers had christened it Neumann's Favorite after last year's championship. In the unseasonable heat wave with not even a breath of wind, the American had played it impeccably. He had birdied it every time he played it, but had saved his best for the final round of The Atlantic.

On the green in two mighty blows, he was one down to Villiers-Stewart, who was well short in two. Even though the American just failed with his attempt at an eagle, leaving a tap-in for his birdie four, the older man could manage no better than a par five. The match was now even, and although his lordship would rally several times to level the score, he never again led the beefy young American. It was generally agreed in the postmortems conducted in the Members Bar late into the night that those two monstrous blows to the third green had demoralized the older man even though he was ahead up till then.

Today, however, conditions could not have been more different at “Eternity”—so christened by the members because it seemed to go on forever. The wind continued to barrel through gaps in the dunes, creating pools of turbulence and calm within a few yards of each other along the winding fairway. As if these variations were not enough for the players to cope with, heavy rough bordered each side of the narrow fairway. To the right lay the road and out of bounds. To the left, an assortment of deep pot bunkers waited to trap a wayward shot. With the wind coming from the left but now also slightly into the players' faces, it made the hole a true test of nerve and skill.

One thing was certain. No one was going to make the third green in two today. Those watching from behind the tee could feel the full force of the quartering wind and agreed among themselves that reaching the green in three full-blooded shots would be the best that either player could hope for. This both players signally failed to do. Having had a close encounter with the out of bounds on the previous hole, Neumann naturally aimed well to the left, hoping that his huge drive would be blown back onto the fairway. He was unlucky, for it nearly did. Instead, however, it bounded into one of the deep fairway bunkers.

Loopy's drive was also caught by a sudden gust that even Weeshy had not allowed for and ended in the deep rough on the right of the fairway, but safely within bounds. He hacked out with the eight iron handed to him wordlessly by Weeshy. Left to himself he would probably have opted for the pitching wedge despite his bad experience with it in similar circumstances the previous day. He was pleasantly surprised at the distance the ball skipped along the hard fairway after nothing more than an average recovery. Weeshy's demeanor was as impassive as ever as he slammed the eight iron back in the bag and marched off on his own, his long, black overcoat trailing along the fairway.

It was now Neumann's turn to get out of jail, and he did so with a mighty explosion shot from the deep bunker that threatened to empty it of sand. Both balls were on the fairway about equidistant from the elevated green with the best part of three hundred yards still to go. Loopy was surprised to be handed a three iron. He had in mind a three wood, or spoon, as Weeshy would have called it, which would have chased up to the base of the green with any luck.

“Hit it well to the left and don't worry about the rough.”

With some misgivings Loopy did exactly as he was told and finished up off the fairway and about seventy yards from the green. The spectators, most of whom were members of Ballykissane, nudged each other and winked knowingly. Neumann, sensing a chance at last of reducing the deficit, took his driver to a near-perfect lie on the smooth turf. Like Loopy, he had aimed to the left, and this time the perfectly struck ball flew as low as the three iron. It hit the fairway ten yards in front of the green, a monster of a shot that drew thunderous applause from one and all. To hit a driver off the deck into a quartering wind in a dead straight line is the kind of shot most golfers only dream about.

Neumann's dream was short-lived. His ball, instead of skipping up the slope like a frolicsome puppy and finishing on the putting surface, took an unlucky bounce and ended up in a bunker even deeper than the one from which he had but recently escaped.

Loopy used his pitching wedge for the first and last time that round and floated a nice safe shot onto the green from a perfect lie in the rough, just as Weeshy had predicted when he'd muttered
don't worry about the rough.
From that distance Loopy had been able to load the ball with backspin, making it skid to a halt some twelve feet from the pin.

The face of the bunker Neumann had found was at least six feet high, and its sides were lined with turf sods, built like bricks into its vertical face. To get out of the bunker and leave the ball anywhere near the pin, Neumann would have to blast his ball upward with a delicate splash shot out of powdery sand. To threaten Loopy's lead, he would have to get the ball to rise in an almost vertical trajectory, barely clear the top of the bunker, then trickle down toward the pin. To do so would require the delicate touch of a surgeon and the nerves of a steeplejack.

To his credit he nearly pulled it off. The ball sailed upward, caught the top of the bunker, and wobbled there for a tense moment before dropping backward into the white sand, almost at Al Neumann's feet. Understandably, he now lost what remained of his composure. Wordlessly but with a noticeable reddening of his cheeks and neck, he struck the next shot with rather more violence than required. This time it ricocheted violently off the vertical wall, barely missing him as it again finished in the sand. Picking up the ball, he climbed out of the bunker and then conceded the hole with as much grace as he could muster in the circumstances.

Three down after three holes is not a comfortable position for anyone, but with fifteen holes still to go, it is still far from being a lost cause. The Neumann camp, however, felt differently. Maybe it was the difficult conditions—for the wind was now turning cold as well as gaining in strength. Or perhaps the feeling was growing among them that this was just not going to be their day. Whatever the reason, the heart seemed to go out of Al Neumann the moment he conceded the third hole. Though he played bravely for the rest of the contest, the result was never in doubt.

The match finished on the thirteenth green, before a crowd now swollen to enormous proportions, as the referee announced, still in the most neutral of voices, “Match goes to Laurence Lynch. He wins six up with five holes to go.”

Then, and only then, did Loopy emerge from the trance.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The first to pound his back as he left the green was Edward Linhurst. “Great win! Best of luck this afternoon! See you for dinner tonight.”

His daughter, Amy, went further this time, giving Loopy first a hug, then a big kiss full on his lips. Followed by a whispered “Fantastic. Well
done,
Larry!”

He noticed that she still refused to call him Loopy. As for Pat O'Hara, he was nowhere to be seen. The Neumann camp looked desolate, but Al had shaken Loopy's hand after the last putt had dropped. The burly American's only comment on the thrashing he had just experienced was to say with evident sincerity, “Do me a favor and win this thing out. That way I won't look so bad.”

The unexpected win had repercussions further afield than a Ballykissane that was already humming with excitement. Already there were heated arguments about whether Loopy had merely gotten lucky and would be wiped out in the afternoon round. By whom was still unclear as the other matches were still being contested all around the course.

Brona received an urgent phone call from Joe Delany. She had been feeding the chickens and had rushed in with her hands still caked with meal as she picked up the receiver. Daytime phone calls to the Lynch household were few and far between, the night rate being far cheaper. A telephone ringing around midday was a cause for alarm, and this was evident in her voice as she asked nervously, “Joe
who?
Delany? I don't know any Joe Delany … Oh my God, I'm
terribly
sorry, and you being so good and all to Larry … He's
what
?… Oh dear Holy God, sure isn't that grand for him.… Oh, you mean it isn't finished yet, just that he's beaten this American fella, is that it?… I see, well, sure all I can do is say a special prayer that he'll keep up the good work … Ah, no, I couldn't do that. Who would look after this place while I'd be gone? Anyway I've never set foot inside a golf club in my life, I'd only embarrass him, put him off his stroke or something … Sure I never even went to the hurling matches for fear of seeing him get hurt … Ah, no, Mr. Delany, but thanks all the same … Be sure to give him my love though when you see him … and tell him I'm praying hard for him … Good-bye now and thanks again for the call.”

Telephones were also busier than usual at the Trabane branch of Allied Banks of Ireland. Leo was listening openmouthed to the PR officer for the ABI group screaming at him to get over to Ballykissane Golf Club as fast as he possibly could. “Didn't you hear? Some youngster from your own golf club has just beaten one of the top Americans six and bloody five. Wiped the floor with him, so he did.”

Leo was astounded as the voice babbled on, “He's from
your
golf club, for heaven's sake, man, that's why I'm calling you. You're
what
in it, by the way? I mean, what position does our man in Trabane hold in his local golf club, Leo?
That's
what I bloody mean.”

Here Leo was on firmer ground. “Treasurer and president-elect.”

He thought it sounded better that way. Vice president sounded as if he were playing second fiddle to someone.

The voice was unimpressed. “Um-m-m, I see. You know yourself, Leo, how keen Personnel are for our people to play a leading role in their local communities. Makes the bank look like a caring mother hen, y'know.”

Leo grasped at the opportunity to ask, “Speaking of mother hens, anything further on the closure, is there?”

The voice was reassuring. “A matter of weeks, months at the very most. Right then, Leo, I know I can count on you to look after things until we show up at Ballykissane then?”

Leo assured him that indeed he could, then sought confirmation that he was on the guest list.

“Yes, of course! Will your wife … Yes, of course,
Rosa.
Gawd, I'll be forgetting my own name next … She will? Good. The Royal tends to be rather crowded for The Atlantic weekend. The fact that it's a bank holiday is no help either. That's about it then, Leo. Show the flag for us till we get there tomorrow night.”

“How do you mean?” Leo was mystified. This was the first he had heard about a flag.

The voice proved less than helpful on this score. “Oh, I'll leave that to yourself. At the very least get a picture of yourself and that young fella, what's his name, the child prodigy, standing in front of one of our signs. There's a whole raft of top-notch golfers in the lineup, so he may not be around for much longer, which means you had better get on to it right away. I suppose our esteemed director, Sir Andrew Villiers-Stewart, is the hot favorite, now that the Yank has got his walking papers?”