I told myself. “Don’t worry about being long.” I set the blade of the pitching wedge behind the ball, opened up my stance, moved my weight slightly forward, and glanced up at the hole. The pin was tucked right behind the big bunker that gaped temptingly in front of me. A devilish little pitch shot. “Keep your stupid head down,” I muttered. I looked at the ball, up at the pin again, then down, trying to lock my visual measurement of the distance into my muscles. A little flick, up and over, drop it down beyond the big lip of the trap with enough backspin to stop it near the hole, where Charlie’s ball already rested a birdie putt away. I focused my mind on the imagined flight of the ball. Head down, balance, firm left elbow… “Don’t leave it short,” said Charlie pleasantly. I stepped away from the ball and looked at him. He grinned at me. He leaned on his putter, his legs crossed jauntily. “Goddamn it, Charlie,” I said. “Big hole,” he replied. “You need it for the match.”
