I asked Earl, as I walked over to his table at the back of the bar and handed him one. “I think I may have heard it maybe three times,” said Earl, looking up from his Barron’s. Earl had finished a very respectable thirty-fourth in the final standings. It wasn’t good enough to make the tour, but he seemed his usual unflappable self. “Well, I didn’t write it,” I said. “No, I guess they wouldn’t have fired you if you had.” “Anyway, cheers,” I said. “I’m very sorry you didn’t make it. You really helped me in the second round. More than you know.” “I’m glad you did make it, Travis. I really am,” said Earl. The 19th hole at the Tallahassee Dunes, a large restaurant-bar with a television at each end of the bar, was jammed and hopping every night all week, but that evening it was empty and subdued. Those who made it had the decency to celebrate elsewhere, and those who hadn’t had tried to put as many miles between themselves and here as fast as possible.
What do You think about Miracle On The 17th Green?
