The Big Miss: My Years Coaching Tiger Woods - Plot & Excerpts
It’s the kind of traditional Chicago-style steak place from my dad’s expense-account days, all mahogany and white linen. I rarely eat steak, but I order a New York strip, medium rare. The waiter has just brought us our food when my cell phone rings.I’ve told my father I might be getting a call from Tiger sometime in the next few days but that I’m not really holding my breath. I don’t have Tiger’s number, but when I look down and see the 407 area code on my screen in front of a number I don’t recognize, my stomach jumps. “Excuse me,” I tell my dad, “I gotta take this call.”I walk quickly toward the entrance, and answer. “Hey, Hank,” I hear on my cell, “this is Tiger.” I give my normal “Hey, bud” greeting, but there’s no small talk. Barely pausing, Tiger says, “Hank, I want to know if you’ll help me with my golf game.”My mind flashes on that winter day at Exmoor with Jim Hardy, and as I stand on the sidewalk watching the valet-parking guys running around and people going in and out of the adjoining shops, I feel disoriented.
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