We’re late already.” “No, I can’t go yet.” “Come on! Everyone’s waiting for you. Let’s hit the road.” “Screw you, G. I’m not going anywhere yet.” It’s January 1984 and I’m sitting in Nasty’s apartment in Manhattan during the Masters. Gerry Goldberg and Ilie are here, together with their wives and Patti. We’ve got dinner reservations and they want to get going. I’m not moving. Why? Because Bill Laimbeer, of the Detroit Pistons, is on the free throw line, time has expired, and he’s shooting two. I need them both to win my bet. I’m leaning forward in my seat, staring intensely at the TV screen, palms sweating, heart racing. “Connors! The car is waiting downstairs. You can find out the score later.” It’s not about the score. It’s about this moment, as addictive as any drug. Boom! The first one’s good. If he’d missed, I’d be screwed and could walk away, the money gone. But now . . . The ball’s in the air. He knocks it down! It’s over.
