Back Spin
Page 35
This, Myron knew, was Jack Coldren stripped to his purest state. He was a golfer. A man who wanted to win. Needed to. Myron understood. He had been there—his zone consisting of a large orange ball and a metallic cylinder—and a part of him would always be enmeshed in that world. It was a fine place to be—in many ways, the best place to be. Win was wrong. Winning was not a worthless goal. It was noble. Jack had taken life’s hits. He had striven and battled. He had been battered and bloodied. Yet here he stood, head high, on the road to redemption. How many people are awarded this opportunity? How many people truly get the chance to feel this vibrant, to reside for even a short time on such a plateau, to have their hearts and dreams stirred with such unquenchable inner passion?
Jack Coldren stroked the putt. Myron found himself watching the ball slowly arc toward the hole, lost in that vicarious rush that so fiercely drew spectators to sports. He held his breath and felt something like a tear well up in his eye when the ball dropped in. A birdie. Diane Hoffman made a fist and pumped it. The lead was back up to nine strokes.
Jack looked up at the applauding galley. He acknowledged them with a tip of his hat, but he saw nothing. Still in the zone. Fighting to stay there. For a moment, his eyes locked on Myron’s. Myron nodded back, not wanting to nudge him back to reality. Stay in that zone, Myron thought. In that zone, a man can win a tournament. In that zone, a son does not purposely sabotage a father’s lifelong dream.
Myron walked past the many portable toilets—they’d been provided by a company with the semiaccurate name Royal Flush—and headed toward Corporate Row. Golf matches had an unprecedented hierarchy for ticket holders. True, at most sporting arenas there was a grading of one sort or another—some had better seats, obviously, while some had access to skyboxes or even courtside seats. But in those cases, you handed a ticket to an usher or ticket collector and took your place. In golf, you displayed your entrance pass all day. The general-admission folk (read: serfs) usually had a sticker plastered on their shirt, not unlike, say, a scarlet letter. Others wore a plastic card that dangled from a metal chain wrapped around their neck. Sponsors (read: feudal lords) wore either red, silver, or gold cards, depending on how much money they spent. There were also different passes for players’ family and friends, Merion club members, Merion club officers, even steady sports agents. And the different cards gave you different access to different places. For example, you had to have a colored card to enter Corporate Row. Or you needed a gold card if you wanted to enter one of those exclusive tents—the ones strategically perched on hills like generals’ quarters in an old war movie.
Corporate Row was merely a row of tents, each sponsored by one enormous company or another. The theoretical intention of spending at least one hundred grand for a four-day tent rental was to impress corporate clients and gain exposure. The truth, however, was that the tents were a way for the corporate bigwigs to go to the tournament for free. Yes, a few important clients were invited, but Myron also noticed that the company’s major officers always managed to show too. And the hundred grand rental fee was just a start. It didn’t include the food, the drinks, the employees—not to mention the first-class flights, the deluxe hotel suites, the stretch limos, et cetera, for the bigwigs and their guests.
Boys and girls, can you say, “Chu-ching goes the cash register”? I thought you could.
Myron gave his name to the pretty young woman at the Lock-Horne tent. Win was not there yet, but Esperanza was sitting at a table in the corner.
“You look like shit,” Esperanza said.
“Maybe. But at least I feel awful.”
“So what happened?”
“Three crackheads adorned with Nazi memorabilia and crowbars jumped me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Only three?”
The woman was constant chuckles. He told her about his run-in and narrow escape. When he was finished, Esperanza shook her head and said, “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”
“Don’t get all dewy-eyed on me. I’ll be fine.”
“I found Lloyd Rennart’s wife. She’s an artist of some kind, lives on the Jersey shore.”
“Any word on Lloyd Rennart’s body?”
Esperanza shook her head. “I checked the NVI and Treemaker Web sites. No death certificate has been issued.”
Myron looked at her. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. But it might not be on the Web yet. The other offices are closed until Monday. And even if one hasn’t been issued, it might not mean anything.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“A body is supposed to be missing for a certain amount of time before the person can be declared dead,” Esperanza explained. “I don’t know—five years or something. But what often happens is that the next of kin files a motion in order to settle insurance claims and the estate. But Lloyd Rennart committed suicide.”
“So there’d be no insurance,” Myron said.
“Right. And assuming everything was held jointly between Rennart and his wife, then there would be no need for her to press it.”
Myron nodded. It made sense. Still it was yet another nagging hangnail that needed to be clipped. “You want something to drink?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ll be right back.” Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo. Win had made sure the Lock-Horne tent stocked them. What a pal. A television monitor in the upper corner had a scoreboard. Jack had just finished the fifteenth hole. Both he and Crispin had parred it. Barring a sudden collapse, Jack was going to take a huge lead into tomorrow’s final round.
When Myron got settled again, Esperanza said, “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s about my graduating law school.”
“Okay,” Myron said, dragging out the word.
“You’ve been avoiding the subject,” she said.
“What are you talking about? I’m the one who wants to go to your graduation, remember?”
“That’s not what I mean.” Her fingers found and began to fiddle with a straw wrapper. “I’m talking about what happens after I graduate. I’m going to be a full-fledged attorney soon. My role in the company should change.”
Myron nodded. “Agreed.”
“For one thing, I’d like an office.”
“We don’t have the space.”
“The conference room is too large,” she countered. “You can slice a little out of there and a little out of the waiting room. It won’t be a huge office, but it’ll be good enough.”
Jack Coldren stroked the putt. Myron found himself watching the ball slowly arc toward the hole, lost in that vicarious rush that so fiercely drew spectators to sports. He held his breath and felt something like a tear well up in his eye when the ball dropped in. A birdie. Diane Hoffman made a fist and pumped it. The lead was back up to nine strokes.
Jack looked up at the applauding galley. He acknowledged them with a tip of his hat, but he saw nothing. Still in the zone. Fighting to stay there. For a moment, his eyes locked on Myron’s. Myron nodded back, not wanting to nudge him back to reality. Stay in that zone, Myron thought. In that zone, a man can win a tournament. In that zone, a son does not purposely sabotage a father’s lifelong dream.
Myron walked past the many portable toilets—they’d been provided by a company with the semiaccurate name Royal Flush—and headed toward Corporate Row. Golf matches had an unprecedented hierarchy for ticket holders. True, at most sporting arenas there was a grading of one sort or another—some had better seats, obviously, while some had access to skyboxes or even courtside seats. But in those cases, you handed a ticket to an usher or ticket collector and took your place. In golf, you displayed your entrance pass all day. The general-admission folk (read: serfs) usually had a sticker plastered on their shirt, not unlike, say, a scarlet letter. Others wore a plastic card that dangled from a metal chain wrapped around their neck. Sponsors (read: feudal lords) wore either red, silver, or gold cards, depending on how much money they spent. There were also different passes for players’ family and friends, Merion club members, Merion club officers, even steady sports agents. And the different cards gave you different access to different places. For example, you had to have a colored card to enter Corporate Row. Or you needed a gold card if you wanted to enter one of those exclusive tents—the ones strategically perched on hills like generals’ quarters in an old war movie.
Corporate Row was merely a row of tents, each sponsored by one enormous company or another. The theoretical intention of spending at least one hundred grand for a four-day tent rental was to impress corporate clients and gain exposure. The truth, however, was that the tents were a way for the corporate bigwigs to go to the tournament for free. Yes, a few important clients were invited, but Myron also noticed that the company’s major officers always managed to show too. And the hundred grand rental fee was just a start. It didn’t include the food, the drinks, the employees—not to mention the first-class flights, the deluxe hotel suites, the stretch limos, et cetera, for the bigwigs and their guests.
Boys and girls, can you say, “Chu-ching goes the cash register”? I thought you could.
Myron gave his name to the pretty young woman at the Lock-Horne tent. Win was not there yet, but Esperanza was sitting at a table in the corner.
“You look like shit,” Esperanza said.
“Maybe. But at least I feel awful.”
“So what happened?”
“Three crackheads adorned with Nazi memorabilia and crowbars jumped me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Only three?”
The woman was constant chuckles. He told her about his run-in and narrow escape. When he was finished, Esperanza shook her head and said, “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”
“Don’t get all dewy-eyed on me. I’ll be fine.”
“I found Lloyd Rennart’s wife. She’s an artist of some kind, lives on the Jersey shore.”
“Any word on Lloyd Rennart’s body?”
Esperanza shook her head. “I checked the NVI and Treemaker Web sites. No death certificate has been issued.”
Myron looked at her. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. But it might not be on the Web yet. The other offices are closed until Monday. And even if one hasn’t been issued, it might not mean anything.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“A body is supposed to be missing for a certain amount of time before the person can be declared dead,” Esperanza explained. “I don’t know—five years or something. But what often happens is that the next of kin files a motion in order to settle insurance claims and the estate. But Lloyd Rennart committed suicide.”
“So there’d be no insurance,” Myron said.
“Right. And assuming everything was held jointly between Rennart and his wife, then there would be no need for her to press it.”
Myron nodded. It made sense. Still it was yet another nagging hangnail that needed to be clipped. “You want something to drink?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ll be right back.” Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo. Win had made sure the Lock-Horne tent stocked them. What a pal. A television monitor in the upper corner had a scoreboard. Jack had just finished the fifteenth hole. Both he and Crispin had parred it. Barring a sudden collapse, Jack was going to take a huge lead into tomorrow’s final round.
When Myron got settled again, Esperanza said, “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s about my graduating law school.”
“Okay,” Myron said, dragging out the word.
“You’ve been avoiding the subject,” she said.
“What are you talking about? I’m the one who wants to go to your graduation, remember?”
“That’s not what I mean.” Her fingers found and began to fiddle with a straw wrapper. “I’m talking about what happens after I graduate. I’m going to be a full-fledged attorney soon. My role in the company should change.”
Myron nodded. “Agreed.”
“For one thing, I’d like an office.”
“We don’t have the space.”
“The conference room is too large,” she countered. “You can slice a little out of there and a little out of the waiting room. It won’t be a huge office, but it’ll be good enough.”
