Stacey remained in Billings. He showered at the club, threw on a coat and tie, and then lunched at a downtown restaurant. Afterward, he returned to the offices of Stacey and Walen. Within minutes he was on the phone, negotiating a settlement in one of his many cases. "Your client is nuts, and so is mine," he told a crackling voice in his ear. To another caller, he wailed, "I shot 82!" And to yet another he said, "I'd have played better if I didn't have your case on my mind. You screwed up my damned round."
Hanging up the phone, Stacey shook his head. "I wasn't supposed to have any pressure on me, but they ran our tee times in the newspaper. And suddenly I had to shoot a low number because I got about 20 calls from people who said they expected me to shoot a low number." He shook his head again and laughed. "An 82! I should have gone to San Francisco and played in their qualifier." In a smaller voice he added, "I guess I'll be watching the Open on TV again."
Yep. Some dreams, no matter how loud they rumble, are nothing more than a train of thought.