Everyone sways back, satisfied.
I clear throat to ask about the yips. Decide not quite right moment.
Airplane going over. Big noise. We all look at it.
Palmer moves to wood shots. Blair is in the distance. He hardly seems associated with what Palmer is doing. Palmer compresses lips when he hits but there is no grunt. Only sound is rush of clothing, the click of the ball, and then the tee kicks up. The pile of tees in front mounts up. Big clutter. Cellophane wrappings. Clubs. Maybe 30 clubs. Piles of tees next to balls. Kicked-up tees out in front. Tees all red.
Palmer muttering to himself.
Marty Fleckman just down the line, hitting out irons. Palmer stops his routine to watch him. Fleckman had a good day, 69, three under. Young man, beginning career. Small man. Dark tan. White Hogan golf cap.
Palmer says: "Well, what'd you do?" "Three."
Palmer looks at him. "Three? Sixty-three?"
"No. Three under. A nine. A 69."