I sculled it. A line drive over the green and only the hill kept the ball from rolling into the clubhouse. I chipped back, but not close, took two putts and that was it—a double-bogey 6 for a 45 plus 55 for one-oh-oh. A simple bogey would have made it 99. A week of lessons, more work than I had ever anticipated, and all I had to show for it was a sculled wedge at 18.
I said goodby to my playing partners, thanking them for their sense of humor, and to Hotfoot Harris, who seemed even more disappointed than I. Quickly I changed my shoes and left Riviera. So much for the instant wonder. I guess it does take more than a week. Sorry, Granddad. Sorry, Dad. And, most of all, sorry, Mac.