cellphone rang. "Is that man whistling?" It was the stranger who had
called on Friday. "Is the Argentinian whistling?"
I didn't think so,
but I agreed to another meeting with Deep Rough. I found him at midnight in the
same shadowy corner of the maintenance building, only this time I was careful
to stand outside his kicking range.
"I just want
you to know," he began in his theatrical rasp, "that this week was not
representative of Oakmont golf."
that," I replied. "The weather was superb, the crowds were huge, and
the players and media had nothing but praise for your course. You must be
smart with me," he snarled. "What was the winning score?"
par. Same as last year at Winged Foot."
Foot," he whispered. "Now that was a tournament. Humiliating finishes
by the biggest names in the game. Shots off tents and trees. . . ." He
paused. "Trees! Maybe we shouldn't have cut down all our trees."
Deep Rough was
still muttering to himself when I left.
An hour later, I
found an envelope under the door of my hotel room. In it was an engraved
invitation to play a round of golf at Oakmont Country Club. "Bring a couple
of dozen balls," someone had scrawled at the bottom. "You'll need
I called the
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