The old man went by the boy's house early on Saturday morning. They drove down Ponte Vedra Boulevard. In the gaps between the houses, they could glimpse the flat sea.
"Today the scores will be low," the old man said. "There is no wind."
"They should have wind machines," the boy said. He spun his finger around. "I'd fire them suckers up!"
They approached the Sawgrass development. A mechanical arm went up and down, up and down.
"I want to see Rory!" the boy said. He was young, and impetuous. The boy's parents had hired the old man to teach the boy about life. He took the job, but he would not take the money.
"There is time," the old man said. He had caught many great fish and seen many great championships.
Rory had not made the cut. Phil and Tiger had, both at 141.
The air was still and the greens were soft and the course could be had. The old man and the boy watched Phil bogey the last for 66. Phil was signing autographs as Tiger walked by.
"Hey, Tiger," the boy yelled. "Say so long to that Number 1 ranking—kiss it goodbye!"
The old man's face went white.