Chas's first practice shot shanked hard right into the woods. His second shot almost brought him to tears.

He was glad that he'd managed to find a place away from the press and spectators to warm up, because so far, this wasn't looking good. It wasn't looking good at all. Every single shot pulled painfully on the stitches, and that sudden shock of pain was enough to set off his timing the tiniest bit.

"Take it slow," John said, standing by Chas's golf bag. "Just relax and take it slow."

Chas nodded, re-gripping the seven iron in his hands and once again taking his stance.

Forget your hand, it's not about that. It's about the rotation, get the club down and around using your midsection, not your arms.

He swung again. It felt a little better, taking more of the pressure off his hands and directing it downward into stronger muscles. He still wasn't sure if he'd last an entire day, though, let alone two; the pain was still excruciating.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," John said, but Chas just shook his head and shoved his seven iron into John's hands. He stared at his bag for a few long moments before defiantly pulling out his driver and hitting the ground with it to form a grass tee.

You always trusted your driver, Chas. A cut can't change that. You have to find the fairway.

He took his stance, took a deep breath, and fired away. Pain shot through his hand and up his arm as if he'd been bitten, and the shot jerked hard left into some bushes.

Fifteen minutes till tee time and you still haven't found your stride. You're a goner.

He worked continuously, each shot torturous on the stitches in the back of his hand. But club by club, he found a way to make the pain the least excruciating, putting more power into his midsection and less in his arms.

"Chas…it's time," John said, putting out his cigarette. Chas sighed, and then tugged uncomfortably on the bandage on his hand as they headed for the tee box.

Don't let this pull you down. You've played through blisters, exhaustion, and dehydration. A cut is no different.

Chas got to the first tee box, and was surprised to see that a small crowd had gathered to follow his game. He stopped long enough to greet his obviously skeptical caddie, a 13 year old boy with a very dry personality, and then John insisted that he change the bandage on his hand before teeing off.

He heard a murmur go through the crowd as the old bandage was pulled off, already soaked with blood despite the stitches. John made quick work of putting on the new bandage, and Chas didn't even acknowledge it as he grabbed his driver and headed for the tee.

Rely on rotation. Slow down the backswing. Do the best you can.

It was like being in a pressure cooker, standing in the middle of that crowd, all of them expecting him to fail. He could still hear the whispers, see his caddy's distracted expression, and…

Balthazar. William Dextera, standing beside his manager, watching Chas tee off.

He wanted to make sure his lackey had done the job right.

I'll be damned if I let him have this win easy.

The caddy seemed to take a second look at Chas, a double take, and the whispers fell silent. It wasn't until then that Chas realized he'd growled in contempt.

Not that he cared. Dextera had given him just what he needed to forget the injury and play the game.

Backswing, swing, follow-through, all in what seemed like a split second. The ball sailed down the fairway, 240 yards down the 459 yard par 4. Chas cringed in pain and the club dropped from his hands, and his caddy scurried like a startled rabbit to pick it up.

Chas, cradling his injured hand, looked up and for the first time made eye contact with William Dextera. His gaze was intense, challenging, and Dextera smiled and tipped his hat before walking back toward the clubhouse.

Chas had shown him that this wasn't going to force him to throw in the towel. Dextera knew, and maybe it amused him- Chas didn't know and didn't care.

"Hey…Chas, you okay?" John asked, lighting up a cigarette. Chas nodded.

"I'm fine. Let's go."


After the front nine, Chas had an average score of 41. Five strokes behind the present leader, and obviously in excruciating pain that was only aggravated by each shot he took.

The officials allowed him a ten minute break after the ninth hole to rebandage his hand and recuperate for the holes ahead, probably out of pity. John made him take the favor, however, and spent extra time making sure the bandage was perfectly done on his hand.

"Just keep going like this. Don't push it," John advised as he worked. Chas nodded, his jaw set as he watched John dab away at the blood with a wet paper towel.

"I've gotta catch up."

"Not today you don't. Not in this tournament. You'll have other chances."

"Everyone expects me to fail," Chas said angrily, and John looked up. Chas flexed his hand, staring with barely restrained fury at the cut on his hand. "They expect me to play it safe, and just wait till next time. I can see it in every fuckin' person out there. Hell, my caddy isn't even paying attention!"

"I think you're being paranoid…"

"Am I though?" Chas asked sharply, and John sighed. He looked torn, almost upset.

"If you're gonna play, you may as well win," he finally said, tying off the bandage. "But if you get blood all over those nice khakis, don't come cryin' to me."

Chas smirked. Just then, his caddy came running in the shack, breathing hard.

"Just got word of the scoring up ahead. Lowest score through eighteen is a 68."

Chas did the math quick. In order to tie the current leader, he'd have to finish the back nine with a 27.

Impossible. It had never been done before. Par for the back nine at this country club was a solid 32, though the front nine was a more difficult par 38.

Think of it that way. The worst is behind you.

"I'm gonna get that 27."

John snorted. "The record for the back nine here is 28…and that was a perfectly healthy professional golfer. You said it yourself."

Chas smirked again, an intensity coming over him that he'd only felt a few times before.

"I'm gonna get 27."


By the 17th tee, Chas had to get one under par on both of the last two holes to get his 27. Two birdies. Any other time, this wouldn't sound like such a gargantuan task, but his hand was burning with intense, fiery pain.

Even if he made par on one and birdied the other, he'd tie the club record for the back nine. Not his main goal, but an extra perk; if he wanted to prove that he was a valid contender for day two of the tournament and intimidate Dextera, he'd have to do something extraordinary. And that meant breaking that record.

His crowd had grown considerably since the spectators began to realize that this youngster wasn't going to roll over and die on account of an uncalled-for attack. He'd gone after the back nine like a starving dog after scrap meat, taking risks, not hitting a single sand trap or water hazard.

He'd heard word that Dextera had done two strokes better than him on the front nine. That didn't help his outlook, not in the least, but he'd devoted himself to taking this one shot at a time.

The 17th hole was a 240 yard par three, a fairly simple design. It was straight down the fairway, with a sand trap in front of the green to the right and the left. A few yards short and to either side, and he could kiss his chances for birdie goodbye.

Don't bother to follow the usual routine. If you lay it up short and chip it on, you'll only have a chance at par. You need to try and get this on the green in one. You've done a 240 yard drive before, you can do it again.

Take the stance, backswing, crush down into the ball, follow through- with one kink. The club slipped in his hands just a tiny bit on the downswing, and he caught the ball just barely enough on the heel of the club to affect its flight detrimentally.

"Shit…no…" He mumbled as the ball went noticeably left…

And buried itself in the sand trap.

Disaster.

He sighed, rubbing his hand gently, ignoring his caddy's pointed look at the blood seeping through the bandages.

You can still get par. Blast it out onto the green, putt it in, and try to tie the record. You'll still come out in the lead, for now.

He got to the sand trap and took a look at the lie. The ball was almost buried, not enough by far to take relief or a penalty stroke.

This was what he'd been trying to avoid. In a sand trap like this, blasting the ball out would put maximum pressure on his hands, especially at the point of contact.

He'd just have to take his best shot and hope that his unreliable hand wouldn't wreck the shot.

He got set in his stance, took a small practice swing, and then prepared himself for a painful hit.

Full swing, and the club slammed into the sand, and Chas was momentarily blinded by the pain shooting up through his arm. He clenched his eyes shut, and the only reason he knew his ball was on the green was because of the spattering of clapping from the crowd.

"Mr. Kramer? You okay?" His caddy said, and Chas nodded, forcing his eyes open and taking a look at his shot.

Eight yards from the hole, a slight right to left break. An easily missed putt under normal circumstances. He stepped up, handing his caddy the sand wedge and taking the putter from his bag.

His hand was throbbing, and he could feel warm blood drenching the bandage, but he had to keep his mind in the game. He stepped onto the green and kneeled down, taking an extra-close look at the putt.

Don't think so much. You never had to before.

He stepped up to the ball, reading the green as quickly as he would've on any other eight yard putt on his home course. Then, he pulled the putter back and swiped forward.

It started slow, rolling forward a couple feet before catching the downhill break and speeding up.

Too fast, too fast, it's gonna break too much…

Chas almost closed his eyes. Moments later, he was glad he hadn't. The ball caught the rim of the hole, spun around it once, and dove into the cup neatly.

There was a huge bout of cheers and applause as he bashfully tipped his hat at the crowd and went to retrieve his ball from the hole. He even thought he saw a triumphant smirk on John's face.

One more hole. Make birdie on this one and you tie the record and take the lead.

The par four eighteenth had only one hazard, but it was enough to make any amateur player sigh in frustration. In order to get on the green, one had to cross a wide creek.

Just play it like the creek's not there. Lay up short of the water, use an iron to get over onto the green, putt it in. One under will do just fine, and you'll tie the record.

Though his whole arm was wracked with pain, his first drive went just as planned. It landed just a few yards short of the creek, the backspin stopping it moments after hitting the ground.

More applause, and Chas took a deep breath, meeting John's eye. The man nodded, and Chas smiled.

At least one person is still on your side for tomorrow. Everyone else will think you wasted all your good shots today and you'll have nothin' left.

He walked up to his ball, eyeing the shot ahead. 110 yards to the green, easily reached with his nine-iron.

He pulled the club out, took a quick practice swing, and then put the pain in the back of his mind and took the swing.

It flew straight and true to his intentions, over the creek and landing softly on the green about five yards above the hole. Then came the part even he hadn't expected.

The way he hit the ball had put a nice backspin on it, and when the ball landed it shot backwards, slamming into the flagstick and rattling down into the cup.

Hole in two. An eagle. Two under par.

He'd broken the record on the eighteenth hole, with no intention to do so.

There was a beat of silence before this really sank in, and then the crowd around him erupted. As he headed up to retrieve his ball he was met with pats on the back, whistles, and even a doting father keeping pace with him to ask Chas if he wanted to meet (or possibly marry) his daughter.

He picked up the ball from the hole, unable to keep a smile off his face, and then he met John's gaze. His smile grew, and he tossed the ball at John, who jumped in surprise but caught it.

Just one more day. You do that tomorrow, Chas, and you just might still have a fighting chance at winning this tournament.