CHAPTER One The voice echoed in Ian's head, just as it had every morning that summer. "Feet on the floor! Get your wimpy ass out of bed." "Jesus, Tony," Ian groaned. "You're worse than a fucking alarm clock." "You'll be rising a lot earlier than this next year," the voice reminded Ian. Ian rolled to the edge of his bed and reached to the floor for a crumpled pair of cargo shorts. Raking the covers aside, he swung himself into a sitting position and paused. "Good morning, Raquel. You look as gorgeous as ever," Ian croaked. It was a lie. Ian couldn't see her in the dim light, but he knew she was there. He stood, rubbing his crotch with an open palm, and yawned. Inching closer to his bedroom door, Ian brought Raquel into focus. The paper image of a nearly naked Raquel Welch stared back at him. "Tony, I'm in love," Ian sighed. Ian's eyes drifted to the crucifix affixed to the wall above the door. He grunted, recalling his mother's disapproving frown when she first spied Raquel pasted to the back of his bedroom door. The crucifix had appeared shortly thereafter. Did his mother really believe a crucifix could ward off the sins that accompany a teenager's raging hormones? Ian heard Tony's urgent plea. "We gotta go, big boy." Ian continued to study Jesus on the cross. His mother's voice buzzed in his head like a pesky fly. Rising early is a virtue, Ian. Saint Benedict prayed the psalms before the sun cast its first shadow. Ian's thin lips formed an impish grin. He pointed a finger at Raquel. "St. Benedict wouldn't have been praying if he'd seen you first." "Have you forgotten about Spanky and the gang? We've got to get moving!" Tony insisted. Acknowledging the familiar voice, Ian nodded. Tony Lema was right. Ian had better get moving, or he'd risk being run over by Spanky somewhere on the back nine. Ian lifted an arm and sniffed his armpit. The shirt had another couple of days, he decided. Besides, who was there to complain? Raquel? She was a piece of poster paper, and Tony Lema was only a voice in Ian's head. Ian's eyes shifted to the floor as he shoved his bare feet into an untied pair of sneakers. Ian heard his mother's voice again. They'll make you tie your shoes in the seminary next year. Ian shrugged as he opened his bedroom door and shuffled down the carpeted hallway toward the staircase. He wasn't a priest yet, he reasoned. He wasn't actually sure he'd ever be one. After all, Raquel Welch was a lot more appealing to a seventeen-year-old boy than the pope, wasn't she? Moments later, a canvas golf bag slung low across his back, Ian passed through the small door leading from the garage to his backyard. His pulse quickened as he stepped to the gravel path at the rear of the property. A sigh produced a steamy vapor cloud. One last round of golf for the summer, he thought, and then a final year of high school. After that? His mother expected him to enter the seminary. Ian wasn't close to being sold on that idea. Ian offered the well-traveled trail a wry smile as he recalled his mother threatening to arrange the Stations of the Cross along the serpentine route to the golf course. He coughed a weak laugh. Were the Stations meant to serve as insurance just in case the crucifix above his bedroom door hadn't done its job? Ian thought of Raquel and felt the rub of his boxer shorts against his crotch. It wasn't a fair fight, was it? Ian's thoughts shifted to Spanky and the gang. He could hear their barking in the distance. Each morning, the same four geezers set sail at first light. Four-letter adjectives sliced through the morning mist like a pie knife through meringue. Ian quickened his pace. The old buzzards were already half juiced, he thought. Staying ahead of a squad of intoxicated grandpas wouldn't be easy. They tended to motor through their morning round of golf as if it were a warm-up to a frat party. "It's our last round together," Tony whispered. Ian detected a sadness in Tony's voice. He and Tony had been golfing companions for years, even before Tony's untimely real-life death. Champagne and good times were Tony's motto. And today would be Tony and Ian's final dance. A thin haze of melancholy drifted beside him. Ian drew in a slow breath and felt the familiar scent of dew-laden sage work its way into his lungs. One last round, he thought. And then it would be off to St. Joseph's for a final year. Snap out of it, he told himself. Hadn't early morning always brought a hopeful silence? A grand adventure was ready to unfold, Ian argued. A story yet unwritten. His skin tingled. If he were lucky, the day would become memorable. "Quit your moping and get your skinny ass down the path," Tony commanded. "Let's go kick some ass," Ian agreed. A placard with a large "No. 10, Par 5" greeted Ian as he arrived at the foot of the path. After unsheathing his driver, he withdrew an unblemished Ben Hogan golf ball from his back pocket. A smile suddenly appeared across his deeply tanned face. Was it considered a sin to have borrowed a sleeve of Ben Hogans from his father's golf bag? If so, the sun had not yet risen and Ian had already fallen prey to the clutches of the devil-twice, Ian laughed to himself, as an image of Raquel Welch reappeared in his head. The heaviness that trailed him down the path was replaced by a surge of adrenaline. His golf bag slipped from his shoulder to the wet turf with a thud. Ian gently settled Ben Hogan on a wooden tee, knowing Ben's thin balata skin was as delicate as the shell of a chicken egg. Ian shuffled to the rear of the teeing area and turned to face the tenth fairway for a final time. "This is it, Tony. One last time," Ian said as his gaze settled on patch of fairway far in the distance. Ian strode toward the teed Ben Hogan like a feral cat stalking a field mouse. He found a comfortable stance. A quick glimpse down the fairway, a slight shuffle of his feet. A pause. And then morning stillness gave way to the hissing fury of air ripped asunder as Ian attacked with the ferocity of a carpenter driving home a sixteen-penny nail. Ben Hogan exploded skyward, climbing like a soaring eagle high over distant hills whose peaks were brightening under the promise of a rising sun. Ian's heart skipped a beat. A brilliant start to another gorgeous summer day, he thought. No sooner had the thought entered his mind than it scurried away like a frightened child. Ben Hogan had taken a detour seventy yards astray of Ian's intended target. Ian's eyes drifted beyond the little orb's soaring flight. He winced. A house along the tenth fairway was about to receive an early morning wake-up call. Ian imagined an embarrassed Ben Hogan lying on somebody's family room carpet staring back at Ian through shattered glass. "Oh, shit," Ian gasped. Was that the whistling call of a twenty-ton bomb from a B-52 he heard? A backyard came into view, and with it, a whisper of hope. Net Man's yard. Thank God, Ian thought. The yard's owner had erected a huge mesh barrier to shield his home from the likes of a wayward Ben Hogan. "All praise to Jesus," Ian whispered, echoing an expression his mother favored. He heard Tony giggle. "You can tell your mother you prayed this morning." Their revelry was short lived. Ian's expression turned to horror as he watched Ben Hogan soar over Net Man's defenses and crash against the home's shake roof with a clatter that sounded to Ian like a gunshot. A flock of birds scattered as the sharp crack of ballata against cedar echoed across the valley. Ian gawked in silence at Net Man's backyard for several long moments. His jaw sagged as a river of adrenaline flooded through him. He heard Tony suck in a breath. "God, that was awesome!" Ian's entire body was vibrating with energy. He knew he'd pounded Ben Hogan, but to see him scream over Net Man's towering mesh fence? How far was that, anyway? His heart raced. Ian quickly reached into his pocket for another ball. His fingers trembled. If he'd known Ben Hogans went that far, he would have lifted them from his father's golf bag a long time ago. He teed the ball and repeated his pre-shot routine. Once again, the morning stillness was broken by a mighty lash. Ian watched with satisfaction as Ben Hogan's twin brother hissed into the distance along its intended flight path. Ian raised a hand to acknowledge Tony's applause as he slid the club into his golf bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder and marched down the fairway, glancing in the direction of Net Man's house. He was prepared to wave a hand of apology, but Net Man's windows remained dark. Jesus, Ian thought, either the guy sleeps like the dead or nobody is home. Ian strode to where Ben Hogan's twin brother rested. He looked back toward the tee and then forward toward the green. Holy shit, he thought. Had he ever been so close to the green on a par five after...
