|
In
the Scorer's Tent after Shooting a 69 in the PGA Tour
"Frank would like to
see you," Gianni said to me.
I punched the numbers
again. After I failed fourth-grade math, a teacher told me mother:
"Face it, some kids are just slow." Thankfully, my mother did
not accept that; instead, she took me from rural Maine to a specialist
in Boston who diagnosed me and suggested using a calculator.
I slid the card to the
scorer. "Let me see," I said, "what's tonight? Laundry is
Tuesdays. I talk to my mom every Wednesday. Maybe I can squeeze him
between Frasier and Seinfeld reruns."
Gianni didn't smile.
I said: "Tell Frank
I'll take him to dinner. I'd like to make it up to him. No hard
feelings."
"No hard
feelings?"
"Sure. I don't hold
a grudge."
"You don't
hold a grudge?"
Gianni stood looking over
me. Then he leaned close to me and whispered: "Either you've got
balls the size of grapefruits or you're one dumb bastard."
"Probably the
latter," I said.
|