Snowman.

Snowman--"Slang term [in golf] for a score of 8 on any individual hole, so-called because the figure '8' resembles the body of a snowman."

--Brent Kelly, Guide to Golf

We huddled on the fifth tee of the Preston Country Club, my T-shirt and shorts soaked, clinging to my skin, trapping the bone-chill like an all-body ice compress. A twenty-mile-an-hour east wind drove the rain into us as if the drops were acupuncture needles. The temperature had fallen ten degrees since we started. I shivered next to my player, Mr. William Baxter, known as "Wild Bill," because he'd try any golf shot, no matter the odds. Caddying was my summer job until August football practice began, so bailing on him wasn't an option.

Bill was playing with two other salesmen from Premier Plastics, Mr. Chip Finan and Mr. George Dexter. The Three Musketeers golfed together a couple afternoons a week, usually wagering twenty bucks with additional complicated side bets, bantering like grade school kids playing pick-up basketball. All had mid-single-digit-handicaps, so they were evenly matched. On Dexter's bag, my man Squirrel bitched about the weather under his breath, whispering that the golfers had been brain-damaged at birth.

The fifth was an up-hill par three, one-hundred-ninety-yards, all carry over a gully knee deep in weeds, thistles, and briars. The creek at the bottom was swollen with churning sewer-like brown water. Across the gulch, a foggy mist blanketed the target, a green that tilted severely from right to left, depositing many a tee shot in a deep bunker the members called "Death Valley." Bill was first up, selected a four iron, and hit a high-arcing cutter, moving the ball from left to right into the breeze. The ball climbed to the apex of its flight where the wind acted as a brake and dropped it straight down, fifteen feet from the pin. Finan and Dexter shook their heads. Bill flashed a self-congratulatory grin. "Piece a cake."

Dexter was up next. His long, loose swing, all hands and arms, resembled Spider Man climbing a skyscraper. Somehow, it suited his 6'4" frame and usually worked. Impatiently, Squirrel bared his yellowed teeth, yanked a three iron from the bag, and thrust it at Dexter, daring his golfer to question the selection. Dexter accepted the club with a shrug and took a big outside-in poke, unsuccessfully mimicking Bill's shot. Squirrel rolled his eyes as the ball rainbowed into a stand of seedling pines thirty yards from the green.

Finan hit last, wiping his tortoise-shell glasses with a handkerchief. Sweet Ernie Lowe, his caddy, stood nearby, nervously shifting his weight back and forth, a plea for his golfer to get on with it. "Swing easy into a strong wind," Finan recited several times. But his body produced a lunging hockey slap-shot instead of a golf swing. He topped his ball into the front bunker. "Crap." He turned to his partners and pounded the muddy turf.

"Mind over matter," Bill chided.

"Brain's frozen. Not to mention my fingers and toes," Finan said.

We followed the golfers across a steel-frame footbridge spanning the ravine between tee and green. Mossy swollen boards sagged beneath our feet, rutted and worn from thousands of cleat marks. The green lay atop a knoll, exposing us to the full fury of the nor'easter's attack. Dexter and Finan hunched over and scurried to their balls like soldiers scrambling for cover. As if conceding the hole, they played their second shots fast and indifferently. Bill smirked as he watched them, winning with a two-putt par to Dexter's double-bogie five and Finan's four.

"Easy money today, boys," Bill said.

We crossed the creek again, making our way to the sixth tee over a second span almost identical to the first. Bill and I lagged behind. I held an umbrella over his head and picked my way carefully across the slippery planks. A sudden gust almost ripped it from my grip, turning the struts inside out. The blast staggered me. My feet slipped. I fell against the rusted waist-high railing. Instead of helping, Bill grabbed the shaft, pushed it into my chest, and pinned me hard against the cold wet steel. The railing bent like a pipe cleaner. My upper body teetered above the gulch.

Like a linebacker, I thrust my hands into Bill's chest and shoved him back. "What the hell are you doing?" I yelled, regaining my foothold.

Rain dripped from the brow of his cap. His eyes were clear and dark, his teeth clenched. "Mimi told me everything."

"Told you what? There's nothing to tell."

"Yeah? Last week in our bedroom?"

I met his stare with one of my own. "Nothing happened."

He moved his face inches from mine. Spittle burst from the corners of his mouth. "Bullshit."

"I don't know what Mimi told you. I caddied for her in the Qualifier. That's it."

He extended his finger like a gun and poked my chest. "Stay away from my wife."

Bill backed off a step, then nodded at the umbrella. "Pick it up, stud. And you'd better not fall behind."

I met Mimi, Bill's wife, on a hinder Saturday late in May, a morning bursting with summer's promise. Waiting for a job, I lounged on the bench next to the caddy master's office. Squirrel, Preston's only full-time professional caddy, sat beside me smoking an unfiltered Camel, lamenting how all the big tippers had left our town like the factories. "Maybe next summer I'II drive up east to New Jersey or Connecticut-loop for some high rollers."

"Sounds like a plan." But I knew Squirrel was a lifer. He'd spend his earthly days in Preston, no matter how much he complained.

A woman strode by, her shoulders back, spine straight as a Marine's. She was dressed in cream slacks and a light blue knit shirt that complemented her tan. Cinnamon eyes simmered in the deep hollows carved above her high cheekbones. Her sun-streaked auburn hair was gathered in a ponytail. She gave us a quick once-over, as if deciding whether to buy the ground chuck or flank steak.

"Whoa, who's that?" I said.

"You don't know, Reg? That's Mimi Baxter, Women's Club Champ longer than I've been here. She'd win the men's too if they'd let her play."

"How come I haven't seen her before?"

"Season's just getting started here. She spends winters in Florida."

Keith, the caddy master, stuck his head out the door. "Walker, you're on Mrs. Baxter's bag today. Meet her on the practice tee."

Squirrel shook his head. "Maybe you're the one this summer." He paused and looked across the bench at me. "There's always one."

That day Mimi schooled me on the finer points of caddying--where to set the bag while she chose her club, how to clean the grooves so they'd grab the ball, where to stand when I tended the pin, and how to read putts. She explained that the tiniest speck of dirt on a ball could cause a putt to miss and that the wind affected a golf ball's flight in so many different ways. She reviewed each point carefully, making sure I understood.

She banged balls for two hours, seldom miss-hitting a shot. She moved through the irons from wedge to three, then proceeded on to the woods. Her swing was classic, the best I'd ever seen. Her sinewy arms were straight as she drew the club to parallel, cocking her wrists, loading her right side. Her head remained still over the ball. She paused at the top and then released the club downward with a fluid sweep, striking the ball with a solid click, following through with hands held high beside her head, facing the target.

Soon she asked me to be her regular caddy. Without hesitating, I said, "That would be way cool."

Her laughter exploded in staccato bursts. It reached a crescendo as she rabbit-punched my arm. "'Way cool,' eh? We'll see if you can remember what I've taught you with a competition on the line."

My summer job became a whole lot easier. She played four or five times a week, days I didn't have to hang around the clubhouse waiting for an assignment. Mostly, she conducted her business in the middle of the fairways rather than in Preston CC'S abundant creeks, roughs, steep gullies, and woods. When the Women's Club Championship came up at the end of June, I was to be on her bag.

The day before the tournament, she handed me a plastic sack. Inside were two Polo golf shirts.

"What's this?"

"A shirt for each day of the tournament. XXL--they should fit. Wear one tomorrow with a decent pair of shorts. I want you to look sharp--professional. You're my caddy."

I held the sack out to her, trying to give it back. "I can't accept these."

Her smile disappeared. "You will if you want to carry my bag tomorrow."

Early the next morning she picked me up in her candy-apple-red Sebring convertible.

"We're gonna have some fun today, Reg."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going to teach you how l get an edge. Here's what I want you to do." On the drive to the club, she gave me the short course in gamesmanship. When she finished, I said, "Is that stuff legal?"

"Sure. All part of golf."

We were the first group off. Dew sparkled on the turf like diamonds on an emerald carpet. Tractors clattered in the distance, criss-crossing the fairways with their wide mowers in tow. The scent of newly-mown grass reminded me of sweet corn boiling in a pot. As we walked to the first tee, the sun hoisted itself above the trees, blinding us as we stared across the fairway's humps and bumps to the green three-hundred-sixty yards away.

Mimi was paired with Mrs. Kilbride, a former club champion who would be her closest competitor for the title. First up, the ex-champ placed her peg in the ground and watched as Mimi waltzed casually to the rear of the tee directly behind, a spot where she'd be visible in Kilbride's backswing. Mimi's liquid brown eyes signaled me to join her. Kilbride took a couple practice swings, then stared as I strode by and set the bag at Mimi's feet. "Are you two done now?" she said, tucking strands of orangish hair beneath her straw hat.

In the middle of Kilbride's take away, Mimi grabbed the white towel attached to her bag and wiped her hands. Mrs. K's driver wobbled at the top of her swing and she duck-hooked her ball into the left rough. She groaned and her freckled face collapsed inward, as if the shin had been sucked into a black hole. Mrs. K slammed the club into her bag and turned toward us. "Mind standing to the side next time?"

"Oh sure ... sorry," Mimi said as she teed her ball. But the damage was done. And when Mimi made a dreamy swing, stroking the Titleist two hundred fifty yards in the center-cut, Kilbride hunched her shoulders and hung her head as if she'd already lost.

I reached into Mimi's bag of tricks that day and the next--tending the pin so I cast a shadow in the path of Kilbride's ball, rattling clubs as she addressed a difficult putt, loudly admonishing her caddy, after she'd blasted a shot over the green, to help her with club selection so she wouldn't blow another. Mimi won by eighteen shots. She lapped the field. When I asked her why she bothered with mind games, she patted my arm and said, "Winning isn't enough--you have to grab their throats. Make sure they know they'll never beat you."

She handed me $160.00--my usual thirty each for the two rounds plus a hundred dollar tip. "This is too much," I said, staring at eight crisp twenty dollar bills.

"You earned it. We're a team." She folded my fingers around the money and hugged me, standing on her tiptoes to plant a motherly hiss on my cheek.

Bill raced ahead to the tee. He waited for me there with his arms folded. "You should apologize for holding us up," he snapped.

Ignoring his comment, I pulled out his driver and handed it to him.

"Wipe the grip, sport. Think you can remember that?"

I grabbed the club and toweled it off, thought about giving his bag to Squirrel and walking away. But that would've been the end of my summer job and I needed the money. Besides, bugging out surely would have confirmed my guilt in his eyes.

Bill teed his ball in the mushy ground and addressed it with a hateful look. At five-hundred-eighty-five yards, the sixth hole was the longest on the course and played directly into the wind. A creek bounded the right side, deep woods the left. He rose up on his toes, took a ferocious swing, and yanked the ball into the trees. I groaned silently, wondering whether he'd done it on purpose. After Finan and Dexter both hit their drives into the fairway, we slid down from the elevated tee through lemon grass. Nearly jogging on saturated turf, we dodged water ponding in the fairway's low spots and followed the ball's path into the dimness of the deep woods, ripe with the loamy odor of soft earth, decaying leaves, and sodden, fungus-covered tree limbs.

Sparks flew as Bill slashed at the underbrush with his titanium driver. I spotted his Pro V nestled against a fallen branch. He had no room to swing and no clear exit. I expected him to declare the ball unplayable and take a penalty shot. Instead, he said, "I can get it out." He picked up his ball and dropped it into a nearby clearing. In mute surprise, I dragged the bag to him and sat it down. He pulled out a five iron and executed a low punch underneath the branches. The ball drew left and scooted into the short grass.

"Fabulous recovery, Bill!" Dexter yelled.

Bill turned to me with a smirk. "Not bad, eh?"

"Yeah, sure, nice one, Mr. Baxter." I didn't want to provoke him further.

"That 'five-finger wedge shot' you saw back there will be our secret, just like you and Mimi."

I threw his bag over my right shoulder. "Like I said before, nothing happened."

"And like I said before, you're a lying sack of shit."

The golf gods didn't reward Bill's cheating. Finan won the hole with a par to Bill's double-bogie-seven and Dexter's bogie-six. The summer downpour endured. We caddies did not. The next hour dragged on like a videotape in slow motion. When our golfers finally finished the front nine and headed for the clubhouse, deliverance seemed at hand. We huddled by the caddy master's door, drinking hot coffee, and stomping our feet, certain the head umpire would call the game.

But all hope our golfers might quit vanished when they emerged in dry clothes with fresh towels slung over their shoulders. Squirrel, Ernie, and I looked at each other, shrugged, and grabbed the bags. I consoled myself with a Snickers bar as we headed for the tenth tee on a long winding path up a steep hill. The hike took several minutes. My feet had begun to blister, squishing inside my wet socks and waterlogged Nikes. My aching calves cramped as we made the tough climb. Beside me, Squirrel whistled, "Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, It's Off To Work We Go."

The Michigan Women's Amateur followed the Club Championship. Since the tournament was held at Bolbrooh, a course only forty-seven miles from Preston, Mimi and I commuted each day. Two rounds of medal-play qualified the golfers shooting the lowest scores for the match-play finals. Mimi made the cut easily. After her final qualifying round, I stashed her clubs in the Chrysler convertible and we drove home, laughing, and replaying each shot.

We were about to pass her house, a two-story brick colonial in the Estates section of town, when she asked if I wanted to stop for a Coke.

"Sure, that'd be great," I said.

She pulled into the garage and ushered me through her birchen to the flagstone patio behind the house. While I relaxed in the late afternoon sun, she got our drinks.

"Want a beer instead?" she yelled through the screen door. "Special occasion. We should celebrate."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

She returned with a Heineken and a Martini, set her drink on the table, and handed me the beer. When I reached for the can, she leaned forward and hissed me. Her lips, moist with vodka, lingered on mine.

I pulled back, blushing. "What's that for?"

"Reward for a great job today. Couldn't have done it without you." She collapsed into the wrought iron chair beside me. "Think I can pull it off?"

"You've got plenty of game, Mrs. Baxter."

"Call me Mimi. Mrs. Baxter' sounds so old."

She crossed her tanned legs and tugged at her pink shirt. "What position do you play?"

"You mean in football?"

"No, in tennis ... of course I mean football," she snorted.

"Right tackle."

"Any good?"

"I'm okay." I took a couple swigs and looked down. The frayed hole in my sweat sock had seemed smaller that morning.

"You 'guess so'?" She laughed uproariously. Her gold hoop earrings quivered as she threw bach her head. Her voice grew hoarse as the outburst continued and finally lapsed into a coughing jag. Regaining her composure, she said, "Mr. Modesty. I'll bet you're a terrific player ... Another beer?"

I peeled the paper from the empty bottle's throat. "I'd like to, but it's getting late. Morn will wonder why I'm not home for dinner."

She flashed her bleached-white teeth, leaned forward, and brushed my knee with her fingers. "Just one more ... to celebrate. As usual, Bill's out of town and I need some company right now. So one more, then I'll run you home and tell mom it's my fault you're late."

Number ten was a three-hundred-sixty-two-yard par four that dropped over a hundred feet from tee to fairway. On a dry day with a tailwind, a long hitter could drive the green. Finan and Dexter hit their balls two-fifty or -sixty, leaving wedge shots in. Bill hit last, scalding an angry line-drive that came to rest fifteen yards behind his buddies. "Nice miss, William," Finan said.

"Keep your mouth shut," Bill snapped, side-arming his tee at Finan. I reached for his driver, but he hung on and twirled it around by the head, as if he were the drum major in a marching band.

We trailed behind the others off the tee, Bill and I striding abreast along the gravel path. Halfway down the track, I felt something hard between my left calf and right ankle. "What the ... I flew forward, trying to break the fall with my hands, but the weight of the golf bag propelled me hard against the path. My forehead slammed onto the gravel. A white-hot light, tinged with orange and yellow, exploded behind my eyes. Then, blackness.

I sipped my beer to make it last. An old Sycamore cast a deep shadow across the patio, its leaves rustling gently in the stale late afternoon breeze. Mimi was on her second Martini.

"Want to see the house?"

"Sure."

We stood and she took my hand. I felt the calluses on her palm and fingers, well-earned in many years on the golf course and practice range. Though half my size, Mimi led me like a child through French doors into the family room.

"Big house for two people," I said.

"Very big and very empty."

"Any kids?"

She shook her head, choking momentarily on a morsel of pain. "Couldn't."

She pulled me up the circular staircase to the master bedroom. "Mrs. Baxter, I ... don't think ... I should be here." My head smoldered, as if baking in my football helmet during late-August practice.

She pressed a finger against my mouth, shook her head, laid her cheek against my chest, and drew my hands to her small waist. "You dance?"

"A little," I said, so softly I almost couldn't hear myself.

"A little is good. A little is all we need." She glided slowly to a clock radio on the bed stand and clicked it on. "CD 101.1," a deep voice announced, "home of soft rock." In his distinctive high-pitched whine, Michael Bolton began to sing "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?" She kicked off her fiats and stepped toward me, arms extended. I grasped her right hand with my left and gently rested my free hand on her back. We swayed to the music, barely moving from the center of the room.

"Have a girlfriend?"

"No, ma'am."

"Now it's 'ma'am'?" she rasped. "You're in my bedroom, in case you haven't noticed." She stopped, pushed bach gently with the heels of her hands, and looked up. "Ever had a girlfriend?" "Not really." We resumed. I clutched her waist and tugged her closer.

"'Not really' means you've never had a girlfriend or never had one you made love to?"

My neck and face flushed. I stuttered, "Well ... there was Mary ... in the fifth grade."

"That doesn't count."

When Michael Bolton finished, she turned her head and hissed my chest, then clasped my shoulders and spun me around.

I lay on my stomach, stones embedded in my forehead, hands, and elbows. My knees felt sticky, my shorts were ripped. When I opened my eyes, a pair of grass-covered brown and white golf shoes crowded my face. "Clumsy ape. You'd better hope my clubs aren't busted."

"Reggie, you okay?" I recognized Finan's voice, but couldn't see him.

I rose up gingerly on my bruised hands and knees and squatted on my haunches. Dizzy, I paused for my head to clear. No broken bones, but blood oozed from raw flesh. I brushed off the pea gravel, lifting myself slowly, finally standing erect. "What happened?"

"You tripped coming down the path," Dexter said. "Slippery because of the rain." Dexter, Squirrel, Finan, and Ernie hovered. Bill backed off in a sulk.

"How long was I out?"

"Couple minutes," Squirrel said. "Sure you're okay?"

"Think so." In fact, the trip and fall were worse than any beating I'd ever taken on the football field.

"Let's get on with the round," Bill said. "I've got to get home and pack for a trip tomorrow."

Dexter said, "You've got to be kidding. We need to get Reggie to the emergency room. At the least, he's got a concussion."

Bill's head recoiled. "Seems completely unnecessary."

"You want to lean on me?" Dexter said, ignoring him.

"No. I can make it."

Squirrel retrieved Bill's clubs scattered on the ground, stuffed them back into the bag, and hoisted it onto his left shoulder. "Sure you can walk back on your own, man?" "I'll try."

We started to the clubhouse, Dexter on one side, Finan on the other. Almost immediately, my knees stiffened. Unable to bend them, I goose-stepped along and prayed there was no serious damage. Practice began in less than a month. A sophomore hotshot was after my position. I had to be ready. When we reached the pro shop, Bill vanished, but Squirrel drove me to the emergency room. I phoned mom, explained what'd happened, and asked her to meet me there.

"Let's take a shower," Mimi said after backing me into the bathroom. Fixing her gaze, she unzipped her shirt, letting it drop from her narrow hips straight to the floor. She yanked her sleeveless blouse over her head and tossed it aside. Slowly, she shook out of her bra. "Your turn."

I hesitated, imagined Bill walking in. How did I get there? I wanted to bolt, but Mimi blocked the door. "I can't do this, Mrs. Baxter. You're a beautiful woman, but this isn't right."

"Isn't right?" There was a hard edge to her voice. "You're in my bathroom and we're about to take a nice hot shower." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's not like we're going to have sex, for god's sake."

"We're not?"

She stood unselfconsciously in her panties, knuckles on her hips, as if our conversation was the most normal thing in the world.

"Why'd you bring me up here?"

"To get to know you better."

"I'm uncomfortable."

"Of course you are." Her voice was full of scorn. For the first time, I noticed sun spots at the base of her neck and laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her chestnut-brown skin was leathery in the white fluorescent light.

"I ... I should be going." Gingerly, I sidestepped her, my bach and hands pressed against the tiled bathroom wall.

"We're not done here."

"We are. I'm going home."

"Oh, yes, I said I'd explain to your mother. Shall I do that?"

"No ... please, just take me home."

We drove in silence as street lamps flickered on. Mimi dumped me at the end of our driveway. "By the way, I won't need you tomorrow. I'll find another boy to carry my bag." I nodded and slid out. As the car door clumped shut, the rear end fishtailed. Her tires spun wildly before connecting with the pavement.

Squirrel called later. Mimi had phoned and asked him to caddy for her the rest of the tournament. "Is that okay?" he said. "I know you're her regular." "Sure," I said. "We had a disagreement." "Say no more."

The next two nights I snapped on the TV to catch the sports report. Mimi won her Wednesday match easily, advancing into the 'Round of Sixteen.' She prevailed in her Thursday morning head-to-head, making four birdies on the first six holes, but struggled in her final match, winning a "seesaw affair" one up. Friday, she'd have a semifinal pairing against Shari Stout, a woman she'd beaten before. I felt happy for her, but missed the action--the rush of a perfectly-hit drive down the heart of the fairway, a high-arcing wedge shot close to the pin, a putt pausing on the lip, then disappearing into the cup on its very last rotation.

Friday night, I punched the remote, expecting to see Mimi hoisting the trophy triumphantly. Instead, the Tigers were playing the Anaheim Angels--a late baseball game on the West Coast had preempted the news. I phoned Squirrel. He picked up after six rings.

"Reggie," I said.

"Hey, man. It's late." His words were thick with sleep.

"What happened?"

"Unbelievable."

"She won?"

"Tied."

"So there was a playoff?"

"Sudden death," he said.

"Come on, man ... give."

Squirrel coughed. "First playoff hole, Mimi drives her ball left into the rough. Stout splits the middle, but twenty yards behind her. Stout plays first and leaves her approach short of the green in a deep hollow."

"Mimi's up next, a small lake between her and the green. Since Stout has a slim chance at par, I expect her to lay-up on the right side of the lake. Instead, she pulls out her four wood. She's going for it."

"Why didn't you stop her?"

"I tried, man. She's one stubborn bitch."

"If I'd been there ... "

"You weren't ... Anyway, tall grass grabs her club and the ball falls into the lake like a dying quail. She takes a penalty, drops, and hits her next into the bunker right of the green. She's laying four. We're toast."

"So it's over?"

"Not quite. Stout chili-dips her approach no more than five or six feet, so she's still away. Her fourth runs past the pin and stops twenty feet above the hole, leaving a scary putt. Mimi's back in it. A good sand shot, a putt, and she probably ties."

"So?"

"Mimi does it--explodes her ball within four feet of the hole. Stout lags her putt to within a foot and taps in for six. All Mimi has to do is make her four-footer to tie. Her putt's easy, left edge at most. She follows her routine, takes her practice strokes, and settles over the ball."

"And?"

"She chokes. Pushes the putt three feet past the hole, then rushes the next. It rims the cup. She taps in for an eight--friggin' snowman."

Mimi once said, "Winning isn't enough." Hubris made her go for the green. To show Stout she had no chance. Only it backfired. Perhaps, after the errant shot, Mimi thought she'd lose no matter what, even after Stout gave her new life. Audacity, crushed and tossed aside, begot self-doubt. Golf is perverse that way.

The emergency room was packed, mostly old folks and little kids with their mothers. The intake nurse quizzed me about my injuries and told me I'd have a fairly long wait. After morn arrived, another nurse finally summoned me to the examination room. X-rays confirmed no bones were broken, but she took a half hour to pick gravel from my abrasions and bandage them. She gave me a tetanus booster and Dr. Weinstein swept in to have a look. I winced in pain as he manipulated my knees. "No cartilage or ligament damage." My concussion, too, was mild and I'd be ready to go when two-a-days began.

I wondered if I should confront Bill--tell him what really happened. Mimi had set me up. Probably bragged that we'd slept together, knowing he'd take it out on me. But in the end, I decided not to pursue him. It would have been Mimi's word against mine. He'd never buy that I'd resisted his wife's charms. I barely believed it myself. So I avoided Bill the rest of that summer, telling the caddy master I wouldn't work for him or any group in which he played. But I regretted not looping for Mimi anymore--missed her feistiness, hair-trigger laugh, and effortless, elegant swing. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have taken that snowman had I been on her bag.

Article Details

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Author:	Jollay, Dean
Publication:	Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature
Article Type:	Short story
Date:	Mar 22, 2009
Words:	4961
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