Chapter One
It was Christmas morning and a balmy 38 degrees. In other words, a
perfect day for golf, and there I stood on the semifrozen mud of the
17th tee at the Creekview Country Club in Winnetka, Illinois.
My marriage was disintegrating. My three kids, whom I love more than
life itself, didn't know what to make of me lately, and I had a
terrible feeling that come January, I was going to be fired from my
job at Leo Burnett. Who knows, if everything went as badly as it
possibly could, there was a chance I might be one of the homeless
after that.
Ho! Ho! Ho!
I bent down, teed up an old scuffed Titleist, and squinted through
the wind at the long tight par 5, lined on both sides by towering
black leafless elms.
Now what follows is one of those mystical, largely unexplainable,
out-of-body experiences, so please bear with me. Or as Fin Scully
used to say at the start of his golf telecasts, pull up a chair and
make yourself comfortable. I admit that in sheer unlikelihood, this
probably ranks right up there with Truman upsetting Dewey, It's a
Wonderful Life, and John Daly winning the British Open.
What can I say? Stuff happens to people. Tragedies befall saints.
Fortune smiles on cretins. Extraordinary things happen to ordinary
people. And this happened to me.
Since it is such a crucial number in this story, I should point out
that I was starting my round on 17. Despite the unseasonable thaw,
it was Christmas, the course was empty, and 17 just happened to be
the tee closest to where I parked. Anyway, I knocked the cover off
my drive.
Nothing unusual about that. I hit the ball farther than the pro here
at Creekview. I even hit the ball farther than the current champ,
Mark Duffel, who's twenty.
I trudged down the fairway, nudged my ball away from a sprinkler
head, and hit my second shot, a 185-yard, 5-iron, stiff. Suddenly, I
was feeling better. To hell with my problems. Golf can have that
effect.
Now, here comes the weird part. This is where everything gets a
little spooky, and I took my first step on this road-either to
salvation or damnation.
I stroked that putt so clean and solid.
Strange.
I put such a pure sweet roll on it, the ball traveled over the grass
like a bead of mercury rolls across the floor after you break a
thermometer.
The beginning of a miracle. A harbinger. A sign.
The little white ball dropped into the little white cup for eagle.
I was hooked.
I was elated.
I was doomed.
I must tell you right now however, that this isn't the so-called
Miracle on 17. Not even close.
I hurried to the next tee.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Miracle on the 17th Green
by James Patterson Peter de Jonge
Copyright © 1999 by James Patterson .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Copyright © 1999
James Patterson
All right reserved.