{"product_id":"the-green-isbn-9780385494601","title":"The Green","description":"The Ryder Cup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA biennial tournament considered the premier event in the golfing world, pitting the twelve best players in the United States against the twelve best of Europe in a contest so pressure-filled it can paralyze even the most battle-scarred tour veterans.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnited States captain Alan Bellamy, with one precious slot unfilled and none of the remaining top tour players willing to sign on against a clearly superior European squad, makes a desperate decision in his attempt to preserve America's golfing honor: he selects as his twelfth man one Eddie Caminetti, a low-life, two-bit hustler from a municipal course in South Florida.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The most prestigious tournament in golf will never be the same. As the unforeseen consequences of Caminetti's participation on the Ryder team unfold riotously, Troon McAllister takes us into the minds and souls of elite professional athletes and poses a question as old as golf itself: Why would God create a game even He can't play?Praise for \u003cb\u003eThe Green\u003c\/b\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] hilarious and loving look at golf generally and the Ryder Cup in particular...Happily for his fans, Caminetti will return in \u003cb\u003eThe Foursome\u003c\/b\u003e, in which golf meets \u003cb\u003eDeliverance\u003c\/b\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A minor miracle of fiction...Completely convincing, wise, funny, \u003cb\u003eThe Green\u003c\/b\u003e stands on its own not just as outstanding golf fiction but as fiction period.\"\u003cbr\u003e--Steven Pressfield, author of \u003cb\u003eThe Legend of Bagger Vance\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A rollicking tale full of raucously rococo characters...You think pool sharks are the consummate hustlers? Wait until you meet Eddie Caminetti.\"\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eSan Bernardino Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If you think it's just about golf, you're missing half the fun. The richly drawn characters populating \u003cb\u003eThe Green\u003c\/b\u003e are stand-ins for all of us, and the lessons to be learned beneath all of the humor and intrigue will stay with you long after the final page.\"\u003cbr\u003e--Stewart Cink, PGA Professional\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Laced with colorful locker-room dialogue and golf aphorisms...this romp is par for the course, an insider's down-and-dirty view of golf competition stroke by stroke.\"\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eSan Antonio Express-News\u003c\/i\u003eTroon McAllister lives in Southern California. His handicap has been declared a federal disaster area.I arrived just before five-thirty and saw Eddie waiting for me outside the gate. He was driving a '67 Cadillac Fleetwood, which somehow surprised me. I thought a hustler like him would be driving something nondescript, something that wouldn't call attention to himself. He was standing outside the car with a three-iron hung across his shoulders, one hand on each end as he turned first one way, held it, then turned back and held it on the other side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce we got inside, he went directly to the range to hit some balls. He must have gotten to the gate by five so he could have his stretching routine done. I got through mine in about fifteen minutes, hit a few and then called out, \"You ready?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Eddie had said, we were both to carry our own bags. It went without saying that I didn't want any caddies to witness me scramble four balls against a nobody. Both of us had brought carry bags, mine a leather-trimmed beauty I got as a gift from a sponsor, his an ultralightweight, apparently homemade job that didn't look as if weighed much more than the air it displaced.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first hole at Seminole is a par-four that plays 475 from the back tees. Eddie took a moment to survey the hole, probably never having seen grass that looked like it had been cut with a nail clipper and a ruler. Seminole was like a postcard come to life, so impossibly manicured it seemed a shame even to set foot on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI let him have his look so I could have a moment to myself as well. I try never to tee off without first taking a few minutes to appreciate this game I play, and the physical environment in which I play it. On this perfect morning, the warm air was cooking the fresh-cut grass so that humid waves of its musty smell rose up gently like a heady perfume. The moisture in the air made things a little on the hazy side, a little heavy, recalling the dreamy laziness of summers when I was a kid. I find it hard to resist the serenity that seeps into me in these kinds of conditions, the kind that makes you want to walk a little slower, swing a little smoother, the kind that keeps pulling you back into awareness of the day so you don't get so caught up in the game you forget where you are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI would have thought that Eddie'd be getting impatient by now, but he was standing quietly, maybe mulling over something of his own take on the day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You sure about this, Eddie?\" I asked solicitously. \"Not too late to change your mind. I wouldn't say anything to anybody.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe took a deep breath, then looked down at his shoes. \"Deal's a deal, Al. Let's do it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stepped back out of his line of sight as he teed up his ball and took a few practice swings. Rolling his neck once to make sure it was loose, he sidled up between the black markers and took his stance, waggling the club and taking one more look down the fairway before fixing his gaze on his ball.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter about two seconds of stillness, he took the club back smoothly, brought it back down and hit the ball, keeping his head down, following through nicely and then looking up to see how he did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a fine shot, almost perfectly straight, with only a hint of fade. It hit the grass and rolled, not as far as it might have a few hours later when the dew had dried, but good enough to end up about 250 yards away and right in the middle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good shot,\" I said graciously as he stepped away to make room for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thanks,\" he replied, and got back out of my sight line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI teed up and did my own pre-shot routine, not much different from Eddie's, and hauled off much harder than I normally would have, knowing I had three more attempts if it didn't work out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy connection was very solid, and I, too, faded the ball a little, but I had started off more centered, so I drifted to the right of the middle. When the ball came to rest, I was at least thirty-five yards past Eddie, about halfway between the middle and the trees on the right, on the fairway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Beauty!\" he said in sincere admiration.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rocked my head a little. \"Not bad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen I turned around, and as I pulled another ball out of my pocket, I said, \"But I get to try again, right?\" Thinking, \u003ci\u003eAnd here comes the bullshit\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEddie held out his hand, palm up, toward the tee box. \"Be my guest.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI still had trouble believing this. I took another swing, this time as hard as I possibly could, knowing the first ball would play just fine and I didn't need any safe shots to protect me. This time I cleared over 300 yards, but the intended fade was more of a slice, and I was in the rough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next time I eased up slightly and got 290, but safely on the fairway, and my last shot was a real screamer that drew too much to the left, this time deep into the woods.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You bring enough balls?\" Eddie asked amiably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Plenty,\" I answered with equivalent good cheer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe hefted the bags and took off. I dropped my bag down and walked to pick up the two visible balls I wasn't going to use, not bothering to hunt in the woods for the last shot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEddie waited for me, and we stopped at his ball. He had about 225 to go to reach the green. He chose a five-wood and hit a very pretty shot, landing three feet off the dance floor on the left side. It was a makable par opportunity. Then we went to the ball I decided play, the 290-yard drive sitting on the right side of the fairway. I had 185 to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst I placed a ball marker about six inches to the right of my ball so I would be able to tell where to put the balls for my other tries. I took out a five-iron and hit, ending up about ten feet off the green, on the side opposite where Eddie was lying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Crappy,\" I said, pulling another ball out of my bag. I placed it as close to where the first ball had been as I could, then hit the five-iron again. This time I hit the green, maybe twenty-five feet from the pin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Should be able to do better than that,\" I said, reaching for a third ball.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEddie nodded enthusiastically. \"Whaddaya got to lose?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yup.\" I hit again, this time landing about ten feet from the flag. Then once again, ending up not much closer to the pin than my second shot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That oughta do it,\" I said, unable to keep the smugness out of my voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Eddie was not to be dismayed. \"Yup. Lookin' good, Al. Play this format a lot, I see.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the green, Eddie chipped to within four feet, then went ahead and putted out for his par.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI took my time with the ten-footer, missed but saw the line, tried again and drained it. Birdie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nicely done,\" Eddie said as he wrote down the scores on a sheet he'd pulled out of his back pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was up one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNumber two was a par-five, a 590-yard monster with a dogleg right about 320 out. One of the five strokes per side I was giving Eddie came on this hole, so I had to beat him by two to win it, or by one to tie. Eddie hit another nice drive, again about 250 yards, keeping it left so he'd have a way around the dogleg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot wanting to lose my head, I hit my first drive safe, about 280 and also slightly left. With a good one sitting in my pocket, I was able to whale away at the next three shots with abandon, doing everything I could to get past those trees. My second shot ended up in the woods, and the third, a cannon that actually put me just about past the trees, nevertheless ended up in the rough. The fourth was useless. It would be a tough call which one I'd play of the first and third.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEddie hit a good three-wood that got him within 120 of the green. I knew after taking a look at the ball in the rough that there was no way I could put it onto the green, so I elected to be smart and play from my 280-yarder. I hit a three-wood just like Eddie had, but got myself within 70 of the green.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith nothing to lose now, I pulled out my driver and smacked my second try with everything I had. It hooked badly, splashing into the creek running alongside the rough over on the left. I hit the driver again, but took a little dirt, sending the ball less than 200 yards. For my fourth shot, I concentrated as hard as I ever have and hit the driver so clean and pure, damned if the ball didn't fly its way to maybe 40 yards in front of the green.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Holy shit!\" Eddie said, grinning like a schoolboy. \"Wun'ta believed it, I hadn'a seen it with my own eyes!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned around as casually as I could, slipping the head cover over the driver and placing it gently back in my bag. \"Yeah, I liked that one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEddie easily plopped his ball onto the green with his pitching wedge. I hit four with my sand wedge and got one of them less than five feet from the pin. Once again, Eddie parred and I birdied, but because he got a stroke, we tied the hole. Or \"halved\" it, as we golfers put it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI won the next one, which Eddie didn't stroke, so I was now up two after three holes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was getting embarrassing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt went on pretty much like that for the next three holes. I birdied them all, Eddie parred them all. He stroked two of those, so I was up three at this point. I was having a good time, smacking hell out of balls without worrying too much about what happened to them, hitting enough beauties to ensure a birdie on every hole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI started to notice Eddie's game a little bit more. It wasn't spectacular, but it was practically flawless. He didn't make mistakes and seemed to have a definite plan for every shot, always doing what he intended to do. He was deliberate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToo deliberate. I was killing him, and Eddie was still being conservative, admittedly playing excellent golf, especially on such a long course, but I had this strange feeling I wasn't seeing his best game. Was he sorry now he'd made the bet, and too timid to pull out the stops and try to catch up to me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Eddie,\" I called out as we pulled up to the seventh tee and set our bags down. My back was starting to ache a little from all that whacking at the ball I was doing, as well as all the extra walking around to pick up the ones I wouldn't be using, so I sat on the bench alongside the tee box. \"Wanna have some fun?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Fun, how?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thought about it for a few seconds. \"You're down three, right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe nodded, not having to look at the scorecard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Look: Me making birdies and you pars, looks like I'm gonna be up about eight when we're all done, right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not if you get a couple eagles.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And you could get some birdies. So what if I spot you five of those eight?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe thought it over, probably realizing it gave him an outside chance of winning, whereas now it was completely hopeless as things stood. Of course, he also knew that I wasn't going to change the rules in his favor without some concession on his part.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike upping the stakes. Which is what I expected him to inquire about next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he didn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I got a different idea,\" he said, and I gestured for him to go on. He put his foot up on the bench and said, \"Let's just double the stakes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And . . . ?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And nothin\". We just keep playing. For ten large.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI couldn't have heard that right. \"What the hell are you talkin' about?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Just what I said. I'll even go you one better: Twenty grand says I beat you straight up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt something cold crawl across my back. I literally shivered. \"No strokes?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No strokes. Take 'em all back, 'cept what you already gimme. You start off up three on me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was clearly playing with a lunatic, and I realized that Eddie probably didn't have a pot to piss in and couldn't even pay off the original five thousand. \"You plannin' to bolt on me, bud?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was ready for that, and walked back to his bag after laying his club against the bench. He reached into one of the outside pockets for his wallet. He opened it as he came back and counted off four bills, then pulled them out and laid them on the bench next to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey weren't bills. They were four cashier's checks, fully negotiable, for five thousand each.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How many a'these you carry round?\" I asked, buying time to try to cope with this madness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A few. Whaddaya say?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI fingered the checks. \"You wanna play me straight up for twenty large.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's the bet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And I'm already up three.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yup.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And if you're bullshittin' me, I can call it off.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Uh-huh.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was starting to piss me off. \"You got it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scooped up the checks and started to hand them back, but he turned away and said, \"You hold 'em.\" Then he grabbed his club and walked back toward the tee box.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI got up off the bench, leaning left and right a few times to try to get the kinks out of my back and shoulders. I wasn't used to hitting that many woods and long irons--so far that I must've hit sixty or so as hard as I possibly could--and I needed a moment to work out the stiffness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gimme a sec,\" I called out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Take your time,\" he yelled back. \"I'm in no hurry.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe seventh was a par-three, 220 yards. I got one of my four tee shots within fifteen feet and sank the putt on the third try for a birdie. Eddie put his tee shot twenty feet out and two-putted for another par. I was now up four.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEddie would have stroked eight and nine, but he gave those up when we changed the bet. I had an anxiety attack as he pulled out his driver at the number-eight tee box, thinking I'd been hustled and he was going to hit the damned thing 340 down the middle, but once again he hit a safe 250, just as he'd been doing all day. I only managed a par on the hole, and he halved it with his own par. I birdied nine, but so did he, and that was another half.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe finished the front nine with me still up four. I was now pretty certain that this clown's ego had cost him a whole bunch of money. I also thought that the reason he had to carry around cashier's checks was because he'd made so many dumb bets nobody would trust his markers anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut, shit, my back was really hurting now.","brand":"Main Street Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304521552101,"sku":"NP9780385494601","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385494601.jpg?v=1767739666","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-green-isbn-9780385494601","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}