Memoirs of a Caddy [antikvár]

1 I should have known it was going to be a long season when old man Woods dropped dead right in front of me on Easter Sunday morning. He was lining up a putt he wouldn't have made anyway when he slipped to his knees with a grunt and pitched forward. I'd never seen a dead person before, except for people in their coffins, but I knew Woods was dead from the way his face bounced on the grass. "I'll get Doc Farrell, he's two holes back," I said, and I took off down the center of the fairway as fast as I could go. I was pumping right along when somebody up ahead yelled "Fore!" I couldn't see anything so I bent at the waist, put my hands over my head and kept moving. The ball whistled past my ear, missing me by a foot. As I ran through the group of golfers I saw my buddy Ned. He was standing under a tree lighting a cigarette, the golf bags hanging from his shoulders. "Old man Woods dropped dead," i