Chula Vista, California glowered on him with unmistakable disdain.
The stout man in the salmon sweater six putted the eighteenth green. This tragedy was amplified given that it was committed before five men he vaguely knew, wanted to know better and hoped to do business with.
The other men had finished their rounds. They were having beers on the deck of the clubhouse and looked down on him.
He couldn’t read the green for either speed or break. He saw nothing but a swirling emerald blur.
Never a disciplined golfer, he allowed inconsistencies to pass without analysis, practice or any effort to correct.
Never a humble man, he was incapable of considering his swagger fragile or his confidence unjustified.
But now the man with the Miura KM3 putter could harbor no illusions.
His putting was clearly more than an embarrassment. Repercussions would reverberate. This would be defining. The oil men having beers up on the patio would forever associate him with this display.
For a moment, he shivered when he realized this would come to define his business prowess. It would recast his reputation.
He had come to Chula Vista, California with the hope that at least two of these oil men would invest in his next project. That would not be happening now.
Each of the five men on the patio knew he was giving more thought to them than to his putting. They would never partner with a man like this. His inability to focus was a cardinal sin. This was not about golf. It was about business and the timely revelation of a character flaw.
The man with the Miura KM3 putter knew all this.
He should never have come here to play golf with those five men at the Western States Energy Production Association board meeting in Chula Vista, California.
