Several young horse trainers—men in their twenties from Oaklawn Park—set up a golf tournament in Hot Springs. Among them was Ronnie Jones, who asked Rock to caddy for him, a request Rock readily accepted.
Late in the very light-hearted round, Ronnie led by a stroke, but couldn't find his approach shot into the eighteenth green. A player Rock had never known, a tall, lean bearded youngster, was whooping it up. "Ah, you're fucking toast, Ronnie," he said. "I don't know why you even bothered playing."
Rock finally found Ronnie's ball under a standard metal shopping cart just off the front of the giant almost orange green, which was composed of the same rubberish material used for artificial running tracks. Ronnie had wandered to the back of it, at least two hundred yards away. Even shouting, Rock couldn't get his attention.
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