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CROOKED CREEK DAD GIVES ME A CALL. HE says, "Listen, I'm going to be in town. Next week. On Tuesday." He says, "It's the same deal as last year. For that golf deal." There's an annual old farts tournament. He's come down for the last four or five years. "We're out at this new club," he tells me. "Crooked Creek. Know where that is?" I say, "No." Then I think again, and I tell him, "Wait. Out east of town, isn't it?" "Is it? I've got the address written down. Somewhere." Slips of paper are being shuffled. "Yeah, well...somewhere," he promises me. I'm hoping to hell he's not the one driving. And as if he's reading my mind, he says, "I'm riding with Bill Wannamaker. You remember Bill." Not particularly. "Anyway," he says, "Things start at seven. We'll be done one, one-thirty. They're |
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