Broken Links

The following week I was at the driving range trying to concentrate on the tips Nancy had given me. They sounded like useless Koans. Intellectually, I couldn't find more value in "don't hit the ball, drive through the ball" than in "what is the sound of one hand clapping?". Still, if she was taking the time to offer advice, I'd be an ingrate not to try to improve.

It took me a while to notice that the normal chatter had dropped to a murmur. It was pretty much the 1970s soft rock over the speakers and my frustrated muttering as I tried to follow her suggestions. Looking around, I saw a crowd at the end of the range near the stairs to the first floor. Nancy was there talking to a young teen. I saw her hold his shoulders and demonstrate how he should twist his hips.

Smiling, I watched. She always had time for her fans, but it was often transactional. Polite and kind, she'd share a few words, sign an autograph or take a selfie with adults. With kids, she was entirely different. Nancy would stay and talk to them about their game, school, friends and anything else that came up until Alice pulled her off to some engagement or another or their parents took the kids.

Eventually, she made her way to me. I smiled and hugged her before speaking. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, you could come down to the course, but if Mohammed won't come to the mountain..."

"Yeah, well, I need to hit a ton of balls before I embarrass myself in front of you again."

"Embarrassed... I don't... Listen, golf is my job, but you should be having fun. If you're not, don't do it. Really. There's no pressure. If I ask you about some mutual fund, you're not going to make me feel like an idiot or something, right? I don't care if you hit the ball into the trees or a trap every single time. If you're enjoying yourself, I'm happy."

From then on, the only time she offered advice was when I asked. We beat up a few buckets of balls, laughed and enjoyed ourselves when we weren't interrupted by her fans.

It turned out that she actually was passionate about suicide prevention. She volunteered on the phone banks a couple of times a month and I began to join her. I had to go through some training, and we arranged for the center to receive my company's computers when they were off-lease.

Our lives slowly became intertwined and on occasion I tried to come up with plans for coping when she decided to end things between us.

Four months after our first day at the Ronald McDonald House I was at my desk when my personal assistant called.

"Boss, some woman's here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment, but she does have a bag from Gagliano's. She said she'll call you Scott."

I laughed. "Well, if it's Gagliano's, you better let her back here."

Alice walked into my office, sat down and took two Italian heroes from the bag. I wasn't going to look a gift hoagie in the mouth, so we got to the business of lunch.

"Not that I'm ungrateful, but what prompted this visit, Alice?"

"You seem to be pretty damned successful, Scott. I'd anticipated a small office with four or five people. Not," she waved her hand dramatically, "all this. For someone with this much on the ball, you seem pretty indecisive. You can chew my ass out for getting involved in your private life, but Nancy's a friend, not just my boss."

She held up her right hand and lowered her fingers, one by one. "Let's tick them off, okay? She's beautiful." One finger went down. "She's successful." Another finger. "She's wealthy." A third. "And she's famous." The fourth folded.

"Scott, what are you waiting for? Now that I've seen this place. I know that you can afford a decent rock."

Pushing back my chair a bit, I thought about what she was saying and wondered if I should be annoyed. "Look, you just listed the reasons why I haven't bought a ring. Alice, look at me. I'm a workaholic who doesn't even begin to approach the altitudes that Nancy flies in. I'm in it for as long as it lasts, but when she moves on, I'm going to remember this as probably the best time of my life. I'm truly grateful for what we have now, but I'm not delusional."

She shook her head slightly and rolled her eyes. "I'm not the sort of person that gives out compliments, but you seriously need to reassess. I'm now guessing that you have at least as much money as she has, you're a good-looking guy and, most importantly, I'm pretty sure that she loves you."

She started packing up the paper wrappers and putting them back in the bag. Before she walked out the door, Alice stopped and turned to me.

"If this ride you're on ends soon, it's going to be because you didn't have the balls to roll the dice."

I bought a ring.

Nancy accepted and the wedding was planned for August, immediately following the British Open. The discussion of a prenup was easier than I had anticipated. She was all for it. The discussion about fidelity was more difficult than I anticipated, but for a reason that I could never have imagined.

We were at my home, sitting in front of the fireplace that I had never used.

"This is, well, it's sort of difficult to talk about. You know that I was married before. What you don't know is that she cheated on me. They were at our cabin and she thought she was safe. I'd been to visit Bobbi, and the hospital was nearby, so I stopped in to air the place out. They were going at it like rabbits. I stood at the doorway to the bedroom, paralyzed. I couldn't move and felt a tightening in my stomach that I thought was going to kill me, like a cancer that had metastasized immediately and was fueled by betrayal.

"After a moment or two, I looked around the room. I don't know why I didn't start yelling or beating the crap out of the guy, but I'm glad I didn't. I saw his gun and badge on the dresser and decided to handle things differently. I pulled out my cell and started filming them. When I casually spoke up and told her not to bother coming home and that I was going to sell the cabin, he came after me.

"It's remarkable how quickly cops become more reasonable when you tell them the video is going out live on Facebook. The threats and blusterings stopped immediately, he grabbed his stuff and left. She was in tears and had all the standard bullshit cheaters say. It was just sex. It was the first time. It didn't mean anything. It'd never happen again. Blah, blah, blah.

"We were divorced soon after and you're the first woman I've really trusted since then. Well, except for my sister. My family was my lifeline afterward. So, I know it's sort of insulting, but I need to know that we're on the same page here."

Nancy looked at me, then over my shoulder and back again.

"Scott, I..." She paused, put her hands on her lap and looked at the table. "You know that my mom's not with us any longer and I don't really talk about my dad. My birth name was Cowen, not Yee. I had it changed to my mother's maiden name years ago. I don't... I don't talk about this often, but my father cheated on my mother. He got some college girl pregnant.

"They didn't get divorced. Instead, he came home five months after she found out to find her in the bath. She'd taken every pill she could find. She's buried in Roselawn and I haven't seen my father since the funeral. Cheating is the last thing you need to worry about."

That was a difficult, emotional night, but it was made easier by finding comfort in each other.

Nancy climbed the rankings and stayed near the top. She landed more covers and even did some modeling. My company kept growing at the pace it had before we were married. I changed my life to ensure that I could offer my wife my best me possible. It was a rare day that I worked more than nine hours when she was in town.

Spending roughly a third of her time on the road was difficult for both of us, but we made each other our priorities when she was home. We found things that we could do together, like cooking classes. Sports didn't work. No matter what we tried, she outclassed me so severely that it became obvious when she was holding back. Tennis was out and she was doing marathons while I was still struggling with half-marathons. She even beat the snot out of me in Ping Pong.

We'd discussed having children frequently, but the timing never seemed to be right. It may have been one of those things we were interested in, in the abstract, but since neither of us really pushed it, the reality was likely that we'd remain a dedicated aunt and uncle. Both Nancy and I loved kids, as long as they belonged to someone else.

While she was on tour, I reverted to my old ways. I'd spend 12 hours on the job and did some deep diving into baseball analytics. Posting frequently on the more prestigious MLB sites, I started making a name for myself. Regardless of how intelligent they were, most fans were homers. If you played for their favorite team, they overvalued you. I managed to completely divorce myself from the part of me that was a fan. I was about the numbers, all day, every day.

I was amused when I was offered writing positions by a few of the better sites. Some were for fantasy baseball where people bought subscriptions and received access to in-depth articles and analysis and a couple of the sites were focused on betting. I could do what they were asking in my sleep, as I was doing the research anyway.

I took the jobs, wrote under the pseudonym Shooter McGavin and donated my pay to the Ronald McDonald House. By that point, I could have bought some of the sites that I wrote for and my compensation was negligible when you looked at the big picture.

Nancy had appeared on Fallon twice and on Joe Rogan's podcast. She was in a commercial for Crest and had sponsorship money that eclipsed what she earned on the links. I'd expanded into three other cities and had a strong online presence for the company. We were on top of the world.

When Nancy was 34 and I was 41, I decided that enough was enough. How much did we need, really? I'd been paying for my niece and nephew's education; we had enough money for five lifetimes and I was satisfied. I didn't need to climb any more mountains or slay any more dragons.

My company went up on the block and I was entertaining offers from competitors. It was a slow process and preparing for all of the minutia involved with a financial assessment took up much of my time. She never really inquired about the business and I was able to keep everything to myself.

The dirty little secret of fantasy baseball is that all its advancements are driven by the fans, the players; not the companies. The data is there because the fans demanded it or discovered it for themselves. The average enthusiast has more information at his fingertips than anyone at a professional team had a decade earlier.

Due to the lack of demand, there was nothing like that for golf. That was going to change. Paying for the development of a high-end site was a drop in the bucket for me, analytics was a passion and my personality wouldn't let me do anything halfway. I was going to create Advanced Golf Metrics and turn it into the cutting-edge source for golf news and analysis.

It was going to be a surprise for Nancy. I figured I'd be ready within six months of the sale of the company. Until then, I'd keep busy building a library of articles that I could use when I needed filler. When I was ready, we'd be able to travel together and ride out her final years on the LPGA.

Laughably, I actually had press credentials under Shooter McGavin. I started fleshing that out a bit and now wrote under SM Saber, an ode to Sabermetrics. I wrote a few basic articles for BadLeftHook.com about boxing, Golf Digest and Tennis Magazine. After almost a decade of writing, I had a deep resume and now I was broadening it out.

I got credentialed for the PGA and LPGA tour and started receiving their PR kits. Wanting to remain under my nom de plume until the big reveal and the official kick-off of the site, I made plans to fly out to courses the tours were hitting the week before the events, and to others right after they ended, making it almost impossible for Nancy to see me or know that something was up.

We closed on the sale of my company and I became significantly wealthier than I had been. I still managed a few portfolios but was mostly out of the business.

In late September, I flew out to Dallas and drove over to The Colony. The Volunteers of America Classic would be held there the following week and it would be the event I'd use to get my feet wet. I received a tour of the facilities, another press kit, and information about amenities for the press. Following a hunch, I found where the other writers congregated; the onsite bar that was comping drinks for the media.

After introducing myself, I bought a few rounds of the top-shelf stuff instead of the garbage they were being served. We had some food brought in and sat and bullshitted for hours. They were a funny cynical bunch, but welcoming in their way.

"So, what do I need to know if I'm going to survive out here?"

"Players are going to lie their asses off. If they think you might write something positive, you're going to be their best friend. Don't buy into it. As soon as they don't need you, you're nothing."

"Okay, noted. Anything else?"

"Yeah, if you want to keep your access, don't piss off the Tour Manager, Bobby Adesco. He holds the keys to the kingdom."

"How would I piss him off?"

"Write what you want about performances, but stay away from off the course shit."

"Like what?"

"Well, you wanna write about Tiger's short game failings, go ahead. You want to write about who he's banging, you'll find yourself blackballed. Like Yee. He's been banging her for years, but no one covers it."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"Yeah, it's almost like they're a couple on the tour, but everyone keeps their mouth shut. Miss All America, Colgate Smile is screwing the guy in charge of the tour. She gets the prime spots on TV, the cover of these damn press kits, best sponsors. It ain't no accident."

"Crest."

"Huh?"

"It's Crest, not Colgate."

"Whatever. She's been on top for years, and that's part of the reason why. She does who and what she needs to."

Staring at the bar, I lost focus for a while.

"Saber? You with us?"

Looking up, I saw them staring at me. "Yeah. Long day. I'm gonna get some sleep. Enjoy the drinks."

My mind was racing as I made my way back to my room. This simply couldn't be true. It had to be the old guys trying to preen a bit and show off how much inside info they had for the new guy. Just rumors. It had to be.

I woke up feeling a bit better. Nancy was a beautiful woman. Rumors were inevitable. Our marriage was strong, there was no neglect or disdain. They were just some aging jealous hacks from the old media who were throwing out innuendo.

Nancy wasn't arriving until Thursday. She'd fulfill her press requirements on Friday and play on Saturday. I'd leave on Wednesday. I spent my time talking to employees, caddies and members of the TV crews that were checking out the grounds, conditions, and reports of injuries. I was in the room they provided for the press with coffee, donuts and free WiFi when I heard some yelling. Staring at my laptop, I pretended not to listen.

"That's ridiculous! Her manager told me she wanted a double, so I got her a double. Why are we even scheduling rooms for management? My job is to take care of the players, not their employees."

A woman's voice followed up. "Look, Sal, your job is to make sure that the players are happy. If it means taking care of their caddy or manager, that's part of the gig. She forwarded me the email. It specifically says she wants a Queen-sized bed."

"Charlene, when I signed my contract it said nothing about the player's posse. You can't point to a single time when I've failed to get everything a player has in their rider. Not once."

"I'm not going to go over this with you again. We have this conversation every week. We're going to have to let you go."

"You've got to be shitting me! You know what? Fuck you! Here."

I looked up and saw a guy in his mid-twenties through the doorway. He pulled off a lanyard and hurled it at someone I couldn't see. I closed my laptop, slid it into the bag and stood. Sal stalked out of the office, into the press room and then out into the hallway. I followed.

He was outside smoking a cigarette and talking to someone on his cell while gesticulating wildly. Who still smokes? I waited until he hung up and then casually walked out. I looked at my phone, pretended to read some messages and looked over at him.

"Hey, sorry, saw your shirt. I just started covering the tour. Do you know where I could find Nancy Yee?"

He scowled, dropped the cigarette and mashed it out with his foot. "Sure. Look for Adesco's dick. She'll be on the end of it. He's her tour-husband."

My knees buckled and I felt the same stomach pain from when I found my ex-wife with the cop.

"Dude. Dude, you okay?"

Sal helped me over to a bench outside the hotel entrance.

I took three deep breaths before I could speak. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Must've been something from breakfast. I... I gotta go."

Stumbling up, I stood there for a second trying to remember what I had in my room. Fuck it. Nothing I couldn't replace. Ten steps took me to the courtesy shuttle. I hopped on, went back to the airport and took the first flight home.

It was like any other issue I investigated. I needed data and I needed distance. The first step was finding the best investigators possible. I dug, sifted and researched. After finding what seemed to be the best company, I immediately made an appointment. Within 24 hours they had a full team on the project. It was expensive, but things like that are relative.

To be spiteful, I paid them from Nancy's account. Being the financial person in our relationship, I had access to all her accounts. It was my magic green thumb that made her wealth grow. That stopped now. I put everything she had into low yielding but safe bonds and rerouted the payment of all her bills to come from her personal account instead of the family accounts.

Then I started the real work. As if I was back in college, I ordered huge amounts of Mt. Dew and snacks and had it delivered. I chose four top players at random, two men and two women and started digging. By the time I was done, I had reams of data. Within a few days, I had started to find meaningful correlations. Turning the data points into graphs, I prepped an extensive article on each.

I received daily updates from the investigators, and it wasn't looking good. There were photos of Adesco and my wife in hallways being way too touchy-feely, photos of them at dinner together and a listing of their rooms that were next to one another.

She returned on Monday and I was able to pretend that everything was fine. She still thought I had the company, so I went to Panera every morning and used their internet to keep working. Reaching out to some of the guys I had initially met in the bar, I hired them to write puff pieces. They were well written, but effectively filler.

Within two weeks I had proof of her infidelity. They'd also managed to get quotes, some anonymous, some not, from people on the periphery of the tour. After two more weeks, I launched the website. It was a novelty at first. There was no other site like it for golf, but there were many similar sites for sports where betting and fantasy games were popular.

It was slow going at first, but as I had anticipated, the geeks found it and slowly started to build up word-of-mouth. I'd drop an intensive data driven player article every four or five days and use the filler the rest of the time.

My net worth was almost seven times Nancy's. I started putting money from both of us in investments that weren't paying off. I was bleeding us dry, but her portfolio would die long before mine did.