Chapter 15: Eye of the Storm
The roar of the crowd still echoed in Ibeler's ears as he stepped into the clubhouse. His miraculous albatross on the 18th had thrown the tournament into chaos, and now he stood just one stroke behind the leaders. But as the door closed behind him, shutting out the cheers, a heavy silence descended.
"Quite a show you put on out there, kid."
Krauss's voice, cold as ice, cut through the quiet. He lounged in a leather armchair, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, looking for all the world like a king on his throne. But his eyes blazed with fury.
Ibeler's heart raced, but he kept his face impassive. "Just playing the game, Mr. Krauss."
Krauss's laugh was harsh. "Playing the game? You just cost me more money in one swing than you'll see in your entire miserable life."
As if to emphasize the point, two burly men flanked Ibeler, their bulging jackets hinting at concealed weapons. The threat of violence hung in the air like a fog.
"Now," Krauss continued, his voice dangerously soft, "you're going to go back out there and lose. Spectacularly. Or your sister's medical treatments might just... run into some complications."
Ibeler's fists clenched at his sides. The weight of his family's future pressed down on him, heavier than any golf bag he'd ever carried.
"You have ten minutes before your tee time," Krauss said, checking his Rolex. "Make them count."
As Ibeler turned to leave, his eyes landed on a familiar face across the room. Alejandro Ruiz, his chief rival and the tournament's co-leader, was watching the exchange with undisguised interest. Their eyes met briefly, and Ibeler saw something unexpected in Ruiz's gaze – a mix of concern and... respect?
Outside, the sky had darkened, heavy clouds rolling in from the coast. A storm was brewing, both on and off the course. Ibeler could feel the change in air pressure, knew it would affect ball flight. He'd have to adjust his game plan accordingly.
On the practice green, Sarah sidled up next to him, still in her "Sharon Chang" persona.
"We got most of it on tape," she whispered, her eyes darting around nervously. "But it's not enough. We need more."
Ibeler nodded imperceptibly, sinking a tricky downhill putt with practiced ease. "What's the play?"
Sarah's eyes gleamed with determination. "Remember the charity gala last night? I planted bugs in Krauss's office while you were distracting him with that speech about your village. We're getting a live feed, but we need him to incriminate himself further. Keep it close, make them sweat. I need you in contention until the 16th hole. That's when my contact in the police will be in position."
Ibeler's mind raced, remembering the previous night's events. He'd felt so awkward giving that speech, but now he realized it had all been part of Sarah's plan. He marveled at her foresight and courage.
Before he could respond, a booming voice cut through the air. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final round of the Central American Amateur Championship!"
Time seemed to blur as Ibeler made his way to the first tee. The gallery had swelled, news of his incredible finish in the pro-am drawing spectators like moths to a flame. Among the faces, he spotted his family – his parents beaming with pride, little Ana waving excitedly.
The sight nearly broke him. How could he let them down? But how could he protect them if he didn't?
"On the tee, from Panama, Ibeler Olowaili!"
The announcer's voice crackled over the loudspeaker. "And folks, we're in for a treat today. Olowaili, ranked 245th coming into this tournament, is now just one stroke off the lead. If he pulls this off, it'll be the biggest upset in the championship's 50-year history!"
Taking a deep breath, Ibeler addressed the ball. The familiar whisper of wind caressed his face, and for a moment, he felt a sense of calm. Then he swung.
The ball soared, straight and true, landing perfectly in the center of the fairway. The crowd erupted, and Ibeler allowed himself a small smile. Whatever happened next, he'd face it head-on.
The front nine was a masterclass in strategic golf. Ibeler played conservatively, making pars with mechanical precision. He carefully considered each shot, factoring in the strengthening wind and the moisture in the air from the approaching storm.
On the tricky par-4 5th, with its dogleg right and well-guarded green, Ibeler opted for a 3-wood off the tee instead of his driver. The ball landed just short of the bunker, leaving him a perfect angle for his approach. His iron shot, a high fade that held against the crosswind, settled 10 feet from the pin. Two putts later, another par.
He could feel Krauss's eyes boring into him from the gallery, waiting for the inevitable collapse. But it never came.
As they made the turn, Ibeler found himself still just one stroke behind Ruiz and Kim. The commentators were beside themselves.
"I've never seen anything like this, Bob," one announcer gushed. "Olowaili's playing like a man possessed. You'd never know this kid was living out of his car just a few months ago."
His partner chimed in, "It's a real rags-to-riches story in the making. But the question is, can he keep it up under this pressure? Remember, the last time we had an upset of this magnitude was in '86, when José Martínez came from nowhere to win it all."
If they only knew, Ibeler thought grimly.
As they approached the 12th tee, a pivotal par-5, Ibeler noticed Ruiz and Kim eyeing him warily. The tension between the three leaders was palpable. Kim, usually stoic, was showing signs of strain, his practice swings more aggressive than usual. Ruiz, on the other hand, seemed almost amused by the situation, a half-smile playing on his lips.
The wind was really picking up now, the approaching storm making its presence felt. Ibeler knew this hole could be a turning point. With the wind at his back, he could potentially reach the green in two – but it was a risky play, with water all down the right side.
As he stood over his ball, weighing his options, Ibeler heard his grandfather's voice in his head: "Listen to the wind, muna. It will guide you."
Taking a deep breath, Ibeler committed to the aggressive play. His drive was perfect, long and straight, leaving him just 220 yards to the green. Without hesitation, he pulled out his 3-wood.
The gallery held its collective breath as Ibeler took his stance. The wind gusted, stronger than ever. At the last second, Ibeler adjusted his aim, opening the clubface slightly. He swung with all his might.
The ball soared high, starting left and riding the wind. For a heart-stopping moment, it looked like it might find the water. But then it began to fade, landing softly on the green and rolling to within 15 feet of the pin.
The crowd went wild. Even Kim and Ruiz looked impressed, exchanging glances that seemed to say, "This kid is for real."
Ibeler two-putted for birdie, moving him into a tie for the lead. As he walked off the green, he caught Sarah's eye in the crowd. She gave him a subtle nod. Everything was going according to plan.
The next few holes were a blur of tension and calculated risks. Ibeler matched Ruiz and Kim shot for shot, the three of them pulling away from the rest of the field. The approaching storm added an extra layer of drama, dark clouds looming ominously on the horizon.
As they approached the 16th hole – a treacherous par 3 over water – Sarah caught Ibeler's eye. She gave a subtle nod. Whatever her plan was, it was time.
Ibeler stepped up to the tee, the wind whipping around him. The smart play was a safe shot to the center of the green. But as he took his stance, a wild idea seized him.
Instead of his usual smooth swing, Ibeler intentionally hitched his motion. The ball sliced viciously, heading straight for the water.
The crowd gasped. Krauss, watching from near the green, broke into a triumphant grin.
But at the last second, a gust of wind caught the ball. It soared over the hazard, landing softly on the green and rolling to within feet of the pin.
The gallery erupted. Krauss's face contorted with rage.
As Ibeler walked to the green, he noticed a commotion near the clubhouse. Police cars had pulled up, lights flashing.
Sarah appeared at his elbow, all pretense gone. "It's done," she said quietly. "We got them. All of them. Krauss just cracked under the pressure and spilled everything to his associates. It's all on tape."
Relief flooded through Ibeler, followed quickly by fear. What would happen now?
He lined up his birdie putt, acutely aware of Krauss glaring at him from the edge of the green. This putt could give him the outright lead with just two holes to play.
As he drew back his putter, a scream pierced the air. Krauss was running towards him, face purple with rage, a glint of metal in his hand.
Time seemed to slow. Ibeler saw the officials moving to intercept, saw the horror on the faces of the crowd. He saw his family, huddled together in fear. He saw Ruiz and Kim, their rivalry forgotten in the face of this shocking turn of events.
And then he saw the ball, rolling true across the green, heading for the cup.
In that moment, balanced on the knife-edge between triumph and disaster, Ibeler realized that no matter what happened next, everything had changed. The game would never be the same.
The ball hung on the lip of the cup, trembling.
And as chaos erupted around him, Ibeler Olowaili held his breath, waiting to see which way the wind would blow.