I have seen all the tricks in the book in my years in competitive golf, and in watching and reporting it. I've seen them try everything from the patently illegal to the borderline unethical. I could have done a number of things to prevent Vitus from Learning the little piece of data he wanted. I could have kept the club in my hand and away from his prying eyes. I could have leaned over the bag and blocked his view that way. I could have looked straight into his eyes so he'd know I knew what he was up to.
     But I didn't. Instead, I tried something I'd heard Tommy Bolt once used on a similarly snoopy opponent. Quickly, I pyut my club in the bag, snatched my towel and began polishing the clubface. Vitus stepped up, stuck out his hand and said "That was a very good shot, Mr. Hacker. Especially under the pressure."
     I smiled at him happily and shook his proffered hand. "Thanks, Vitus," I said. "I stepped on it pretty good. Wasn't sure if I had enough club."
     I watched his eyes and saw them dart down into my bag to catch the number of the club I was wiping. I saw his quick half-smile of triumph. The All-Universe [jerk] had stolen my signals.
     He continued on to his ball, where his caddie was waiting, and I walked around the cart and sat down next to my partner. He was looking at me strangly. "What ... was that all about?" he asked wonderingly.
     I smiled at him. "Just watch," I said.
     Vitus had been studying his shot. Finally, he turned and pulled a club out of his bag. He took about four practice swings. He knew the importance of putting his shot--his fourth--on the green. If he could get it close, he could still make a five-net-four, which might be enough to win. My thirty footer was no gimme. But even if he could get it on the green and two putt, it was likely we'd halve the hole. That, at least, would save his team a $100 bet for the back nine. His goal was to try to get his ball inside mine.
     Finally, he stood over the ball, wound up and let the ball fly with his short and powerful swing. It was a beauty. He had flushed it. The ball took off into the beautiful blue afternoon sky, sailing high into the air, a tiny white dot of hopefulness. From where we sat, it looked to be tracking the flagstick all the way.
     "Oh, baby", Vitus breathed softly to himself when the ball was in mid-flight. "Be the stick. Be tight, BABY!"
     Finally, the ball began to descend. We all watched as it fell from the heights. We watched as it came down right over the pin. And over the green. We all wached as the ball smaked down with a sickening click on the asphalt surface of the road, bounced high into the air again, and kept on bouncing crazily down the road and in among the cars parked in the shady lot beyond.
     "Holy Mother of God," Fred exhaled, after watching the disaster unfold. "What the hell did you hit, Vitus?"
     Vitus Papageorge was frozen at the top of his follow-through, posing, waiting for the ball to drop next to the hole. He began to shake his head in disbelief, as if trying to shake out the cobwebs from an unexpected right cross to the chin.
     "It was ...I can't ...I don't ..." He tried about four sentences at once, and none of them made it out. His brain was fried. "A four," he finally croaked. He looked at his partner in agony. "A four-iron. I thought ... he hit ..."
     He looked at me. I was smiling enigmatically. Jackie broke out in loud guffaws. He waved his hand. "Tough luck, Vitus," he chortled. "Great match. See you guys inside. We'll buy!" His brays of laughter echoed across the fairway as we drove down the hill and back to the clubhouse. "That was beautiful, Hack-man," he said, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. "A-One Magnifico!. How the hell did you do that?"
     "I thought he'd been clubbing off me," I said. "He usually went one or two clubs down. So when I saw him trying to sneak a peek up there, I started cleaning off my six-iron. I had just hit an eight. I figured if he thought I had hit a six, he'd go up to his four. I think even a five would have gone OB, but I was hoping he'd take enough club. He bought it hook, line, and Top-Flite. Hit it pure, didn't he? Hope it didn't dent someone's Mercedes."
     ...Neither Vitus nor Fred showed up in the grille for the after-the-round drink we'd offered. But that was OK. Jackie and I had one or two extra in their honor.

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