Chapter 22

As the weather guys say, "Warm air is coming up from the Gulf of Mexico, and we will be experiencing increasingly warmer temperatures and high humidity over the next few days."

Or, as we caddy-types would say it, "Holy Christ! It's like a fucking sauna out here!"

That's what Day Three was like. It maybe wasn't so awful for the groupings that went out early, although the humidity was a bear, right from dawn on. But when Tess' next-to-last threesome hit off the first tee, it was after noon and up around 92.

Tess' fashionable tan cotton Izod shirt was already turning a little dark from perspiration, and she hadn't even hit her first shot in anger. I could tell, also, that the under bra she was wearing was one of those flexible, very-forgiving elastic things that just held her breasts in gentle pouches like a couple of friendly hands.

"Tess, you picked the wrong underwear for this weather."

"Like hell I did," she said. "It's so uncomfortable out here, this bra was the only possible choice. I considered leaving it off, too, but I knew you'd pee your pants if I didn't wear any."

"You got that right... But, Baby, you're going to sweat through that thing and people are going to be able to count the freckles on your boobs before you make the turn."

"The heavy-duty halters you want me to wear on the course are OK for ordinary days," Tess said, "but on a scorcher like this, they're simply impossible! I've got a chance to win this thing, Will! You think I want to sacrifice that chance, just so I can look like Mother Teresa?"

"Well, did you have to wear the tan shirt? That skimpy little nothing bra, and then the tan shirt over it. God, Tess, if you get any wetter, you'll look naked out here!"

"People will realize it's the heat that's causing it, Will. They'll know there's nothing I can do."

"There's nothing you can do, now," I agreed, "... but a little forward thinking could have avoid... Oh, shit, Tess!... You did this on purpose, didn't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"This is the golf course version of your white swimsuit," I said. "Or Kim's bikini. This shirt and bra are the same color as Kim's bikini! That's probably where you got the idea."

"You're hysterical," Tess said. "You're seeing conspiracies where there aren't any."

"None of this ever occurred to you? You just happened to pick out this outfit, for today?"

"I can't be blamed," Tess said, "if I sweat a lot, and my shirt gets wet. It happens. It happens to women tennis players, all the time! They get sweaty, and then folks start to see their pokies a little. It's no big deal."

She was right about that. I remembered from my own early adolescence the erotic images of the great Argentine player, Gabriella Sabatini. She was a gorgeous brunette, slender and sexy even when she came on the court wearing a jacket and carrying that big tennis bag.

But, oh, my! Gabriella played hard, and she was no delicate flower. She would sweat through her tennis outfit before even the first set was completed. She didn't dress provocatively, but she didn't have to. Every match in reasonably warm weather turned into a wet t-shirt contest for Gabriella, and (in my twelve-year-old imagination), she always won.

Gabriella had been all woman, and very hot. But Tess! Put Tess in a soaking wet shirt and you were going to have a riot on your hands!

And, damn it, nobody knew it better than Tess herself.

Along with the bottled water, Power Bars, bananas and other miscellaneous paraphernalia I carried in Tess' golf bag, there was a spare shirt as well. It was S.O.P. to carry such items. (I was now carrying a pair of Tess' panties, as well -- not so much as a matter of standard procedure, but as my way of guarding against some impulsive decision on her part to "go Commando" again on a golf course.)

I didn't have a spare sports bra for Tess in the bag, but I did have the shirt. I decided to hope for the best until the sixth hole. I knew there was a restroom facility off the sixth tee, and if Tess' shirt was too far gone by that time, she could switch to the fresh one there.

With a little luck, we could get by.

Standing on the fifth tee, Tess was one under for the round. There was no leader board in sight, so we didn't know how she was doing, relative to her closest competitors. She was playing well, though, and outplaying the other two women in her group. Everything was looking good.

Tess, especially, was looking good -- if you were a voyeuristic male sex-fiend who liked girls with big knockers wearing wet t-shirts.

I was one of those males, and, apparently, so were most of the other people in our growing gallery.

I imagined the announcers covering the tournament on television: "Something seems to be happening out on the fifth tee, ladies and gentlemen. We're sending our roving reporter, Patricia Whitworth, over there now to see what it might be."

Walking down the fairway, I told Tess that maybe she ought to switch to the other shirt when we got to the sixth hole.

"It won't help much," she said. "The bra's soaked through, and we'll still have twelve holes to go."

"Thirteen, actually," I told her. "But your spare shirt is a medium-dark green. That'll help, I think."

"You think I should just take the wet bra off, too?" Tess asked.

"God, no! Don't even think about it!"

"It's awfully wet," she said. "It might help, to just go without it."

"I wish it would rain," I said. "If we had a rain delay, I could go back and get you some dry clothes."

"I don't think it's going to rain," Tess said.

I didn't think so, either. It was a muggy, overcast day, but it didn't really look threatening.

Tess got another par on the fifth hole, barely missing a five-footer for birdie. I wondered whether her transparent shirt was distracting her from her golf game. Certainly it was distracting the gallery.

There was time, waiting for the group ahead of them, for Tess' group to visit the nearby bathroom facility at six. I silently handed her the green shirt and said, "throw away the other one. But keep the bra! Don't even consider going without the bra!"

When she returned, the green shirt was dry and fresh-looking.

Except for the clear, already-wet outline of Tess' bodacious boobies -- imprinted, from the inside, by the soaking-wet bra she still dutifully wore.

OK, so that wasn't so good, but I was still confident that going braless would have been an even greater disaster.

Tess' two-tone green shirt wasn't as revealing as the earlier, all-tan, all-wet skin-tone version, but it was interesting enough that the males in the gallery didn't go elsewhere. By the ninth hole, the new shirt was as soaked through as the old one had been. Still, at least it was green.

We found out at the tenth hole that Tess (now at five under for the tournament) was one shot behind the current leader, Pat Hurst. Hurst had been the previous year's second-place finisher.

Sorenstam, who'd started the day one ahead of Tess, had not kept pace, and was now two shots behind Hurst, one behind Tess.

There had been no news about Kim's round. When we later got a chance to see a leader board on the course, we found that Kim was at one over and playing on the 16^th hole ahead of us.

Maybe, I thought, I could send Kim back to the RV after her round, to get Tess a new shirt and bra. It would only be available, at best, for maybe the last two holes, but at least the television cameras could start shooting Tess above the waist again, during the post-round interview.

Sure enough, Kim found us while Tess was on the 15^th fairway, waiting her turn to take her second shot.

"Kim!" I called to her from her spot in the crowd.

But protocol wouldn't allow Kim to approach competitors on the fairway, any closer than she already was. I had to go to her.

So I did. "Kim, here's the keys to the Scion. Would you go back and get a dry shirt -- something dark -- and a bra for Tess?"

Kim looked out at Tess -- a good 20 yards away -- and said, "Yeah, I guess I'd better."

She took off at flank speed.

We were on the 17^th tee, waiting, once again, for a slow-play group ahead of us, when Kim got back. She had a plastic bag with her, containing a navy blue Izod shirt, one of what Tess referred to as her "iron bras" and a large towel.

I rushed the bag to Tess and urged her to change at once.

"Where?" she said.

She was right. There wasn't any building, of any kind, within view. Nothing between there and the end of the 18^th green.

Tess whispered something to the other competitors in her group. When she came back to me, she said, "They think if they come with me into the trees, everybody else will just follow us there. But they're going to lend me their caddies."

So Kim made a big circle around the gallery, heading toward the big oaks off to the left of the 17^th tee, and Tess and I, along with two other male caddies, strolled over to the trees, trying to look casual. I had the plastic bag Kim had brought.

"What's up?" one of the other caddies asked me.

"Emergency clothing-switch," I said.

"Awww! Too bad!" the caddy said in mock regret.

"We're going to form a human shield," I said, "to give Tess a little bit of cover while she changes."

"We facing inward, or outward?" my wise-guy caddie friend asked.

"Outward, fool!" I told him, but I smiled when I said it.

"Inward actually would be better," Tess said. "That way, you can all join arms around shoulders, like a football huddle, and give me more cover."

And give these two lechers the shot of a lifetime, I thought, but I didn't contradict Tess.

So we got under the biggest tree we could find, and Kim, me and the two eager caddies, using the big tree for additional cover, made a huddle around Tess. She quickly pulled off the soaked green shirt, ripped off the even-more-soaked sports bra, and took a stolen moment to wipe "everything" off with the fluffy white towel Kim had thoughtfully included. Then she got some help from Kim in hooking up the new, dry, "iron" bra.

I think I heard a soft release of held breath from one of the caddies, somewhere in the period between bras, there. Hell, who could blame the guy? He'd seen 'em, pretty clearly, all afternoon, but you couldn't beat bare, wet, and towel-wiped. I figured this story would make the rounds of the entire LPGA Tour by nightfall.