Dean walked into the dimly lit bar with a half dozen people on stools. He sat next to a fat man who appeared to be asleep sitting up.
The bartender shoved a coaster in front of him.
“JD on the rocks.”
Dean thought the setting was fitting for someone about to fail. Six hours ago he shot a 76 in his attempt to qualify for a PGA card–the country club where he gave lessons required he have one. If he didn’t shoot two-under tomorrow, he’d be out of a job.
He finished two drinks. The fat man’s head was now flat on the hardwood. The other customers had left.
His daze was broken by a loud scream. The bartender stood at the door. ” Get out, fire,” he yelled before disappearing.
Dean ran to the door, stopped and returned to the bar. He put his arms around the drunk’s chest and lifted him off the stool.
His lungs were filling with smoke and the heat was almost unbearable, but he somehow managed the strength to drag the fat man to an exit.
Outside paramedics put the drunk on a stretcher.
“You saved this man’s life,” said an EMT.
Dean nodded. For the first time in years he was glad to be alive.
The next day there was a twinge in his right arm—he figured it was a muscle pull from dragging the fat man. On the practice tee he noticed his swing was affected by the twinge, but in a good way. His shots went straight down the middle. That afternoon he shot the lowest round in his life and qualified for a PGA card.
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