Gary Eastman couldn’t
believe his good fortune. Sure, he had always known he was a good golfer, but never—not
in a million years—did he imagine that he would find himself among the world’s
elite.
An
accountant by trade, amateur golfer by weekend, when the PGA announced that
their yearly championship would take place in his hometown, Gary jumped at the
chance to qualify. So, over the course of four rainy days in March, Gary beat
out every local player—even Tom Tillowitski, the Coast City Country Club’s “pro,”—shooting
a remarkable nine under par and thus winning the single qualifying ticket for
the Championship. To play among the best was an honor in itself, but now, after
three days of play, Gary Eastman couldn’t believe that he was winning the
tournament by two strokes.
The
sporting world couldn’t believe it either. Gary was suddenly thrown into the
national spotlight—journalists wanted interviews, photographers wanted
pictures, fans wanted autographs. So, on Sunday, just before the final round,
when Gary was led to a secluded room on the third floor of the Country Club, he
assumed that it was for another interview for another newspaper. He assumed
wrong.
“Hello
Gary,” the man behind the mahogany desk said. “My name is Bob Costas.”
“I
know who you are, Mr. Costas. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gary said as he
shook his hand and quickly eyeballed the two men who stood at attention behind the
legendary broadcaster.
“Oh,
don’t pay any attention to them,” Bob said. “They’re only here for protocol.
First thing first, congratulations. Hell of a round of golf you played
yesterday, and Friday’s sixty-three, that will be remembered for a long time.”
“Thank
you, sir.”
“One
round left. How are you feeling this morning?”
“A
bit nervous.”
“And
that is to be expected. Are you aware
of what the cash prize is for the winner of this tournament?”
“Two
million dollars.”
“That’s
a lot of money, Mr. Eastman, especially for someone who only makes sixty grand
a year. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,
sir. As an accountant, I’m well aware of how much money two million dollars is.”
“Well,
then you are also aware that twenty million is a much larger sum.”
“Excuse
me, sir,” Gary said, somewhat confused. “I don’t follow.”
“We
are going to give you twenty million dollars to lose this tournament today.”
“To
lose! I don’t understand.”
“Gary,
what I’m about to tell you can never leave this room. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“It’s
fake. It’s all fake.”
“Excuse
me, sir?”
“Sports—professional
sports in particular—it’s all set up. We already know who’s going to win every
major championship for the next decade. You didn’t think we were going to let a
trillion-dollar-a-year industry be decided by chance, did you?”
“But
how is that possible?”
“We
have our ways. Why do you think certain penalties get called while others are
ignored? Why do you think certain key players get injured at the least
opportune times? Why do you think superstars suddenly have bad games? We control
everything. The Lebron James and the Tiger Woods and the Mike Trouts of the
world—they were developed in laboratories. We knew who they would become before
they were even born. Everything is controlled. But, every once in a while,
someone like you comes along to disrupt things, and, unfortunately, we just can’t
afford to let that happen. If you were to win today, then every amateur in the
world would suddenly believe that they had a shot at greatness. Do you
understand what I’m saying?”
“And
what if I say, no?”
“I
don’t think you understand, Gary. There isn’t a choice here. You will take the twenty million and you will lose today. Thank you for
understanding, and use the money to take care of that family of yours—that beautiful
family of yours.”
Gary
Eastman left the office and found his way to the first hole, which he quickly
bogied, but not on purpose. He went on to birdie eight of the next seventeen
holes, winning the tournament by five strokes, and becoming the first amateur to
ever win the PGA Championship. The local fans flooded the eighteenth green and
prompted Gary up on their shoulders. Everyone was ecstatic—the entire crowd—except
for two men who stared at Gary with piercing eyes. Gary, with a smile, stared
right back. He couldn’t wait to see what happened next…
Most elections are probably rigged like this...
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