When I finally caught up with Darby, we stepped out of the woods together. It was as if they just fell away. For a brief moment there was darkness, but then, gradually, night began to fade. As sunlight poured into the clearing, I saw that we were standing on the edge of a fairway.
“Recognize this place?” Darby asked, lifting his arm and pointing.
I followed his finger down the tightly manicured grass. About two hundred fifty yards ahead, a creek jutted across the fairway. Beyond the water and up a steep slope of tight grass was the green. I could see the yellow flag, which was tucked on the front right of the green. Behind the putting surface were four bunkers. Between the sand hazards were azaleas in full bloom.
“I have this portrait on my wall at the office.” I could hear the shock and awe in my voice. “The thirteenth hole at Augusta.”
Darby took several steps toward the center of the fairway and dropped two golf balls from his pocket. When he turned back around to me, he was holding a persimmon-headed wood in his hand.
I smiled. “I saw you hit this shot in the 1976 Masters.”
Darby waggled the club and placed it behind the ball. Then he set his feet and peeked at the green. Without any warning, he began his swing, sweeping the clubhead back and then cocking his wrists. As he turned his left shoulder so that his back was to the target, I saw a tiny grin on his face. For a moment, his body almost seemed to pause before his weight shifted to his left and he unwound his coiled body toward the ball. When the face of the club made contact with the ball, the resulting crack sounded like dynamite. I watched the ball ascend into the air toward the flagstick. When the ball reached its full height, I saw it drift about five yards to the left. My smile widened. Darby’s patented draw.
For a brief moment, I thought Darby hadn’t caught all of it and that the ball would splash into the water. Instead, it landed a couple feet onto the green and about twenty feet from the hole. Then, after taking a couple of short hops, it began to feed to the right, tracking toward the hole.
“There’s a speed slope on the green,” Darby said. “If you catch the incline, the ball will head to the right.” He paused. “They normally put the pin there on Sunday.”
I nodded as I thought back to the prior Masters tournaments I had watched. Putting the pin on the front right maximized the chance for a good shot and would tempt many players to go for the green in two. The thirteenth hole was a par five, so hitting the green on his second shot would give the player a chance at an eagle three. Of course, if he came up short, he’d be in the water and likely to make a bogey. That could cost a player a good round. And, on Sunday, the championship. The Masters doesn’t really begin until the back nine on Sunday, I thought, hearing the familiar refrain that the broadcasters liked to say.
Darby’s ball finally came to rest very close to the hole. From two hundred fifty yards out it was hard to tell, but I guessed it was about two feet.
“Great shot,” I said. “Do you remember hitting that same shot in the third round of the ’76 Masters?”
“I was a little closer to the green in ’76.”
“It was the best golf shot I’ve ever seen hit in a tournament.”
Darby grimaced. Then he handed me the club. “Here, you try.”
I laughed. “Darby, you know I can’t hit this shot. I can barely hit a teed-up driver two sixty, and we are at least two fifty from the hole.”
“It’s the thirteenth hole of Augusta, Randolph, and you’re talking to a ghost. Live a little.” He pushed the handle of the three wood into my hand.
I took the club and shrugged. On a good day, I could hit my three wood about two hundred forty yards, so I figured I was ten yards out of my range. But if I catch it just right . . . Just then, I felt a slight breeze behind me that hadn’t been present before.
Without thinking about it, I stepped toward the ball and set the clubhead behind it. I took my stance, lining up slightly to the right of the flag. My only chance was to hit a sweeping draw. I looked one last time at the green, then began my swing. The club felt light in my hand and, surprisingly, my body was loose and nimble. When I connected with the ball, I knew I had hit it pure.
“That-a-boy, Randolph,” Darby said.
I began to walk after the ball, trying to will it across Rae’s Creek. I’ve wanted to hit that shot my whole life, I thought, peering at the ball and knowing that I had stepped directly into the portrait that adorned my office wall. I held my breath and waited as the ball reached its apex and began to curve to the left.
“You’re home,” Darby said, before the ball landed.
And he was right. It cleared the creek by a couple yards and came to rest about thirty feet to the left of the flag.
“Didn’t hit the speed slope, though,” Darby said. “But still not bad.”
“That was the best shot I’ve ever hit,” I whispered.
“No, it wasn’t,” Darby snapped, beginning to stride toward the green.
“What do you mean?” I asked, following after him and taking in the surreal scene of me, Randy Clark, walking down the thirteenth hole of Augusta National Golf Club.
“I mean that wasn’t the best shot you’ve ever hit. Hell, I’ve seen you hit one a lot better than that.”
I snorted. “Like when?”
“Remember that pro-am at Shoal Creek four years ago? We had a Nassau bet with Jerry Pate’s group. We had it in the bag, but we needed you to knock your shot on the green on the seventeenth hole. You had 148 yards, slight wind in your face, and two professional golfers watching you, not to mention six amateurs who probably all hoped you’d peel sod and dump it in the drink.”
“That was just a seven iron, Darb.”
He came to a dead stop and stuck his finger in my chest. “A seven iron you hit when you had to make the shot. A seven iron that landed ten feet from the flag and guaranteed us the victory.”
“How in the world do you remember that?”
Darby grinned, and I noticed the missing teeth in his mouth. “I’m a ghost now, Randolph. I’ve been sent here to show you something, and I remember things that maybe you should remember. That was a great shot hit under pressure when you had to have it.” He paused and then winked. “The drive you hit today on the eighteenth hole at Twickenham out over the parkway and the eagle putt you drained were both pretty frisky too.”
I studied him. “Did you have anything to do with that putt dropping?”
He shook his head. “No, sirree. That was all you.”
I scratched the back of my neck and sighed. “None of the shots of mine you’ve mentioned were even close to your three wood on this hole . . .” I stopped and waved my hand at the beautiful scenery that surrounded us in every direction. “That was a major championship.”
He smiled, but his sunken eyes were sad. “Yeah, I hit that shot. You remember the putt for eagle?”
“Well . . . as I recollect, you two-putted for birdie.”
“I missed a five-foot putt for eagle that would have gotten me within two of Watson and Crenshaw. The ball didn’t even scare the hole, and I barely made the comebacker. I didn’t sniff a birdie the rest of the way and I shot seventy-eight the next day to not even make the top twenty.”
I glared at him. “You played the tour for nineteen years. You made hundreds of thousands of dollars. You won four PGA Tour events.”
“Five,” Darby corrected.
“Exactly. Five. You played the Masters almost twenty times.” I again waved my hand behind me and breathed in the scent of the Georgia pines that lined both sides of the fairway.
“I never won a major. I never played in the Ryder Cup.” Darby sighed. “And by the time I retired, I had blown every cent I ever made on a golf course.” He snickered. “When my Jaguar ran off the road early yesterday morning, the only money I had in the bank came from my dealerships.”
We crossed the small footbridge that took us over Rae’s Creek. “You lived my dream, Darb. You played the finest courses. You walked alongside Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer and Tom Watson. I’ve looked up to you my whole life.” I paused in the middle of the bridge. “Hell, I guess Mary Alice was right. You are my hero.”
Darby stopped and wheeled on me. “No, I’m not. I’m a drunk. I was a poor husband and an even worse friend.”
“Are you kidding? You got me Masters badges every year.”
Darby shook his head and dropped the club from his hands. The sky had become darker and I couldn’t see the green anymore. I felt dizzy. I leaned over the railing, but I didn’t see Rae’s Creek anymore.
Instead, I saw the muddy water of the Tennessee River. I was standing in the same spot where I had stood when my birthday had begun. The place where I planned to jump and end my life.
“Where was I when you lost Graham?” Darby asked. His voice was in my ear, but I couldn’t see him. “Did I come to the hospital? Did I even make the funeral?”
“I didn’t hold that against you,” I said, closing my eyes. I squeezed them tight, but then, as if by some sort of magnetic pull, I felt my lids opening. I now heard the beeps of the monitors and the sound of sniffling. Mary Alice sat on the bed, rubbing my boy’s forehead, whispering, “It’s okay to let go, baby boy.” By the window, my mother’s angelic face was streaked with tears. She had her arm wrapped around Davis, who had buried her face in her chest. Davis had been twelve.
I saw myself standing by my son’s bed. I heard the sound of the monitor as the line on the screen went flat. There was a long monotone beep. I heard my wife’s shriek and saw my hands go to my knees.
“Darby, get me out of here,” I said. I turned away from the awful scene and saw my father. He leaned his back against the far wall of the hospital room. His arms were crossed, and a tear streaked his cheek. I don’t remember seeing Dad when Graham died. I knew he was there, but everything was a blur. I could see him now.
I turned back to the bed, but I was no longer in the hospital. Now I was at Maple Hill Cemetery.
Though the visitation the day before had been huge and overwhelming, the graveside service was small. Only family and close friends.
As I approached the tent, I saw myself standing by the casket. Behind me, Mary Alice sat stoically in her chair in the front row. Tears had smeared her makeup, but she took no notice. Davis and my mother sat next to her.
My father stood behind me and whispered something in my ear.
“What did he say?” Darby asked.
I turned and saw that my friend was standing beside me. “That I needed to be strong. That Davis would look to me to be the example. That Mary Alice would need me too.” I sighed. “Stuff I already knew.”
“I should have been here,” Darby said.
“Where were you?”
Darby grimaced and snapped his fingers. When he did, the cemetery evaporated. I wiped my eyes as they adjusted to the new scene. We were standing in a dank hotel room. The carpet was greenish brown. The covers had been thrown off the king-sized bed, and Darby lay sprawled in the middle of it. There was an empty bottle of gin on the bedside table. Beside the liquor was a tin plate with a white powdery substance smeared all over it.
I turned and saw a woman emerge from the bathroom. She had just showered, and her body was barely covered by a towel. Beautiful. Sexy. And not Charlotte.
I watched her glide into the room and look at Darby’s body on the bed. Then, shaking her head, she went over to the couch, where Darby’s pants had been flung, and she pulled his wallet out of the back pocket. I watched her take at least five bills out of it, and then, without even a glance at Darby, she got dressed and walked out of the room.
“Cold,” I said.
“Want to know how many times that scene played out in nineteen years?”
“No,” I said, feeling a wave of depression come over me.
“I missed your son’s funeral because I was in the middle of the Florida swing on tour. I could have flown to Huntsville, but I didn’t.”
“You were a professional golfer. You were working.”
“That look like work?” Darby asked, his voice sick with sarcasm, as he pointed at himself on the bed. I glanced at Darby, expecting to see the old mischievous grin with a wink thrown in, but he gazed back at me with blank eyes. Dead eyes.
“I didn’t have a life, Randolph. I never had children. I was a terrible friend. An even worse husband, and my reckless life got me killed last night.” He snapped his fingers, and in an instant, I was back on the Tennessee River Bridge.
“But you do have a life, Randy.”
I felt my heartbeat speed up as I turned to my friend. I couldn’t remember the last time he had called me “Randy.”
“You were everything I ever wanted to be, Darb.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he snapped. “You didn’t want to be me, and I darn sure wasn’t your hero.”
Glancing down at the dark current and then back to the ghost of Darby Hays, I whispered, “What are we doing? Why are you here?”
He stepped closer to me.
“Before I leave you and this world forever, I need to tell you about the gift you are about to receive.”
“Gift?”
He nodded. “You see, Randolph, you have had heroes, just not me.” He paused. “And you are going to have the opportunity to play a round of golf or . . . something like that . . . with each of them. Four heroes. Four rounds. A tournament, so to speak, with the champions you’ve looked up to your whole life.” He chuckled. “The Randy Clark Invitational.”
“Why?” I asked. It was the only thing I could think to say.
Now, Darby did give me his trademark smile of mischief followed by a wink. “You’ll see, old friend.” He began to walk away, and I ran after him. In the distance, I saw an eighteen-wheeler approaching.
“What am I supposed to get from this?” I asked, trying to catch up to my friend but losing ground. The roar of the tractor-trailer’s engine was closer, and Darby was walking straight for it. “Darb!” I ran toward him, but it was no use. When the rig was a few feet away from him, Darby turned to face me.
“I’m sorry, Randolph. For everything.”
“No!” I screamed, trying to run but unable to move my feet. The rig passed right through Darby as if he weren’t there. Now, it headed straight for me. Again, I tried to move my feet, but it was no use.
As the grille of the truck came into focus, I saw a man behind the wheel. I gaped at the figure. For a moment, I couldn’t make him out, but then his eyes seemed to glow. My father leaned his head over the wheel.
“There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes that he’s not going to be Joe Namath.”
The voice was then drowned out by the sound of the engine, and headlights flashed in my eyes.
I tried to scream, but no words would come. I covered my face with my hands and dropped to my knees, squeezing my eyes shut. As my nostrils filled with the scent of diesel fuel, my vocal cords finally let loose.
And I screamed at the top of my lungs.