33

 

 

Against all the odds, Tommy Scannell held on for the win. His first on Tour and, of course, his first major. With the victory, he got to heft the Wannamaker Trophy, bank a couple million bucks, pocket a Tour card for the next ten years, and punch his ticket for golf immortality. He would always be remembered, from this day forward. Of course, if he never won again, he would be remembered as the one-shot wonder. But if he did win again, which I suspected he probably would, he would be remembered as a better-than-most player, a winner of regular tournaments and a major winner. And there was always the chance that he would win lots more, both majors and not, lead the U.S. Ryder Cup team to glory and maybe invent the cure for cancer. Hey, it’s possible.

The Boz and I had a good time on Sunday watching the field make a few runs at Tommy during the afternoon. We helped ratchet up the pressure when the lead was one stroke with five to play, and we expressed our admiration for the young pro’s fortitude in fighting hard all the way in on the back nine, making great birdies on thirteen, sixteen and the final hole, where he drained a nice ten-foot birdie to accentuate the win and earn the ovation of the huge crowd gathered to watch.

Mary Jane hired Maria the babysitter for the early part of the day, and she came with me to sit in our airless booth and watch the fun. She went out and got us some sandwiches and drinks in the middle of the afternoon, and chuckled quietly at our patter.

When Scannell and the last group finished our hole and went over to seventeen, she gave the Boz a hug and me a kiss.

“I gotta get going,” she said. “Got a three-hour drive back to Beantown and classes tomorrow. Back to the salt mines for me.”

“I’ll be home late tonight,” I said. “Don’t wait up. And I’ll start loading boxes out to Milton tomorrow.”

MJ looked at the Boz.

“Why don’t you come back east to Boston and visit?” she said. “Aren’t you guys doing the New Jersey Classic in a couple of weeks? Bring the wife and kids. We’ll go eat fried clams and take in a game at Fenway.”

“Little lady,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, “That sounds like an excellent plan. I’ll have Sheila call you and get it going.”

He turned to me.

“Hack-Man,” he said, grinning at me. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“OK, Bogie,” I said. “Just keep the Nazis away.”

He saluted and disappeared.

 

I stopped in to say good-bye to the rest of the crew after the tournament was over and the heartfelt speeches had been made on the eighteenth green. Ben Oswald was in his private office in his trailer, and I went and knocked on his door.

“Come,” the raspy voice said. I went in.

He was sitting at his desk. His feet were up on the desktop. There were two glasses in front of him, each filled with a couple of inches of amber something. Neither glass had been touched. He was staring at them.

He looked up at me, and motioned me into a chair in front of his desk.

“Arnie and I would come back here after a tournament and have a little celebratory drink,” he told me. His voice sounded a little husky. “We’d talk about what went right, what didn’t, then one of us would say, ‘awww, fuck it’ and we’d slug ‘em back. It was like our private ritual. That job’s done. Next job’s on the schedule, next week, two weeks, whatever. Draw a line under this one, get ready for the next. That’s the business. Always the next job. Never stops. ” He stopped, looked at me with sad red eyes. “Until it does.”

I reached over and picked up one of the glasses.

“Awww, fuck it, boss,” I said.

He sat there a minute, staring at the glass on his desk. Then, with a little half smile, he picked it up. Held it over towards me. We clinked. Tipped them back. It was bourbon, and a good one.

“Draw the line,” I said.

“Draw the line,” he repeated.