DINK LOOKED THE part of a private eye searching for clues as he scanned the newspaper with his magnifying glass.
Looking up from his investigation, he greeted his visitor. “You’re kind of late this morning. What’s the matter? Lose your balls while playin’ a-round?”
Ty’s morbid expression didn’t change. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Don’t worry about it. The older you get, the less they matter. In fact, they’re actually more trouble than they’re worth. Imagine how much simpler life would be if you weren’t saddled with those darn things weighing you down.”
Dink brought the magnifier back to his good eye. “Was reading how another private men’s course gave in to pressure and now allows women to apply. It changes the whole dynamics of everything. That’s why it’s called a men’s club. Once you end up caving to the whims of the fairer sex, God forbid you bounce a little locker room talk off the wall ’cause before you know, you’ll be hit with a sexual harassment charge. I don’t get it. I’m for equal rights and all that other garbage, but if the men want a private club, leave them alone. Let the poor bastards have their haven. There are more important issues that need attention. Back in my day, when men were men, I’m not sure too many women even wanted any more to do with us than was required. We were a brutish lot, I tell ya.”
He looked up from his paper. “What’s with the horse face?”
“There won’t be any more interviews. I got laid off yesterday.”
“So you’re going to roll yourself up in a big ball and die—go out with a whimper, so to speak?”
“No use in continuing. What’s the point? It’s over, finished, kaput.”
“Oh, bull pucky! Reinvent yourself. You’re a writer. Pen a book.”
Ty sat up straight. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as if his heart had been kick-started back to life.
“Hey, that’s not a half bad idea,” he said. “I already have a good head start on this bad boy. Why waste it?”
“Damn straight. I’ve got lots more stories to tell.”
“Let’s get started then.”
“Sure enough. Speaking of hard times…after the crash in ’29, the jobless rate jumped to over twenty-five percent. It was either sink or swim. The golf industry was hit particularly hard. Needless to say, many munis went belly-up, and a lot of privates went public—as was the case with Ocean Crest.
“I stayed with the club for a couple of years, but eventually the competition became too much. The caddie ranks swelled as men from every walk of life swallowed their pride and did whatever was necessary in order to survive. The caddie yard became a vicious arena where fights were all too commonplace. Too few golfers, too many caddies—an imbalance of supply and demand, if you will.
“Ironically, one of the nastiest converts to our humble profession was an ex-member of the club, Darrell ‘The Wailer’ Thompson. Although he had lost everything in the crash, he still thought he was a cut above the rest of us peons and felt entitled to pick of the litter.
“The bully corners me in the shack one day and tells me he’s packing for Charles from now on. When I boldly voice my objections, he beats me like a stepchild. Well, I can see right off that this environment isn’t conducive to a healthy lifestyle, so I decide to light out on my own. For the first time in my life, I’d be working outside of the caddie profession.
“I happen to get wind of a private course that’s been in the works for several years already, and I hear they’re looking for laborers. It was a rare opportunity since most golf course construction ground to a standstill after the economy tanked.
“Anyway, I hitch my way down the road a stretch and strut up to Walter, the foreman in charge. ‘I’d like to hire on,’ I tell him, puffing out my chest.
“He damn near laughs in my face after looking me up and down, but knowing he’s got to hire able-bodied men kind of put him in a bind.
“‘Son, construction’s damn hard work that can break even the strongest of men. Not sure you’d be suitable for the job. Maybe you can get employment through Roosevelt’s New Deal program.’
“‘Worked in golf all my life. It’s in my blood—all I know or care to know.’
“He removes his cap and scratches his head. ‘Ever work with nitro?’
“I got no idea who in Sam Hill this Nitro fella is, but if he’ll get me hired, I’ll play along. ‘Yeah, me and him were best buddies at one time,’ I tell him.
“‘Is that a fact? Best buddies?’
“‘Yes, sir. Me and him were like two peas in a pod.’
“‘Okay, scoot yourself over to the dyno shack and talk to Shaky. He’ll love me for this one. And when you see Nitro, say “Hi” for me, would ya?’
“Now, Shaky is the last person you’d want to be around when playing with explosives. He’s got some condition where his hands twitch mighty bad like he’s got a terrible case of the yips.
“He leads me over to this hillside and goes about showing me how to drill holes into the rocks so a charge can be placed. I’m not exactly sure if I’m working this drill or the drill’s working me, but I get the job done and drop in one of those oversized firecrackers. We light a fuse that burns hot and fast and then take off in different directions to hunt for cover.
“I wait for a bit before finally lifting my head and then look around, thinking Where’s the boom? Seeing as how nobody’s willing to take charge, I pop up and meander over so I can relight the little bugger.
“‘It’s not a flame-out—not a flame-out!’ I hear Shaky yell.
“Well, the flame is obviously out, I think to myself.
“A few steps later I realize how wrong I am as I’m tossed like a salad amongst the rocks. I wake up lying on stacked crates of dynamite—which is a bit unsettling, to say the least—and this veterinarian who doesn’t know a wallaby from a kangaroo rat is probing me like I’m a guinea pig. Needless to say, they wouldn’t even let me blow my nose after that little incident.
“I’m immediately transferred to the bone crusher crew where the men are separated from the boys. Packing a professional’s bag for thirty-six holes a day over hill and dale doesn’t hold a candle to this hard labor. I work everything from horse-drawn scoop pans, the boulder crew, Johnson bar, double-edged saw, and the long-handled ax—whereupon I finally declare myself a man.
“Not long after that, I hear Bobby Jones has built this championship course down in Augusta among the gentle slopes and Georgia pines. Figure I’ve had enough of this natural gymnasium, so I head over to the Peach State. I know I’ve finally found me a home as I walk down Magnolia Lane singing ‘Georgia On My Mind.’
“Remarkably, Augusta National took less than two years to build. It opened for limited play in December of ’32, but the grand opening wasn’t for another month. Initially, Jones petitioned the USGA for permission to hold the U.S. Open there but was denied. Officials stated that the hot, humid climate at hilly Augusta would create unbearable playing conditions during the summer months. So he and good friend/co-founder Clifford Roberts decided to hold their own annual event earlier in the year when it wasn’t so hot and the azaleas were in bloom. It used to be a plant nursery, you know. The competition was officially known as ‘Augusta National Invitation Tournament’ for the first five years, but it was informally called the Masters from the start.
“Bobby, being the gentleman he is, greets me like I’m his long-lost brother. We have ourselves a few laughs over the exploits of that thieving Sandy Langford and talk at length about his new course.
“‘You still walking the loop?’ he asks me.
“‘Yes sir, Mr. Jones. I’m like one of those old thoroughbreds that can’t wait to get back on the track and stretch his legs.’
“‘What kind of shape are you in?’
“‘Been better, been worse, but I can still hold my own.’
“‘That’s good because this course is rather demanding. If the hills don’t get you, the heat and humidity will. Come March 22nd, we’re going to need all the good hacks we can find. That doesn’t give you much time to learn the subtleties of this roller coaster before the tourney.’
“‘You can count on me, Mr. Jones. I’ll be walking thirty-six a day if that’s what it takes ’til I know this course like the back of my hand.’
“‘That may be a tad ambitious, Dink. You might change your mind after meeting the boys and making your initial pass.’
“The terrain and humidity were tough enough all right, but it was nothing compared to head caddie Nathan ‘Big Cat’ Williams. Never forget the first time I literally ran into him. Plumb crashed right into that stump of a man as he was coming in and I was going out of the caddie shack. Thought I’d run into a tree trunk, but it just so happened to be one of his legs. Seen plenty of big men in my day, but this man was thick. I mean, he had muscle piled on top of muscle.
“He stands there like a giant sequoia, looking down on pitiful little me. Who knows what he’s thinking as he examines this undersized pipsqueak wearing a white caddie jumper two sizes too large with pants rolled up and all. He frowns at me and grinds his teeth like he’s finishing off a bowl full of tacks.
“‘What you doing in here, boy?’ he roars. ‘The children be playing down near the lake.’
“The joint erupts in laughter.
“I’d learned long before that because of my size I’d likely be the butt of many a joke, and figured out the best way to deal with it is to reply with a better one.
“‘Adults ain’t nothing more than big kids,’ I tell him. ‘And you’re the biggest kid I ever did see.’
“A tomb-like silence settles over the place. I’m figuring maybe I’d pushed the envelope a little too far this time until Cat cracks a smile, ekes out a small chuckle, and then cuts loose with a deep, resounding belly laugh that shakes the timbers. Before you know it, the whole place is rocking and rolling in laughter.
“‘You’s got a mouth bigger than me, I hate to shout. Should fit right in with the rest of these hollerbacks.’
“In the preceding months, I’d learned all about what it’s like being the low man on the totem pole. Augusta has more caddies than players just like at Ocean Crest, only difference being there’s an orderly procedure established here. Most members have their favorite jockeys, and the rest are picked based on seniority. Instead of carrying bags, I find myself cleaning up cigarette butts, leftover food and drink, and other miscellaneous trash items. But the most disgusting task of all is mopping up that sticky cud the chewers spit.
“By the time the Masters rolls around, I’ve only had half a dozen trips around the track—hardly enough to qualify me as a seasoned caddie at this most venerable course. Day before the tournament begins, I’m without a man and am moping around the shack when Big Cat comes storming in saying, ‘Winston’s come down with lumbago. Get your ass into gear ’cause you’re packing for Angus MacKenzie.’
“It was quite fashionable then, as it is now, to include a Scot, Brit, or Mick in the mix in order to lend that old-world flavor—or flavour as they prefer on that side of the pond. When I inquire as to Angus’s whereabouts, I’m told he’s been stationed on the veranda ever since his arrival.
“I spot the only man in the joint with fiery red hair talking with a Scottish burr thicker than molasses. ‘You Angus MacKenzie?’ I ask.
“He hops off the stool, squares off in front of me, and much to my surprise we’re at eye level. ‘And what if I am?’ he asks belligerently.
“‘Dink at your service. I’m replacing Winston as your caddie.’
“‘Well whoop-de-doo. See they had to scrape the bottom of the barrel when they dredged you up,’ the intoxicated man slurs.
“The sting of his comment gets my dander up. ‘And what honky-tonk did they drag your ass out of?’ I retort.
“He takes a boxing stance like he’s ready to go a few rounds seeing as how we’re in the same weight class. Before I know it, he’s circling me like a modern-day Ali, throwing air bombs.
“I stand my ground and let him make a fool of himself. ‘Very impressive,’ I boldly announce. ‘Now, the only question is, “Can you play golf?”’
“He lowers his guard and actually smiles. ‘A man after me own heart,’ he moons. ‘You take no quarter and give none either. Let me buy you a drink, laddie.’
“He pounds his fist on the bar and bellows out, ‘Barkeep, a drink for my friend!’ Then he turns to me and asks, ‘What ya havin’, me man?’
“‘A sarsaparilla, please.’ By his reaction, you’d think I’d called his mother a whore.
“‘Dear God, Mother Mary, and Joseph!’ he said, signing himself. ‘We’ll have none of that when I’m buying.’
“‘Make that a beer,’ I say, lowering a manly inflection into my voice.
“‘That’s more like it. There’ll be none of that sissy behavior when you’re on Muddy’s bag.’
“‘Muddy?’ I ask.
“‘That’s the name me drunken, no-good, worthless friends have called me ever since I damn near died in a bog while hunting for a wayward ball.’
“‘All right, Muddy. What do you think of the course?’
“‘I guess it’s a fine layout for a landlubber who’s never inhaled mist rising off a Scottish moor or filled his lungs with briny air straight off the Irish Sea.’
“‘My God!’ I say. ‘You haven’t seen the course yet?’
“‘What’s there to see? Golf is golf. When you’ve seen one boring American course, you’ve seen them all,’ he states while signaling for another drink. ‘We call it dart golf back home. Throw the ball high into the air and then watch it stick wherever it may land. Not very imaginative, I might add.’
“‘But what about the nuances of the course? Certainly you need to know the particulars in order to score your best.’
“‘That’s why I have you. If you’re not up to the task, say so now or you’ll feel the wrath of my fury,’ he says, shaking his fist.
“‘Of course I’m up to it, but shouldn’t you be practicing?’
“‘Laddie, have you ever ridden a bicycle?’
“I nod, unsure where this is heading.
“‘And if you were to get on a bike right here and now, would you have forgotten how to ride—or would you ride any straighter if you rode all day, every day?’
“‘Guess not.’
“‘Golf is a game of feel not mechanics,’ Muddy says. ‘An artist doesn’t paint by the numbers if he’s a true artist, now does he? No, he visualizes what he wants to paint and then allows the feelings of his expression to guide his hand. It’s the same in golf, and don’t ever let a man tell ye different. The simplest way is the best way to play the grand old game.’
“I ask him, ‘Would you be opposed to playing a game that involves the strong waters of a Scottish mix in a challenge I refer to as “Call Your Shot”?’
“‘A Scottish potent potable, you say? My interest is piqued. Would be pleased to hear about this intriguing game of inebriation.’
“‘It’s relatively simple. In order for me to get a better handle on your game, I call out a specific shot. If you pull it off, you are rewarded with a short snort.’
“Muddy is nearly out the door before I can unscrew and fill the flask the bartender is so kind to lend me.
“‘What are ye waiting for, me boy? The sun goes down in a few hours.’
“The fireplug of a man wastes no time warming up on the range. ‘Well, get on with it, man,’ he says. ‘I’m not getting any younger.’
“‘We’ll start with a low draw.’
“‘Ye might as well hand over the malted libation and not waste me time.’
“In the blink of an eye, the wee Scotsman whips the club around his compact body in a flattish swing that’s no higher than knee-high to a doodlebug and whisks the ball away with a quick flick of his wrists. The short snort he’s entitled to turns into a guzzle.
“He exhales a fiery sigh. ‘Sweet day in the morn. Never could a ground-huggin’ weed cutter come at a better time.’
“‘Indeed, that was impressive,’ I tell him, ‘but if you’re going to have half a chance out here, you need to hit one of those high-flying American darts you referred to. These newly established greens without a base built up over time are harder than well-cured concrete.’
“Muddy settles into his stance more determined than ever. He grunts and lunges at the ball with all his might, trying to heft it into the air.
“I watch the forecaddie handle the wormburner that’s no more than a one-hopper to shortstop.
“Muddy holds out his hand, begging for another drink.
“I shake my head. ‘That was lower than your first one.’
“‘The hell, ye say. Are ye callin’ me a liar? A little bottled inspiration would go a long way in liftin’ me spirits. Swear the next one will have Saint Peter himself duckin’ for cover.’
“‘You know the rules, and that’s not the way the game’s played.’ I grab a driving iron from the bag and seed the clouds with a towering fade.
“‘Great Caesar’s ghost! I daresay that moon shot breached the surly bonds of earth and sky.’
“I drop another, larger American ball on the ground. ‘This high-spinning ball combined with a more upright swing should do the trick.’
“Muddy scarcely breaks the horizontal plane of his hips on the practice swing.
“‘That’s not going to cut it,’ I tell him. ‘Stand closer to the ball and reach for the stars in the sky.’
“Willing to do anything for another tug on the jug, the little guy inches his stubby legs closer and then thrusts his short arms over his head. To his amazement, that high-spinning Spalding Topflite tickles the edge of infinity. He grabs the flask and chugs the remaining contents. ‘My God, man. Ye be wasting your talents carrying that bundle of hickory. The world could use such a visionary in the game.’
“My inflated head barely fit on the pillow that night, knowing what a coup it’d be if my man can pull off the biggest upset in recent history of the sport. But in order to be my best, I need to calm down and get some shuteye. A long day awaits tomorrow.
“It’s show time, and I’m up before the rooster can call in the new day. I trudge my way around the course, carefully plotting each pin placement. It won’t be for lack of preparation on my part if Muddy loses this tournament.
“I then tour the grounds, hunting high and low for him. Even check the veranda in case he decided to have a liquid breakfast. In a panic, I race to his room only to find him in bed, curled in a fetal position bellowing eerie moans befitting the haunted halls of a Scottish castle.
“‘Your tee time’s in ten minutes,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s get a move on.’
“He hangs his head to the side and spews the largest shaken cocktail on record. ‘I’ve been poisoned. My piss is more refined than the rotgut they serve in that laboratory. Oh Mother McCree, what I wouldn’t give for a true Scotch whisky right about now.’
“‘But the Masters. What about the Masters?’
“‘Blast the Masters. There are more important tournaments than this little crapshoot to be won. It’s plain to see this insignificant affair won’t last beyond its inaugural.’
“I only hope Muddy’s golf is better than his prophesies. I leave his quarters with my head hung low, walking aimlessly until I spot this sea of humanity heading to the first tee. Lo and behold, in the midst of that tidal wave is none other than Bobby Jones.
“Taking advantage of my short stature, I surreptitiously weave through the frenzied mob packed around that first tee and make it to the front, giving me a bird’s-eye view of the action. My mood is bolstered by the fact that I now have a front-row seat to watch the greatest golfer ever to have walked a fairway play in the first Masters.
“At 10:35 a.m. on March 22, 1934, Jones strikes his tee shot. The crowd oohs and ahs as Bobby’s powerful, majestic swing propels the ball down the center of the fairway. He is still top dog—at least in the minds of the public and press. ‘It’s the field against Bobby’ the headlines read.
“It’d been almost four years since he’d retired from competitive golf after defeating Eugene Homans to win the U.S. Amateur, completing the Grand Slam. He initially refused to play in his own tournament, wanting only to serve as an official, but the membership were not about to let that happen.
“No one, including Jones, knew what to expect after his retirement. He shot 71 during a practice round and a few weeks before that had fired a red-hot 65, but a four-over par 76 in the first round left him six shots behind the leader. He was the same old Jones from tee to green, but it had taken him thirty-five painstaking strokes on the greens. The whiskey jerk that’s plagued the best players—including such notables as Hogan, Snead, and Nelson—had wormed its insidious way into Bobby’s game. It was obvious to all that this was the beginning of the end of his reign as the King of Golf.
“When I console him with wasted words, he jokes that he would give his current putter to me but he is running out of clubs.
“Bobby fares little better in the next three rounds, finishing at six-over in a tie for thirteenth, ten shots behind Horton Smith. Smith receives $1,500, which back then was a handsome sum. Hagen and Jones finished one stroke out of twelfth place, barely missing the last $100 payoff.
“When Jones was asked to explain the basis of his putting woes, he stated, ‘It is my own conviction that my putting troubles began when I started to struggle for a precision in my putting stroke which I would never have considered possible in any other department of the game.’ He believed that he putted best when relying on his natural ability, but once he allowed his mind to dictate the actions to his body, his body lost much of its inherent ability to spontaneously respond correctly.”
TY FELL BACK into his chair. “Wow, hard to imagine you actually got to see Jones play every stroke in that very first Masters! I bet there’s not a man alive today who could make that claim—or at least remember the event if he does exist.”
“Yep, thanks to Angus and his love for that intoxicating liquid that can drown a man without ever getting him wet.”
The reporter turned off his recorder. “Made good progress today. If tomorrow’s half as productive, I’ll kiss old Nurse Blanchard right square on the lips.”
“Oh Lordy, have mercy on your soul. That would definitely be the kiss of death.”
Dink directed his attention toward the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. “Would you happen to have a drop of the devil’s piss to help an old man in his time of need?”
“Could I deny a man his medicinal inducement necessary for a good night’s sleep? Bottoms up and enjoy, for your troubles today are only a swallow away.”
Dink clasped Ty’s hand when his friend slipped the bottle to him. “I’m not good when it comes to expressing my feelings and all, but just want to say ‘Thanks.’”
“For what?”
“For restoring an old man’s long-forgotten memories as he walks down the last fairway of a great round.”
“Forget it. The pleasure’s been all mine. You’re the one who’s enriched my life with insights seen through your eyes. Besides, you ornery old cuss, we both know that you’ll end up outliving Blanchard so you can spit on her grave.”
“Think a good, steamy dump would be more appropriate.”
“Hang in there, Dink.”