The next morning, I ate breakfast unmolested in the hotel’s coffee shop. There was no sign of a fire-breathing Wyn nor any of her minions. No sign of Honie, fired or not. Just a few dozen tourists from the north, each of whom seemed to be engaged in reading the prices from the menu out loud. “Two-fifteen for a side order of bacon, Willard! Dat’s out-ray-gee-yus!”
Later, I wandered out to the practice tee to watch the women pros warming up for the day’s practice round. While I don’t normally cover the women’s game, I had been to enough events, such as the mixed-team tournament in the fall, to know many of the players. And it had been at that event that the differences between the golfing sexes had been best illustrated for me.
“It’s the muscle groups that make the biggest difference,” one of the male pros had explained to me, well out of earshot of the nearest female golfer. “Women simply don’t have the same kind of upper-body muscle mass that men do. In the golf swing, that means men can generate more clubhead speed. That means they can hit it further. Now these gals,” and he meant women professional golfers, “They get their butts into it, and they’ve learned how to generate as much clubhead speed as they can. And with good rhythm and timing, they can get the clubface onto the ball. All of which adds up to distance, but they just don’t have the same muscles, which is why the average male pro will always hit it longer than the average female pro.”
He shook his head as we had watched some other women pros warming up on the range. “If you watch closely,” he continued, “You’ll see that the girls hit the ball on a lower trajectory, too. That’s because without the same kind of upper-body strength, they have to use more of a sweeping motion. Men combine clubhead speed with a downward, descending blow, which is what lets them get the ball high into the air. But your average woman pro is hitting the ball shorter and on a lower trajectory. That’s a damn deadly combination.”
He went on to explain that while women professionals practice and play enough to overcome many of these physiological hindrances, the average woman player just has to deal with it. “Most holes, even the short par-fours, your weekend woman player is hitting driver and three-wood to just get somewhere near the green. Can you imagine playing golf, hitting three-woods into every green?” he asked.
“I’d give the game up,” I had said.
“You and me both, son,” the player had agreed. “Damn architects ought to give them more of a break, so they can play the same game as the men. But that would mean really shortening up many holes, and then the libbers start hollering ‘whaddya mean our course is only four thousand yards? The men’s course is seven thousand!’ Can’t win that one!” He’d shrugged and gone back to launching high hard ones from the practice tee.
I kept his theories in mind as I had watched that weekend’s mixed-team event. And I had seen many examples that seemed to prove his point. I remembered one instance when the woman pro faced a shot up and over a tall tree in front of her. Once over the tree, she then had to carry the ball far enough to get over a greenside bunker. I knew a male pro would have had no trouble generating enough power and height to accomplish the task, but the woman pro eventually tried to hit a low screaming hook around the tree. The other option was denied her. She didn’t have the right muscles. Too bad.
I wandered up and down the practice tee all morning, talking with some of the players, watching others swing. They were all working hard in the hot morning sun, doing the drudge work of professional golf. Honing swings, checking alignments, working on maintaining the angles, swinging in balance, developing a consistent tempo and rhythm. Those who had their swings working were cheerful and upbeat, whistling and joking as they worked. Those who were struggling were concentrating on their tasks, scowling at the ground, muttering after every swing. Some had dark circles of sweat coloring their shirts under their arms and between their breasts. This was hardly the kind of glamour most associate with the life of the touring golf professional.
For the most part, the golfers worked alone, though some had swing gurus watching, and others consulted with their caddies. They worked methodically through their bags which stood behind them like silent sentinels. The women pros had huge staff bags, like the men, although the logos of their sponsors which adorned the bags ran more to dishwasher detergents, cosmetics and soft drinks, as opposed to the men’s investment firms, beer companies and automakers.
I noted another difference between the sexes: head covers. The women’s bags showed that the prevailing taste in covers for their metal woods ran to pink, fuzzy things or cute, floppy-earned doggies. Your typical PGA pro would probably rather play naked than been seen with a cute, floppy-earned puppy-dog headcover.
Some of the caddies had gathered near the water keg standing at the far end of the practice range, in the shade of a spindly liveoak tree. Most of the caddies were men, although there was a sprinkling of female loopers too. Whatever the sex, the caddies still had that deeply tanned and mostly scruffy look, the universal badge of those who carry golf bags for a living. They were doing what caddies usually do: exchanging information and tips on good restaurants, can’t-lose horses running at Hialeah, who had tickets to the rock concerts. Still, each kept an eye on their hard-working golfer, to see if they needed more practice balls, towels or water. Caddies are enthusiastic participants in the service economy. Or they aren’t caddies for very long.
The only looper in the group that I knew fairly well was named “Bunny.” I had no idea why, nor did I know what name appeared on his driver’s license. But he had worked on the PGA Tour for years, for a variety of players. I approached him.
“Hey, Bunny,” I said, walking up. “Who’s hot?”
He nodded greetings, his smallish, deep-set eyes blinking at me.
“Bunch a kids are shootin’ lights out,” he told me. “Especially the ones from Asia. Hard to keep ‘em straight. But for me, I’d put my cash down on the mick over there.”
He nodded down the line at Patty Sheehan, one of the LPGA’s established stars, who was swinging a handful of irons from her practice spot about six players away. I thanked Bunny for the information and wandered down to watch.
Normally a right-handed player, I watched as Patty flopped a wedge over upside down and began hitting balls with it left handed. Amazingly, they all went straight and true.
“You know,” I called to her after watching this for a while, “They do make clubs for lefties. If you’re converting, it might make it easier.”
She looked over at me, laughed merrily and came over to shake hands. Patty has the right attitude about the game: Whether she’s shooting sixty-eight or eighty, she’s always cheerful. Upbeat, wisecracking. To her, it’s only a game, and no doubt, that’s why it’s a game that has paid off handsomely for her.
“I do this to work on my impact skills,” she told me as she went back to her left-handed drill. “Makes you focus on the clubhead coming through the hitting zone. It’s also a good way to get your hand-eye coordination zeroed in.”
We talked about her season to date, an injury she was getting over and a swing change she was working on. She showed me the progress: Turning around to the right side, she pulled another iron out of her bag and struck a dozen beautiful shots, all of which landed within ten feet of her target. She still had the classic, picture-perfect golf swing, full of fluid motion, perfect balance and balletic grace.
She stopped work for a moment to sip some water from a bottle in her bag. Down at the far end of the practice range, an Asian woman was hitting golf balls, surrounded by a noisy gaggle of photographers, video cameramen and a dozen other small, dark-haired, jabbering men. It was Misha Kuramoto, Japan’s finest player and another perennial favorite on the LPGA Tour.
“God, how I feel for that girl,” Patty mused as she stared at the crowd gathered around Misha. “They are with her always. Photographers, reporters, businessmen. Dozens of them. Every single day. She can’t take a step without someone shooting her photo, jabbing a microphone in her face. It would drive me stark, raving mad.”
Kuramoto was japan’s Goddess of Golf. Her success on the tour had made her one of golf-crazy Japan’s biggest celebrities, and made mandatory the need to chronicle her every movement and statement. She was never left alone as the gaggle of media types followed her around day after day so they could report back to the legion of fans in Tokyo exactly what the Great Misha was reading, eating and doing.
“Every time she pulls back a club, the hopes and dreams of millions of Japanese ride on it,” Sheehan said. “Can you imagine that?” She shuddered and went back to her work in blissful isolation.
To those who have never played golf, and even those to whom the sport is something less than an obsession, it might be hard to image enjoying spending a couple of hours in the hot sun, watching the repetitive striking of golf balls. But I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I knew enough about the golf swing to recognize those who do it right, and on the practice tee that morning, there were several players doing it better than right. There are many who say the best way to learn a good swing is to go watch the women pros, and there is a lot of truth to that. There aren’t too many idiosyncratic swings on the LPGA, and you could swear that many had been taught by Hogan himself. Certainly, one could learn a lot about timing and tempo by watching the women work. Men may hit the ball harder, but women hit it with more grace.
So I stood there and watched, interrupting some of them from time to time to talk about some esoteric point, grip changes, shoulder turns, whether or not the club should be laid off, footwork, swing thoughts. Before I knew it, it was lunchtime. And I only knew it because Honie Carlton came and told me so.
I was standing behind Betsy King, watching her smack three-woods heavenward with her easy, slow-paced, upright swing. Honie appeared at my side and grabbed my arm affectionately.
“Hey Hacker,” she said, “Hungry?”
“I guess,” I said. “But didn’t I just have breakfast?” I glanced down at my watch. Twelve-fifteen. “Jeez,” I said. “Tempus really fugited today.”
Honie laughed. I like a girl who laughs at Latin jokes. Shows a certain amount of good breeding.
“Hey,” I said, remembering last night. “Are you still employed around here?”
“Yeah,” she grinned. “I got called on the carpet, though. You are definitely on their shit list. From now on, any media I want to invite has to be approved by the commissioner and Big Wyn. They patted me on the head and said all young people make mistakes. I almost puked.”
“I woulda told ‘em to go sit on a six-iron,” I said hotly.
“Yeah, well, you’re you and I’m not,” she said. “And I still have plans for the future here, I guess.”
“I suppose,” I said. “I guess I just have a lower puke threshold than you.”
“On that pleasant note, let’s go get something to eat,” Honie said and we began walking back to the hotel. “You know, you’ve become something of a celebrity with the girls,” she peeked at me mischieviously.
“Oh, crap, have they been peeking at me in the shower again?” I said. “Happens all the time.”
Honie laughed. I liked her laugh: merry and natural. There was not much pretense in this one. “The word got around,” she said, “That you told Big Wyn off last night. Something about having big balls for a woman?”
“I oughta wash your mouth out with soap,” I said sternly. “Besides, why would that make me a hero? I thought everyone around here thinks Big Wyn hung the moon and the stars.”
“Oh, not everybody,” Honie assured me. “There is a certain vocal faction which obeys her every command, but most of the players, while they respect her achievements in the game, get a little tired of her imperious ways. I would say that if there was a popularity contest, Big Wyn probably wouldn’t come in first.” She paused. “Assuming it was a secret ballot, of course.”
We made for the Grill Room, which had windows overlooking the famous 18th hole of the Blue Monster. There was a fountain sprouting a tall geyser from the lake that guarded the left side of that famed hole. The restaurant set up a long and groaning buffet table along the inside wall, and the tables were grouped near the window for diners to enjoy the view.
Benton Bergmeister swooped down on us like a hungry buzzard as soon as we entered the room. He must have been watching for us. Today he was wearing an impeccable double-breasted blue blazer with nicely pressed seersucker trousers. Instead of a necktie, he wore a rakish scarf decorated in a garish paisley design of bright blues and reds. He was shod in black-and-white patent loafers with accents of shiny brass. It was all so very dapper. He also carried a low, wide glass containing something clear and on the rocks, with a military-tint olive floating happily among the ice cubes.
“Hacker, dear boy,” he gushed. “And Miss Carlton. You must come and have lunch with me.”
“I dunno,” I said. “I’m not in any personal danger, am I? You aren’t planning to stab me repeatedly with your cocktail sword, are you?”
“Ah ha ha ha,” he gushed. “Not at all, not at all. I think we need to start over. Got off a bit on the wrong foot last night. Please, help yourself to some lunch and come join me…my table’s over there.” He motioned to a banquette in the corner. “I’ll just go get another little libation.” He set off one way and we went through the line.
“’Stab me with your cocktail sword?’” Honie giggled as we loaded up our plates.
“Okay, so I flunked rejoinder 101,” I said. “It’s the best I can do without some preparation time.”
“I thought it was pretty good,” she told me.
There was a small plate in front of Bergmeister when we sat down, nothing but a few bread crumbs on it. He had apparently decided to lunch liquidly today. As we sat down, he was washing down a handful of pills with his drink.
“Hope those are all legal,” I chided. “Wouldn’t be good press if the public learned the LPGA commish was a secret druggie.”
He laughed again and shook his head. “Not at all, Mister Hacker,” he said. “When you get to be my age, things begin to wear out and drop off. It can be quite alarming. The medical profession, bless their evil hearts, stands ready to prescribe an entire pharmacopoeia to cure all my aches and pains. One for the heart, one for the blood pressure, two for this, three for that.” He sighed. “It’s hell getting old.”
He started to put his pill bottle back in his pocket, then shook it and said to no one in particular. “I meant to have this refilled before I left home. Didn’t think I’d run out so soon.”
“Call Casey,” Honie suggested. “She can get it refilled for you at a local drugstore.”
I took a moment to study Benton’s face as he and Honie chatted idly about tour business. The bushy gray hair was carefully combed back behind his ears. In fact, everything about the man was careful and precise: his clothes, his hair, his bearing. But I could see the artificial shades of red across his brow and cheeks; the ever-so-slightly visible capillaries; the darkened hoods above the eyes. My years of hanging around with Boston cops, those loveable, Irish, two-fisted drinkers of boilermakers – shots of Bushmills washed down with a foamy beer – had enabled me to study the faces of some truly prodigious drinkers. I knew the telltales, and I saw them even on the carefully presented face of Benton Bergmeister.
He eventually turned to me and leveled his gray-green eyes at me earnestly.
“I feel I really must apologize for the unpleasantness of last evening,” he murmured. “Mrs. Stilwell has been under a great deal of pressure recently. She still maintains a busy schedule of tournament play because the fans still want to watch her play. At the same time, her duties as president of the tour council require a great deal of administrative energy. I really believe she was just tired last night.”
“Well, it’s very nice of you to try and explain away her behavior,” I said. “But she acted like a horse’s ass. If she wants to tell me she’s sorry herself, I can probably find it in my heart to forgive her. Everyone’s allowed at least one mistake.”
He took a long pull on his drink.
“Quite,” he said finally. “May I then tell Wyn that the hatchet is officially buried and that we may expect a favorable article?”
I stared at him a minute, then turned and looked at Honie. She paused in midbite when she saw the look on my face. “’Scuse me,” she said hurriedly, “I just remembered a call I have to make.” She fled.
Bergmeister’s question still hung in the air. He was idly stirring the ice cubes in his glass with one finger. He cocked his head at me as if he had just asked me if I would like one lump or two in my tea.
“You people are unreal,” I said slowly. “You never give up, do you?”
He colored. I’ll give him that much. He had enough decency to be a little embarrassed.
“Well—” he began.
“No,” I interrupted. “You listen to me, Benton. I want you to understand my position here. I am a professional journalist. People do not tell me what to write or how to do my job, unless they are the ones handing me a paycheck. If I happen to write something you judge to be unpleasant, or unfair, or that you just don’t like, that’s tough. You can write a letter to the editor and complain about me. If I happen to write something you judge to be libelous, you can sue me. And good goddam luck on that.
“Now, I was planning to do some kind of overview piece here this weekend, something more than just a game story on who wins the tournament and how. Women’s golf is booming in popularity and theoretically, the LPGA should be in the vanguard of that popular wave. But I’ve found something more interesting here. You and I both know that the tour is struggling, having trouble attracting sponsors and finding places to play tournaments. You’re losing dollars to the PGA Tour and even to their senior circuit.
“Now why is that? I’m beginning to get a picture of a business organization that is run by a pushy bitch who seems to take as her organizational model some South American tinhorn dictatorship. It doesn’t seem to be working. And as for you, I see a commissioner who’s not only her powerless front man and apologist, but a semi-alcoholic to boot.”
I paused. Benton’s face had gone white.
“Now that’s a hell of a story. My readers would like to know more about that. So I plan to do a little more digging. Talk to some players. Maybe some of the tour’s sponsors. Get some people on the record. How’s that sound? I think it’s gonna make a nice little piece. How ‘bout another pop? I’ll buy.”
I got up and left Benton sitting there, face turning alternately red and white, his shoulders suddenly slumped. On the way out, I passed a table at which the lovely Julie Warren was staring at me, her formidable eyebrows beetling at me furiously. My mood was suddenly sour enough to join the battle, so I walked over to her.
“Hello, Julie my love,” I said sweetly. “Strangled any beagles with your bare hands today? Leapt any buildings in a single bound? How ‘bout castrated any sportswriters? I hear that’s a big favorite with you.”
She rose slowly out of her chair so that, standing, she was closer to being eyeball-to-eyeball.
“You’re a lousy, good-for-nothing fucker,” she said in a low menacing voice. “And I’m telling you, you better watch your goddam back.” She was jabbing her forefinger at my chin.
I grabbed her hand, forefinger and all, and, raising it to my lips, planted a noisy, European-style kiss on it. People at the nearby tables were watching.
“God, I love it when you talk tough, dear,” I said. “It gives me tingles all over.”
As I walked away, I was thinking to myself, “My rejoinders are getting better all the time.”