Mary Beth Burke came looking for me later that night
and found me in one of the hotel’s bars. I was deep
in conversation with a dentist from Pittsburgh. It was an intellectual discussion involving batting averages, earned-run averages, and slugging percentages of various members of our respective ballclubs. Inasmuch as I’m a golf writer and was deep into about my fourth Scotch of the night, I was proud of myself for holding my own in the conversation, even though I was making things up with both sides of my brain. I was, of course, defending the honor of my beloved Sox, while the dentist seemed strangely attached in a similar way to his “’irates.” From the looks we were starting to get from our fellow imbibers, we might have been getting just a tad too loud.
When Mary Beth saw me, she came over, took one look at me and then pulled me off my barstool. “C’mon,” she said, “Let’s take a walk.”
April in Florida is a pleasant time, about the last pleasant time until the end of November. The days are balmy without being overbearing or humid and at night the breeze drifts in off the water and brings with it a hint of a cleansing chill. The worst of the blood-sucking summer bugs have yet to appear. I’ve always figured the most carnivorous bugs go south to Cuba for the winter and fly back across the Straits of Florida in time to enjoy the summer furnace of heat and humidity after having been made especially angry by a few months of life under Fidel’s regime. In another few weeks, say by the middle of May, the air will turn into a solid wall of humidity. Then, all the breeze does is move the wall around slowly and ponderously, forcing it up under your clothing to dark bodily places that begin to prickle and itch.
But as we strolled aimlessly through the softly lit hotel grounds, that whispering breeze was as caressing and refreshing as a sip of cold blush wine. It took the buzz out of my head. Mary Beth did the rest.
At first she did a lot of fidgeting and sighing and mumbling to herself as we walked. I let it sit for a time while I enjoyed the night air. On the fourth sigh, I finally turned to her.
“Okay, Burkey,” I said sternly. “Out with it. What kind of burr is under your saddle?”
“I need to talk with you – with someone—about Carol,” she said. “But…I’m not so sure you’re the one. You being press and all.” She wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Look, Mary Beth,” I said, “I’ve got enough to write about without laying open some poor girl’s personal problems. My readers really don’t give a crap about that stuff. They want to know who won and why. Now I don’t know what set her off out there today, and I guess you’re fixing to tell me. If it’s something really dark and deep, don’t tell me. Go find a priest or a shrink or something. But if you think I could help with something, I’ll listen. And I don’t have to tell you, of all people, that it’ll be off the record if that’s what you want.”
She smiled at me finally. “Thanks, Hacker,” she said. “You’ll do just fine.”
We found a bench and sat down. In the relative quiet of the evening, the incessant sounds of the city invaded the walls of our lush refuge. A siren wailed off in the distance, and a steady thunder built in intensity as a jet from the nearby airport roared its way down the runway.
“I didn’t know what the hell happened to Carol out there today,” Burkey began. “It scared the everlovin’ crap out of me to tell you the truth. She’s such a steady, serious girl. Works real hard at her game and she’s totally dedicated to getting better. Hell, if anything, I’d say she works too hard at it. But you know me…I’m from the ‘let ‘er fly and have some fun’ school anyway. But she’s always been so level-headed, I’ve never seen any emotion from her at all, on or off the golf course. I thought she was cracking up. I got her off the golf course and holed up in the locker room. Took me a couple hours before I could make any sense out of her.”
“I mentioned Big Wyn Stilwell to her,” I said. “That seemed to be the trigger. Don’t know why.”
“Well, you’re close enough to the dance floor to hear the music,” Burkey said. “Do you remember what you said?”
“I just asked her if Big Wyn had ever seen her swing,” I said, thinking back.
“No, you asked her if she’d ever played a round with Big Wyn,” Burkey said quietly.
“OK,” I nodded. “So…?”
She didn’t say anything. I thought for a minute.
“Wait a minute,” I exclaimed, turning to look at Mary Beth. “Played a round. Played around. You mean to tell me she thought I was asking if she’d ever …”
Burke exhaled and nodded. I was speechless. “I know, I know,” she said. “It sounds like a line from about a dozen bad jokes that you and I both know. But there’s a bit more to it. And this is where it gets ugly, Hacker.”
She paused and looked out into the night. She chewed on her lower lip and clasped and unclasped her hands.
“Look, Hacker,” she said finally. “You’re a growed-up man and you’ve been around. I guess it’s no big news to you that there are some girls out here who like to fool around with other girls.”
“Yeah, well, that’s fairly common knowledge,” I said. “Despite all the official tap dancing about the subject, everyone seems to understand that a group of professional women athletes tends to include a higher percentage of homosexuals than the general population. So what? Aren’t we past all that?”
“Well, yes and no,” Mary Beth said slowly. “I think most folks believe that what you do at night under the sheets and with whom is pretty much your own private business. And from what I understand, that way of life has existed on the Tour since there has been a Tour. It’s only lately that some of the girls are becoming more comfortable with more overt expressions of their sexuality. But most still keep that part of their lives hidden from the rest of the world. The girls out here may be having sex every which way, but most of them don’t talk about it or flaunt it in public. It’s still kind of taboo.”
She paused again, thinking.
“You gotta understand something, Hacker,” she said. “The PR people and the Tour like to tell folks that we’re all one big happy family out here on the LPGA Tour. I don’t think that’s quite accurate. We’re really more of a … a small town, if you think about it. I should know—I’m a small-town girl myself. I mean, there are about 150 players, and our caddies, and our friends and families and business managers and whoever. And we’re all kinda bound up together in what we do. When you think about it, that’s pretty close to what a small town is. Except in our case, instead of being all together in one place, like Podunk, Iowa, we all travel around from place to place every week.”
“A moveable Peyton Place,” I said, suddenly understanding. “Same people, same life, different locale every week.”
“Right,” Burkey said, nodding at me approvingly. “And like any small town, everybody knows everyone else’s business, and then some. I get a wart on my butt, everybody knows all about it inside a day. Then they all come over with butt-wart remedies!”
I had to laugh. “So what you’re telling me is that Carol slept with Big Wyn and everyone knew it? So why did she freak out?”
“No, that’s not it at all,” Burkey corrected me, “Nobody knew nothing. Look, I told you how tightly wound Carol is. She’s got this one-track mind: golf, golf, and golf. I don’t know what that girl does for fun, but I can just about guarantee that sex isn’t on the agenda.”
She paused again, her lips pursed.
“You see, we all pretty much know who does what and with whom,” she said. “When a girl first comes on tour, it’s part of the list. She plays Taylor Made woods, Titleist ProV1 balls, and sleeps with girls or doesn’t. And that last part is about as important as the first two: It’s just a part of who you are. I don’t know anyone who’s terribly judgmental. We all just try to get along and play some golf and make some money.”
She turned to look at me.
“What I’m saying is that even though we all know what’s going on, we don’t much care. But the word on Carol was that she was one of the nonsex girls.”
“Nonsex?” I asked.
“Someone who doesn’t really care about sex,” she said. “Someone so into their golf game that they just don’t do it. Period. Too busy practicing and playing and all. Carol Acorn is one of them.”
She looked off at the lights twinkling in the distance and we listened to the breeze rustling the palm fronds above us.
“When I’m working with a girl, I always try to get to know her personally a bit,” she continued. “You know, go out and have a few beers. Do some girl talk. I like to find out what makes ‘em tick. Hell, people think professional golfers are magic somehow. We’re just folks like anyone else. Anyway, this girl never opened up with me. Hell, I had to practically tie her up and drag her out the door to get her to out with me sometimes. Always had her guard up, never let anyone inside. The original and still champeen Ice Maiden.”
She shook her head sadly. “Just no fun in that girl, It’s so sad. But I see it all the time. These girls coming up are just so determined to win, no matter the cost. It gets their life outta whack, if you know what I mean. If you spend your entire life chasing the rainbow and never get it, leaves you kinda empty inside.”
“And Big Wyn?” I asked.
Mary Beth pursed her lips before answering.
“Wynona Stilwell is one of the best golfers who ever played the game,” she said carefully. “But she is not a nice person. She has never let anything or anybody stand in the way of getting whatever it is she wants. And she wants it all.”
“Such as…” I prompted.
“Well, hell it’s no secret that Wyn runs this show,” Mary Beth said. “You know, all that woman has ever done in her life is play golf. She made it to the top and stayed there a long time.”
“And now?”
“And now her ability as a player has lessened. Hell, age does that to everybody. And we don’t have a Woman’s Senior Tour…yet!”
We both laughed.
“I think she got into the administrative side of the game as a way to keep control, keep her hand in,” Burkey said. “She decided if she could no long play her way to the top, she’d just take over and run the joint. She likes being the top dog.”
“But the general impression is that she’s done a pretty good job,” I said.
“Oh, hell, she’s done a great job,” Burke said. “Purses are up, sponsors are happy, we’re getting a bit more television coverage every year. But …” She trailed off.
“I remember there was some locker-room talk a few years ago when she was elected president of the players’ council about some people she stepped on hard. And there are still whispers about how she manages to pull off some of her deals. Heck, we’re all self-employed and independent minded, so when an issue comes up, everyone has an opinion. Somebody who disagrees with Big Wyn gets called into a meeting to discuss it, and comes out saying ‘I was wrong, this’ll be great!’ But you look at them casting their eyes sideways at Big Wyn and you wonder what was said in that room. Now, I’m beginning to understand a little.” She blew out a frustrated and angry breath.
“Carol told me what happened, finally. It was about a year ago. Carol was new on Tour and struggling. Wyn came up to her one day and offered to work with her on her game. ‘Wow,’ she thought, ‘Big Wyn Stillwell wants to help me!’
“So they go spend an afternoon on the practice tee. Then Big Wyn invites her back to the room to watch some swing videos. Wine gets poured. Girls just havin’ fun. Two or three wines. Probably something in them. Carol wakes up in Wyn’s bedroom. Wyn is doing some things to her she just doesn’t understand.”
Mary Beth’s voice began to shake.
“Carol is horrified. She jumps up and starts to leave. Big Wyn laughs and pushes her down and starts in on the hard sell. Tells her that to win on the LPGA, a girl’s gotta pay her dues. Gotta concentrate on golf, not men. Men are messes and trouble and there’s no room for them. Tells her the good players have always known this, and that’s why they stick to the girls-only in the sex department. Uncomplicates things, she says. Simplify the sex life and let the golf roll.”
“What a crock,” I said.
“Yeah, well, like I said, it was the hard sell,” Burkey said. “And when Carol still balked, Big Wyn dropped the other shoe. Told her their little party had all been captured on videotape. And Carol’s got two choices. She can come back for more and welcome to it. Or she can just bide her time until Big Wyn needs a favor and then decide what’s more important to her: Doin’ Big Wyn’s favor or having her sex life exposed in all the tabloids. First one to get the tape would be Carol’s daddy.”
“Christ,” I said, awed by the evil of it all.
“Yeah,” Burkey agreed. “And poor ole Carol, the champeen Ice Maiden, locks all this up inside. All the memories and the guilt and the bad feelings and the humiliation, and keeps it there for about a year.”
“Until Hacker the scribe asks her a simple and innocent question,” I finished.
Burke nodded sadly. “Whereupon it all came out like a gusher.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“I sent Carol home,” Mary Beth said. “Withdrew her from the tournament. Contacted her family, packed her on the next plane. Called her brother and said the girl probably could use some counseling and some time away from golf.”
We sat in silence for a long time, each locked into our own thoughts. It’s always sobering to encounter the evil that lurks in the human soul. It hides in there within all of us, and most of us spend our waking hours trying hard to keep that particular demon locked safely away.
But then there are those who revel in it. Who let their personal evils come out and play every day. Who enjoy the power and the rush and obliterating laugh of the daily fix. Who go through life happily destroying and tearing down and burning bridges.
It’s no fair fight between Good and Evil. None of us have the purity of heart and soul to effectively battle those who let their evil impulses rule their lives. We’re all just trying to hang on, do the best we can, and carve a little happiness out of this large mess of a world. And then come the Evil Ones, catching us unaware from behind. Scything and slaying blindly, cutting down all in their path for the nasty joy of it. As we fall, with our last conscious thoughts, we can hear their victorious cackles echo in our minds.