| |
THERE WAS A LOT GOING on at the Bohicket Golf Club on Tuesday, most of which had to do with generating revenue. In the morning, the pro-am teed off, the first of two for successful tournaments like the Carolinas Open. For a year, the organizers of the tournament beat their drums to a sway- ing, mesmerized audience of movers and shakers, corporate bigwigs, the famous and the wealthy. They offer private parties, clubhouse passes, free parking, tournament mementoes ... but the lure that causes the fish to rise is the offer of a round of golf with a touring professional, the same guys they see on TV every week. For this privilege, the fish are willing to cough up $2,000 and more.
The players, for the most part, accept the fact that a goodly portion of their earnings comes from the support of these movers and shakers, and generally grin and bear it. Those who genuinely like other people and just like to play golf actually enjoy pro-am day. Those who play golf just to earn a living generally detest pro-ams intensely and show it.
For the amateurs, it’s a day at the beach... a fantasy come true ... freebies at the candy counter. Chairmen of the board, men used to dealing with power and used to manipulating situations and other people to their will, act like giddy adolescents in the environment of professional golfers. It may be the imposing talents of the professionals, or the trappings of tournament golf: the yellow-roped fairways, the spectators, the electronic scoreboards or that deafening silence at the first tee. They lose their composure, they often play horrible, embarrassing golf, and they love every minute.
In the afternoon, starting at 2:30, there would be a shootout, yet another event designed to generate more dollars for the tour. For several seasons, the event had been sponsored by a big New York stock brokerage house. I tried calling it the “Stockbroker Shootout” in some of my columns, but my editor changed it back to the official name. I liked my version better, since I’ve always found that putting money in the stock market is something of a shootout anyway.
In the shootout, ten golfers tee off as a group, usually on the back nine. At each hole, the high man is eliminated. If there are ties, and there usually are, a tournament official points to a spot somewhere off the green or in a bunker and a “chip-off ” is held. The player whose ball finishes farthest from the hole in the chip-off is eliminated, and the survivors go on to the next hole. It’s generally a fun, high-spirited event that provides lots of chances for billboarding the sponsor’s name.
Tuesdays are my Saturdays—I take them off. The readers of the Boston Journal do not particularly care if Ben Crenshaw feathers a wedge from the greenside rough on the 18th hole to six inches to pick up a few more thousand dollars, or if the team of Joey Sindelar and two textile company presidents, a lawyer and an airplane pilot finish sixteen under par, best ball, full-handicap. In fact, no one in the entire free world cares, except, of course, for those on the winning team, and perhaps those who came in second. Nobody knows what the godless Communists think.
Nor do the gentle readers of Boston particularly care that my Tuesdays are generally spent doing laundry, paying bills, catching up on my reading and taking long afternoon naps. Most of my readers spend their Tuesdays much like their Mondays and Wednesdays: punching in at 7:00 A.M., hour for lunch, out at four, bar until six, nagging wife, screaming kids, TV until eleven.
But after breakfast and before facing up to laundry and bills, I wandered down to the clubhouse to take in some of the festivities. On the first tee, each player was introduced on the loudspeaker, just like they do in the real tournament. I watched a sixty-year-old man top his drive badly. Red faced, he giggled as he walked back over to his playing partners. Actually giggled. The next golfer popped up a hundred-yarder, giving way to another gentleman who promptly pulled his drive into the trees.
Fuzzy Zoeller, the group’s professional, hit last. He looked at his partners after he teed his ball up. “I see you gentlemen have come out today for the fun and the fellowship instead of trying to win some silver,“ he cracked. The crowd around the first tee laughed. Zoeller cranked his drive down the middle. The crowd ooohed and aaahed.
I strolled on to the practice tee, where the real work is done. The tee was busy today with the pros not playing in the pro- am, or those warming up. There are bleachers set up behind the practice tee at most tour events, where fans can watch their heroes work on aspects of their swing. Work, of course, is a relative term. The atmosphere on the practice tee is relaxed and almost festive at times. The players hit their balls – nice, new, white, fresh Titleists – no red-striped range balls here– while their caddies, business managers, swing coaches and assorted other members of the entourage stand around chatting and swapping stories. All the major club manufacturers send representatives to every pro tournament and many of them set up displays on the practice tee with new clubs for the pros to try out. Technical reps and sales managers scurry around, sweating heavily in their snappy blazers and shirts with neckties, trying to get the players to sample their new driver, graphite-shafted irons or beryllium wedges.
The players are suckers for all this, of course. They’re always on the lookout for a new secret weapon. I watched a young pro trying out a new driver. He hit five balls, each of them with a low flight pattern and a slight draw that fetched up after one hard bounce in the netting strung across the end of the range some 320 yards away. He looked back at the sales rep after hitting the last one. “Ah dunno,” he drawled. “Y’all got one with a stiffer shaft?”
“Sure, Johnny, sure,” the rep said and went scurrying off to find one.
Down at the end of the range, Tom Kite was working hard in the hot morning sun. Kite is known on tour as a “grinder.” He may not have the natural, God-given talents of some players, but no one works harder at his game, and his huge success is the result. He, too, was hitting drives and after each swing was consulting with his caddie, who stood behind him. To me, each shot looked perfect: huge, towering shots that were ramrod straight. But Kite wasn’t pleased about something. After each swing, he scowled and looked back. “Move that time?” he asked. The caddie held up his thumb and forefinger to indicate just a smidgen. “Damn,” Kite muttered under his breath.
He hit a few more. Finally, the caddie crouched down behind him, and while Kite swung the club, the caddie reached around and held his hand firmly on Kite’s left foot. Ah, of course. The dreaded quarter-inch left-foot movement problem. No wonder his tee shots were finishing three inches left of dead-center perfect. Like they say, Tom Kite is a grinder.
I left and went back to my villa. I worked on all my chores, started on a new book, tried to interest my body in a nap. But, restless, sleep wouldn’t come. Too little to do creates a need for activity, just as relentless pressure to complete tasks creates an overwhelming need for rest. We never get it just right.
I lunched in the press room on cold cuts and potato chips. Read the local newspaper. Discussed the weather with some of the guys. I was working hard. I finally got up and wandered over to the practice putting green, tucked under some live oaks that shaded the nouveau antebellum clubhouse. A handful of pros were honing their strokes while their caddies either helped, or lounged near the golf bags, trading jokes and stories. There were some manufacturer’s reps here, too, trying to pass out samples of new and strange-looking putters without much success.
When they weren’t putting, the pros stood about in groups of two and three, discussing stock tips, dinner ideas, new grips, and baseball scores with each other. I sauntered over to one such group.
“Didja hear about the guy who won the Polish lottery?” one of the players was saying. “Gets a dollar a year for a million years!” The joke teller led the laughter. He was Bert Lewis, a young pro from North Carolina. I mentally reviewed his press dossier. He was called a “one-rounder” by those of us in the press for his propensity to shoot just one low round per tournament. His typical box score for a week would read something like 70-65-71-76. That’s if he was lucky enough to get his low round in early in the week and make the cut. Lewis had been a good—but not great—collegiate player, and was now a good—but not great—professional. Still, he managed to earn a respectable living from the game. He was also known for having something of a temper. One of the great clichés of the game is that on any given week, any one of the 150-or-so professionals entered in a tournament is capable of winning. Bert Lewis certainly had the abilities to win a golf tournament, but his winning would be considered a surprise, a fluke, an aberration. He would never be a star, and everybody seemed to know it.
Lewis had launched into another joke about a duck, a donkey and a priest. I glanced around the putting green. Only half listening. I saw John Turnbull on the far section of the green, methodically rolling six-footers into the hole. Lewis finished his joke, saw that I wasn’t laughing, and followed my gaze over to Turnbull.
“Hey Johnny,” he called out. “How about a friendly wager today? Doubles on the difference.”
Both men were scheduled to participate in the afternoon’s shootout. If one finished first, winning $3,000, and the other went out on the first hole, worth just $300, the difference would be a significant amount of money. Even if they finished one- two, the difference was $1,000. Now, many of the pros like to wager a little on practice rounds, just to make things interesting, but rarely more than a couple hundred dollars. Bert Lewis was talking about some serious money, enough so that some of the other fellows exchanged startled looks.
Turnbull finished putting the three balls in front of him. They all went in. Then he walked over toward our group.
“Well, Bert,” he said.“You know I don’t like to gamble...” “Ah, c’mon,” Lewis interjected, speaking just a shade too loud, making sure everyone on the putting green could hear. “Don’t hand me any of that religious bullshit. This is just me against you. Loser pays winner. You gonna play or pussy out on me?”
I saw the anger rise in John Turnbull’s eyes, and the color come up in his cheeks. But he controlled himself, and staring back at Lewis he said “Okay, Bert, whatever you want.” He paused for a beat. “How many strokes do I have to give you?” We all laughed. Lewis didn’t. “Up yours, buddy,” he growled, and stalked away.
––––––––
THE SHOOTOUT WASN’T scheduled to start for another hour. The pros went back to work. I went back to the pressroom and wasted another idle hour. I leafed through the PGA Tour guide. I looked up Bert Lewis. All-American at Texas. Four years on tour. Average yearly earnings, $105,000. Best finish: T-5 at Westchester. Single. Home: Charlotte, North Carolina. What it didn’t say was that Bert Lewis had something of a burr beneath his saddle.
At 2:30, a good-sized crowd had gathered at the first tee. Barry McBee, the affable color man for CBS, resplendent in his pink knickers, geometric shirt and distinctive handlebar mustache, was warming up the fans with his usual banter. He wore a wireless mic hooked into some large speakers riding atop a nearby golf cart. So his pithy commentary could be heard half a fairway away.
The ten contestants in the shootout were a mixture of well-known tour stars high on the money list, three local favorites, the defending champion from last year’s event, and two lesser knowns as fill-ins. McBee introduced each one in turn with his usual humorous imprimateur.
“Now on the tee, ladies and gentlemen, from Charlotte, North Carolina...a warm welcome for Bert-and-Ernie Lewis!” McBee exclaimed, and the fans laughed and cheered. Lewis ignored McBee’s kidding as he stood behind his teed ball, concentrating hard. The nine other players on the tee, along with their caddies, made for quite a crowd, and they were exchanging high-fives and jokes as they waited to play.
Lewis smacked a good drive straight down the middle, and the audience applauded loudly.
“Next up,” McBee continued, “You all know Tim, the illegitimate son of Bart, Simpson!” Simpson himself led the laughter and his drive, too, was straight and long.
“Winner of this year’s Honda Classic, drives a Jeep...ladies and gentlemen: John Don’t-Give-Me-No Turnbull!”
John looked relaxed and made a smooth swing, sending his ball rocketing down the fairway. In similar fashion, the other golfers were introduced and teed off. Only Jodie Mudd, the young player from Georgia, missed the fairway, and he missed it badly, his ball scooting off into some bushes. Eventually, he bogied the hole and was eliminated, and the nine surviving players went on to the eleventh.
The match proceed through the back nine. McBee kept up his good-natured commentary and most of the players joined in the less-than-serious nature of the event. They gave each other putts of anything less than three feet, jokingly offered to help read another’s putt, and make loud choking sounds whenever there was a chip-off. Only Bert Lewis didn’t join the joking: he maintained a steely, concentrating demeanor.
Bob Tway was eliminated on eleven, Lanny Wadkins went out on twelve, Chuck Percival lost a chip-off on thirteen. Both Turnbull and Lewis were playing well, each making three birdies. Turnbull survived a scare on sixteen when he came out of a greenside bunker to make a par, and then coaxed a pitch-and- run close to the hole in the chip-off to eliminate Tom Kite. As the shootout moved to the seventeenth, a wind-swept par four next to the ocean, the three players left were Turnbull, Lewis and Simpson.
All three drove the ball perfectly on the slight left-to-right dogleg hole. All three approach shots landed on the green. Turnbull and Simpson were above the hole on the steeply contoured green, while Lewis had an uphill thirty-footer left. Putting first, Lewis stalked his ball for a long time, looking at the breaks from every angle. Finally, he stood over the putt and stroked the ball. It rolled up the hill at speed, took a rightward break, slowed, and finally dived into the cup. Birdie! Lewis jumped in the air, grinning from ear to ear. Unless both Simpson and Turnbull sank their slippery downhill putts, he seemed assured of moving on to the final hole.
Tim Simpson was away and he coaxed his ball to within six inches. Smiling, Turnbull walked up and knocked it away. He took his time with his putt, knowing if he made it, he would advance.
But he missed. And the ball, rolling down that slick green, zoomed past the hole and didn’t stop for another six or seven feet. Lewis, watching from beside the green, could barely contain his glee. If John missed the comebacker, he would be eliminated and finish third, with $1,000. If Lewis won the last hole and the $3,000 prize, his payoff from Turnbull would be $4,000. This contest had gone way beyond pocket change and both men knew it.
The crowd gathered around the hole fell dead silent, and even Barry McBee kept his mouth shut as John Turnbull lined up his putt. He struck it with authority and it rolled dead in the heart of the cup. McBee led the cheers: “Are these guys good, or what?” he crowed.
But the hole was not finished. Simpson and Turnbull had tied, and a chip-off was needed to eliminate one player. The PGA official led the players behind one of the greenside bunkers and pointed down. The shot he had selected was tortuous. The pin was cut no more than eight paces from the edge of the bunker, with the green sloping sharply away down the hill. The shot demanded a high, soft lob that had to land almost on the far edge of the bunker to have any chance of stopping close to the hole. And the gaping maw of that bunker awaited the ball, and the hopes, of the player who tried to get too cozy.
Simpson was the first to try, He placed his ball carefully on the grass, giving himself the best possible lie. Then, looking intently at his target, he waggled once and lofted the pitch into the air. “It’s spinning,” McBee yelled. Indeed, Simpson’s delicate shot landed softly in the fringe, bounced once toward the hole, spun nearly to a stop on the next bounce, and trickled softly to within two feet of the hole. The crowd erupted in cheers. It was a stunning golf shot.
Bert Lewis ran over and slapped Simpson on the back. It looked like John Turnbull was dead. The odds of his making a shot that would finish inside Simpson’s ball were astronomical.
Turnbull gave Simpson a high-five as well. He knew what a good shot his competitor had made. He grinned and shook his head as he placed his ball on a tuft of grass. “Knock it in, Johnny,” a fan yelled from the crowd.
Turnbull stood up and turned towards the voice. “Heck,” he said, “That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it?” Everyone laughed.
He stood behind his ball for a moment, visualizing the shot he wanted to make. He still looked relaxed and confident. “Piece of cake, right Johnny?” McBee cracked, and the laughter helped relieve the tension building in the air.
Turnbull stepped up to his ball and then, with a long, relaxed swing that looked to be almost in slow motion, he cut his wedge under the ball and it lifted into the air. The ball landed on the green with lots of backspin, checked slightly and then ran towards the hole.
“Look at this!” McBee yelled just before the ball struck the center of the flagstick and dropped from view.
Pandemonium reigned on and around the green. Grown men slapped each other on the back as they yelled and screamed. Tim Simpson fell down as if shot, rolled on his back and kicked his legs in the air in a mock tantrum. Barry McBee was speechless, for perhaps the first time in his life, and just stood there shaking his head in wonder. John Turnbull laughed aloud, dropped his club and gave himself a well-deserved round of applause.
I looked around for Bert Lewis. He was stalking away toward the eighteenth green.
“Say good-bye to ...Tim Simpson,” McBee yelled at last, and the fans gave him one final and noisy ovation.
The last hole at Bohicket is a long and lovely par-five that winds along the beach. A large series of sand dunes cuts into the fairway where the drive is supposed to land, and the rolling, wave-like fairway hides the Scottish-style pot bunkers that increase in frequency closer to the green. The green itself is a sausage-shaped affair that slopes severely from the left and right inwards to the center, funneling towards a deep central bunker. On a calm day, the long hitting pros can usually reach the green in two shots, but the ocean breezes coming in off the water usually make such a feat harder. Today, as the afternoon progressed, the winds increased in velocity, and no one could even think of being heroic. The last hole today would play as an honest three-shot hole.
The key thus became the approach to the green. After perfect drives and long-iron shots, both Turnbull and Lewis were left with about a hundred yards to the pin. Pitching wedge...a pro’s money club.
Turnbull’s wedge was perhaps a tad heavy and came up short, some fifteen feet from the hole. The crowd that swelled along the ropes around the green groaned in shared disappointment. Bert Lewis struck his approach perfectly, and it flew high and straight, coming down over the top of the flagstick, checking up less than ten feet above the hole. That elicited a huge cheer, and Lewis waved his hand in acknowledgement.
As the two golfers walked side by side to the green, the fans gave them both a loud round of applause. I saw Bert Lewis turn and say something to John, and Turnbull’s quick but decisive shake of his head in response. No. I ducked under the ropes and went over to stand with the group of officials beside the green.
Turnbull was away, and his birdie putt looked good all the way. But it wavered just at the end, caught a corner of the hole and lipped out. A groan went up as John slapped his left thigh in frustration. He tapped in and came over to the group beside the green.
“What did he say back there?” I whispered to him. “Double or nothing,” he said tightly.
Bert Lewis now stalked his eight-footer, which would make him the shootout champion. Again, he studied the putt from all angles. It was downhill, but looked pretty straight. Turnbull and I exchanged glances. We both knew this kind of putt is bread and butter for a fire-hardened tour professional. We both expected the putt to drop.
But it didn’t. Either Lewis misread the grain, or something snapped his brain synapses loose just as the putter head came through. The ball completely missed the hole and rolled some four and a half feet past on the slippery slope of the green. There was a collective gasp of breath from the fans. His next putt was no gimme.
Barry McBee tried banter. “Whoa, nelly,” he cried as the ball zoomed past the hole. “Full flaps out, full flaps out! Well, nice drive there Bert. Looks like a three-wood coming back.”
Lewis growled something softly to McBee, who blanched visibly and quickly slapped a hand over his microphone. He then scurried off to the side of the green and was silent.
Bert Lewis studied his remaining putt with care. Just under five feet, uphill, mostly straight. Keep the aim inside the hole and stroke it smooth and steady.
But smooth and steady were not two words that could describe
Bert Lewis at that moment. He was probably thinking about the money he had just let slip away, Turnbull’s infernal luck on the last hole, or any number of other things.
I sensed, rather than saw, John Turnbull turn away just as Bert Lewis struck his putt. He was already walking back to the clubhouse when that putt skimmed completely around the hole and dribble back down the slope. He wasn’t watching when Lewis gave out a strangled cry of anguish and broke his putter cleanly in two over his knee. It was a terrible thing to see, and John Turnbull didn’t want to stay and watch it. I didn’t blame him one bit.