The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Read online

  As I drove to Golf House, however, the realization that I was attending Beau Stedman’s coming-out party took hold and shook me from my somnolent state. I didn’t think there would be much of a crowd; Far Hills is a rather out-of-the-way place. Still, there would be a few media representatives there, especially from the golf publications, and it was my hope that they would get the world to sit up and take notice of Stedman’s remarkable playing record. Perhaps some particularly enterprising reporter might even interview one of Stedman’s surviving victims for their impressions about the man who had beaten them while using an alias.

  It was great fun to walk through the exhibition and eavesdrop on those who were viewing the various exhibits. I had lived with the Stedman story so long that I had forgotten the impact it had on me when I first discovered how cruel circumstance had hidden this phenomenal player from the world’s view for over 60 years. The reactions of people as they hovered over the displays mirrored my own from the previous summer.

  It still seemed incredible to think that all of this had happened in a kind of shadow world. To be sure, the golf was real enough, but until now it had been concealed from all but a fortunate few who happened to be there.

  I heard someone call my name. It was Brett Sullivan. He was beaming.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said. “Brett, I can’t thank you enough. This really brings the whole story to life.”

  “This is just the beginning. Peter Kenyan from Golf Digest is here. I’ve known Peter for years. I called him a couple of weeks ago about this, and he loved the story. He’s talked his editors into a big feature on it for next month. Pictures and all. He brought Amy Moss with him. She’s one of their best photographers.”

  He pointed over at a tall, thin, bespectacled man standing next to a young and athletic brunette with three cameras draped around her neck. “That’s them over there.”

  “It’s amazing that this story was lost all these years in Jones’s files.”

  I wondered what Stedman would have thought. My only regret was that I knew nothing of his family. I hoped that the publicity of the exhibition might somehow catch their attention.

  At that moment, I felt someone tug at my sleeve. When I turned, I saw a short, stooped-over old man standing beside me. I remembered seeing him earlier staring quietly at one of the exhibits. Smiling up at me with a face weathered by a life spent outdoors, he looked at me and said, “Are you the young man who is responsible for all this?”

  At first, I thought he was referring to Brett Sullivan. Then I understood what he meant. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  He held out his hand. “I’m Beauregard Stedman.”

  31

  IT HAD NEVER occurred to me that he might still be alive.

  But there he was. As I looked at him more closely, I recognized a much older version of the wild-looking youth in the faded newspaper photographs that were on display. There wasn’t any doubt; this was Beauregard Stedman.

  After what seemed like a long time, I stammered, “Why aren’t you dead?”

  He grinned and then gave out a thin, cackling laugh. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you.” Shaking my hand, he said, “I think we should talk.”

  We walked outside. The sun was bright, but not hot. Definitely more comfortable than New Orleans. As we strolled about the campus of Golf House, I looked at him. “I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start.”

  “Try the beginning.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “I was born in 1911.” He then grinned mischievously, “You’ll have to do the math; I quit counting birthdays several years ago.”

  “So you were only nineteen when Gladstone accused you of murdering his wife.”

  Stedman shook his head. “That was one mean son of a bitch. I knew that the minute I met him, but I needed a job bad. And she was as nice as he was mean. I never could figure out how they ever got together.”

  I looked at him. “I have no right to ask this, but I will anyway: Was there something going on between you and Mrs. Gladstone?”

  He looked straight ahead and kept walking. There was an uncomfortable silence. Just when I thought he was going to ignore me, he turned back to me. “She was a wonderful woman. I never knew anyone quite like her. He worked her hard. Even with four kids, he forced her to do all kinds of hard work around the club just because he was too damned cheap to hire someone else to do it.”

  He was speaking more slowly now, measuring his words as someone would when speaking into a recorder. “I was just a kid. I tried to help her because I could see she was tired. When she would smile at me, it made me feel so wonderful. One day I kissed her. Let’s just say she kissed me back.”

  I could tell he wasn’t going to say any more on the subject. We continued to walk, and Stedman seemed lost in thought. After awhile, he spoke again.

  “You know, I was the one who found her.”

  I remembered that the newspaper said she had been stabbed 47 times. I tried to imagine the kind of traumatic impact that would have had on a nineteen-year-old—particularly one who was in love with the victim. Even though I was one year from finishing law school and taking the bar exam, I was not a great deal older than Stedman was at the time of the murder, and I knew that the experience would have shaken me to the core.

  “What did you do?”

  “I thought about the children. I couldn’t let them see her like this. I locked the room and ran to find Gladstone.”

  “I take it you didn’t realize he was her killer.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t think about anything like that at first. But when I found him and gave him the news, he didn’t act like I expected. Then I saw the gun in his hand. He pointed it at me and said that, if I was smart, I’d get the hell out of South Carolina as fast as I could. He said he was calling the police.”

  He paused. I could barely stand the suspense. “What did you do?”

  “At first I didn’t do anything. I was too stunned by what he said. Then he pointed the gun right in my face and yelled, ‘I said get the hell outta here!’”

  He looked off in the distance. “That’s when I ran. And I’ve been runnin’ ever since.”

  When he turned back to me, he was teary-eyed. “I guess I can stop hiding now. ’Course, I been hiding so long, it’ll be hard to break the habit.”

  We walked awhile longer without saying much of anything. He then asked me about Katharine Leigh.

  “So she was the one who won the case, huh?”

  “Without her, Beau, the court would have shut us down.”

  “Tell me what she’s like.”

  I described her as best I could. He seemed eager to hear as much about her as possible. I supposed he was deeply grateful to her.

  When I finally ran out of things to tell him about her, I asked him about Bobby Jones.

  “He was the greatest man who ever lived.” He tilted his head in the direction of the exhibition. “If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t never have heard of me. He made all that possible.”

  It took a number of people to pull this off, I thought. “What was he like?”

  Stedman smiled. “Everything you’d ever want in a friend. He was the only one who knew who I was, like my only link to the real world. The only man who knew the truth, too. The man who fed my golf. When I couldn’t fit in the real world, he made another world for me.”

  My mind raced from one question to the next, as if I was afraid he would stop talking if I stopped asking questions. “You had a close call in Texas, didn’t you?”

  “I thought it was over then. They hauled me to jail. I had no driver’s license. I thought I was done for sure. I finally got them to let me make a collect call to Mr. Jones. They were laughing at me. One of the jailers said, ‘What good do you think some lawyer in Georgia is gonna do for you here?’ Fool didn’t even know who Bobby Jones was. But Mr. Jones called some of his friends, and they called some of their friends. They got some
justice of the peace to set bail, and Mr. Jones wired the money right away. I got out of there as fast as I could. Mr. Jones told me later that I got out just in time, ’cause they got word of that fugitive warrant in South Carolina not long after I left.”

  “You know, as a law student, I’m kinda surprised Bobby Jones would have deliberately skirted the law like that.”

  Stedman appeared to stiffen.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Using his influence to help you escape a fugitive warrant.” I realized that I was sounding judgmental and quickly added, “Don’t misunderstand me. I know what a raw deal you got. But lawyers are taught to do things a certain way, and getting around that warrant just seems a little out of character.”

  Stedman relaxed. “Oh, he didn’t know that there was a warrant out from South Carolina. In fact, he was surprised by it. Later on, he told me he was damned glad not to know about it. He did what he did with a clear conscience.”

  I knew it was time to change the subject. “You beat Jones in the Southern Amateur.”

  “I was lucky. It doesn’t matter anyway; he’s still the greatest who ever lived.”

  I could tell he was becoming more comfortable with me. I asked him, “Why didn’t you ever play him again?”

  He laughed. “Oh, we played together lots of times. I had the run of the place at the National. Who do you think was the first greenkeeper there?”

  It never occurred to me that Jones might have granted Stedman asylum at Augusta National. If I ever had to be placed under house arrest, it would certainly be my first choice. Augusta National would have been the ultimate gilded cage for any golfer.

  “How long did you do that?”

  “I never really left. At one time or another, I did just about everything there. Greenkeeper, caddie master, waiter, cleaned the cabins, too. I lived there for years. After Mr. Jones and Mr. Roberts died, though, I moved out. By that time, I had saved enough for a house in town. Been living there ever since.”

  It made perfect sense. Once Jones got Augusta National up and running, it was the ideal place for Stedman. He had a wonderful place to play golf away from prying eyes, and Jones always knew where to find him. No one protected its privacy like Augusta National.

  “Did the other members know who you were?”

  “Mr. Roberts knew the whole story. He told me not to worry. He told me just to let him know if I had any problems.” He laughed. “Everyone around there was too scared of Mr. Roberts to bother with me.”

  I knew that Roberts ruled the club with absolute authority. They said that he controlled everything, more so than Bobby Jones.

  The little man chortled. “If Mr. Roberts had been in charge of security at the White House, you’d have never heard of Monica Lewinsky.”

  I suddenly thought about the mysterious scores for the “Invitational.”

  “One of the exhibits in there shows some scores that Mr. Jones recorded for you at something he called The Invitational. At first I thought it meant you had played in The Masters, but the scores don’t match anything I could find.”

  Stedman laughed again. “They were from The Masters, alright.”

  I didn’t see how that could be and said so.

  “Have you ever heard of a marker?”

  I still didn’t catch on. “Huh?”

  He explained. “Whenever the field has an odd number and someone has to play by himself, they send a player with the odd man out to record his score. It gives someone to play with, too, so he don’t get out of step with the rest of the field. In the old days, they just picked a good player who could keep up. It’s become such a big deal now that they got a system to select ’em. Now they’re mostly amateurs who just missed getting an invitation. Every once in awhile, they let the son of a member be a marker if he’s good enough.”

  He looked at me to make sure I understood. “Back then, I was their favorite marker. Mr. Jones loved to throw me in there because I would usually beat whoever I was playing with.”

  “You were shooting some great scores.”

  He nodded. “I should have; I was playing there all the time. No one knew that course like I did. Hell, in the early days, I set most of the pins myself.”

  That explained why neither Stedman’s name (nor any of his aliases) ever appeared in the scoring histories that I read. Markers’ scores were not posted.

  “What did the other players think?”

  “Most of ’em didn’t say anything. Those who did usually were nice, but some of ’em just said I was lucky. I didn’t play with any of ’em more than once or twice, or they might’ve made more of it. They really didn’t keep track of my score, anyway. Mr. Jones wanted me to keep it, though, because he was keepin’ track of it.”

  A smile slowly spread across his face. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about markers. ’Cause that’s what you been doin’, you know, all this time. You been markin’ my card. Charley, you’re my marker.”

  “Too bad I never got to play with you.”

  “It ain’t required. Read Rule 6.”

  He had surprised me again. “Are you a rules expert, too?”

  He shrugged. “If you’re gonna play the game, you oughta know the rules.”

  Once again I marveled at the tiny man walking beside me. He had beaten virtually every great player of his day. The thought reminded me of another question.

  “It’s too bad that you never got to play Sam Snead or Ben Hogan.”

  Stedman stopped and straightened up. “Oh, I played them alright. And I beat ’em both, too.”

  “But I thought Snead wouldn’t play you, and Hogan got sick. That’s how you got to play Nelson, Demaret, and Burke that time in Houston.”

  “I played Snead at Augusta twice. You know, he won the tournament three times. And it was no accident, either. He’d come in as much as two weeks early so he could get the best caddie at the club and play every day with him until the tournament. He wanted to know how every putt broke so there was no guesswork.”

  We had come to the end of the property and turned back. Stedman continued. “Mr. Jones must’ve said something to Mr. Roberts about Snead not playing me. Anyway, Mr. Roberts cornered Snead one day and bet him he couldn’t beat the club’s greenskeeper. No one turned down a challenge from Mr. Roberts, so Snead agreed to play me. He shot 69, but I shot 68.”

  “You said you played him twice.”

  “Yeah. Snead was so mad he wanted to play again the next day. I shot 31 on the back for a 66. Eagled both 13 and 15 that day, and beat him worse than the first time. I forget exactly what he shot that second day. Anyway, he said he was done with me after that.”

  “I’m surprised even Roberts could get Snead to play you. They say he always checked out his competition pretty carefully before agreeing to any match.”

  Stedman laughed. “Mr. Roberts decided how many practice rounds you got to play before the tournament. Snead wasn’t about to risk getting cut off. They also had a rule about playing more than one ball. Frank Stranahan found out about it the hard way; Mr. Roberts jerked his invitation for breakin’ the rule. Anyway, if Mr. Roberts liked you, he’d look the other way. Snead was always dropping a second ball, and I guess he was afraid they wouldn’t let him do it if he didn’t play me.”

  “Did Snead talk to you much?”

  “Oh, he got pretty damned nosy when I started outdriving him. Kept asking me, ‘How come I ain’t ever seen you out on tour?’ He’d say, ‘If you’re this good, why don’t you come out?’ I’d tell him I was happy working at Augusta. I don’t know if he was ever satisfied with that, though.”

  He looked off for a moment. “I’ll tell you one thing: He had the prettiest damn golf swing I ever saw. Still does. I never missed watching him, Mr. Nelson, and Mr. Sarazen start the tournament.” He suddenly seemed sad. “I guess I thought Mr. Sarazen would never die. It’s gonna be hard to imagine the tournament without him.”

  “You beat all three of ’em. Did they ever recognize you?”
>
  “Naw; I didn’t go near enough to ’em for that. Besides, that was a long time ago, and we’ve all gotten a lot older. Mr. Snead and Mr. Nelson probably wouldn’t know me even if we were to speak to each other.”

  I was dying to know about Hogan. “How on earth did you get to play Hogan?”

  “That was much later. Mr. Roberts was behind that, too. Hogan wasn’t playing much tournament golf then, but he played everyday at a place in Fort Worth called Shady Oaks. I’m not sure how it came about, but Mr. Roberts sent me over there to play him sometime in the ’60s. I’ve still got the card. Anyway, we had a helluva match. If Hogan could’ve putted worth a lick, he would’ve beaten me. By that time, he had the yips so bad I couldn’t bear to watch him with a putter in his hands. He only missed one green all day, but he took 35 putts. Shot 72. I shot 70 and beat him by two strokes.”

  Knowing Hogan’s reputation as the “Wee Ice Mon,” I asked Stedman what he was like to play with.

  Stedman’s tone grew serious as he recalled the man known for his steely bearing. “Before and after the round, he was very friendly. Once we teed it up though, his eyes changed temperature.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They went from warm to cold in a hurry.”

  I wondered if Hogan was as distant on the course as he was reputed to be. “What did you talk about during the round?”

  Stedman gave me a sharp look. “There was no small talk. It was almost like he was in a trance. He just got so wrapped up in what he was doing. ’Bout the only thing I ever heard him talk about was his ‘trajectory.’ At the time, I didn’t know what the hell he meant.”

  The old man then allowed himself a smile as he recollected that day in Fort Worth. “Not that I minded him being so quiet. I’d much rather that than the guy who plays games with you—you know, moving during your backswing, that kind of stuff.”

  We walked for a ways in silence as I digested what he was telling me. If he was telling the truth—and I had to believe he was—Stedman’s record was even better than I had imagined. Beating Snead and Hogan completed his résumé. I chuckled to myself. And he had done virtually all of his bounty hunting while he was right under the noses of the South Carolina authorities just across the state line in Augusta. Who would’ve ever thought of looking for him at the National?