The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Read online

  I asked him if he wanted to meet the media and let the world know he was still alive.

  He slowly shook his head and said cautiously, “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. I’ve been hidin’ almost all my life. This is all a bit much. You better let me think about it.”

  It was clear that he was getting tired. I asked him where he was staying, and he mentioned a small motel nearby. I took him there. He declined my invitation to dinner, but agreed to talk with me again the next day. As we parted, he said, “Please tell Mrs. Leigh how grateful I am.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “I’d like to meet her one day.”

  I went back to my hotel and postponed my flight home.

  32

  I WENT TO STEDMAN’S hotel promptly the next morning, but he wasn’t there. The clerk at the front desk indicated that an old man matching his description had left an hour earlier after asking for directions to the nearest golf course or practice range. The clerk then directed me to a place a couple of miles down the road.

  I pulled into the parking lot of something called Flanagan’s Golf Center and found Stedman at the far end of the range hitting balls. I stood and watched from a distance for several minutes. At his age, of course, he could no longer hit the ball very far. But the grace of his once-powerful swing remained. He made solid contact with the ball each time, and shot after shot flew directly at the 150-yard marker.

  I felt reluctant to intrude, but I drew closer to him to get a better look. Even as I stood close by, he remained absorbed in what he was doing and repeated the same routine before each shot. He never failed to make solid contact and appeared to strike the ball in the dead center of the clubface on each swing.

  Finally, he looked up and saw me. Smiling, he pointed at his club and said, “I use to hit it that far with a niblick. Now it takes one of these fancy clubs.”

  He was holding a metal five-wood. I started to tell him that I couldn’t think of many men his age who could hit the ball as well as he did with any club, but somehow I figured he didn’t want to hear that.

  We sat down on a nearby bench. The accuracy of his shot-making made me curious about his game.

  “Who taught you how to play?”

  “No one, really. I started out as a caddie at East Lake, and I got to watch Mr. Maiden play. He was the pro there. When he gave lessons, I’d hang around and listen in as best I could. And of course I was able to see Mr. Jones play all the time. There was also a great lady golfer there. Her name was Alexa Stirling. I learned a lot watching her swing. The caddies were allowed to play real early in the morning, and I just tried to imitate what I had seen.”

  I asked him what he thought about when he played a shot.

  “Where I want the ball to go.” I guess I had expected more, but that’s all he said. He gave no hint of any mechanical thought, just focusing on the target.

  “How did you learn to hit it so long?”

  He thought a moment. “I never tried to hit it hard. That wouldn’t work. The trick is to swing through the ball to a full finish. Just let the ball get in the way.”

  Rather than speak, I simply nodded, hoping he would continue.

  “I never saw Mr. Maiden, Mr. Jones, or Miss Stirling swing hard. But most of the members I caddied for would just lash at the ball, like they were trying to punish it. I couldn’t help but notice the difference.”

  “When did you and Jones first meet?”

  He smiled at the memory. “I started winning the caddie tournament every year, and he heard about it some way or another. He asked me to caddie for him one day. After we got out on the course, he had me hit a few shots. That started it. He snuck me out there to play with him a lot after that.”

  I imagined that playing Stedman provided Jones with world-class competition in his own backyard. As we talked, Stedman explained that his playing with Jones was an open secret and that, although caddies were not allowed to play with members, no one at the club was about to tell Bobby Jones that he was breaking the rules. So they looked the other way.

  “You were always a good putter, too, weren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Same thing. You just figure out where you want the ball to go and roll it. Mr. Jones believed you should roll the ball to the edge of the cup and let it fall in. That way, even if you missed, you had a tap-in.”

  I remembered reading that somewhere. “Yeah, he didn’t agree with the ‘never up, never in’ theory.”

  Stedman chuckled. “One fella said to him that a putt that was short couldn’t fall in the hole. Jones told him, ‘I never saw one that went past the hole fall in, either.’”

  “Was that your philosophy, too?”

  Stedman shook his head. “Mr. Jones hated three and four-footers. He called ’em 300 calorie putts. I don’t know why he hated ’em so much, ’cause he never seemed to miss any. I guess he didn’t like the idea of the ball hitting the hole and not falling in because it was going too fast. I always felt that it held its line a little better if I gave it a little more juice.” He paused. “That’s about the only thing we ever disagreed on.”

  Stedman’s view of golf was remarkably simple and unpolluted by complicated swing mechanics. It was probably no coincidence, I thought, that so many of the great players of his day came up as caddies rather than as privileged country club members. The caddies couldn’t afford lessons and learned to play by imitation and instinct. They never became distracted or confused by swing theories or conscious mechanical thoughts.

  On the other hand, the members who paid for lessons expected their instructors to share some secret about the swing that would magically transform their games. As a matter of survival, the pros had to give the members something to work on. It wouldn’t do to keep the game as simple as it was.

  Thus, Percy Boomer came out with his “swing in a barrel” theory, while Tommy Armour touted the pause at the top of the backswing. Everyone raced to identify a key movement in the swing that produced a controlled ball flight.

  The problem, of course, was that analytical thinking, when taken out on the golf course, destroys tempo and timing. A golfer with good tempo and timing can overcome poor mechanics, but a golfer with good mechanics will not improve if he is unable to swing with rhythm. And nothing destroys tempo and timing faster than the tension induced by mechanical swing thoughts. It was ironic that many golfers would be better off avoiding lessons and playing by feel.

  Stedman seemed rested and ready to leave. As he stood, he reached into his golf bag, pulled out something, and handed it to me. It was the Rules of Golf.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Like I told you yesterday, if you’re gonna play the game, you need to know the rules.”

  He must not have liked my expression. Giving me a sharp look, he said, “You can get into a lotta trouble playing this game. Sometimes this book’ll get you out better’n any club. You better know your options before you plan your escape.”

  I knew that the USGA and PGA conducted clinics on rules for golf officials around the country. “Did you ever go to Rules School?”

  He frowned. “Naw. All you gotta do is read that little book. Hell, it’s only got 34 rules. Read one a day and you’re done in about a month. How hard can that be?”

  “You mentioned a rule yesterday, what was it?”

  “Rule 6. It sets out your responsibilities as a player. You’re supposed to get a marker to sign your card.”

  “You said I was your marker. Don’t you have to be there to be a marker?”

  He smiled. “Remember what I told you about reading the rules?”

  I nodded, like a schoolchild being scolded by his teacher. In addition to his other talents, Stedman appeared to be as adroit at the Socratic method as any of my law professors at Tulane.

  “See if it says anywhere in Rule 6 that the marker must be present. If you look, you’ll see it says the marker ‘should’ check the score after each hole with the competitor and record it. It doesn’t say ‘shall.’” He paused a mome
nt, then added, “It’s like everything else in life; it’s important to pay attention.”

  I felt just as chastened as if I had failed to correctly answer a question in my first-year torts class. Like so many other aspects of human endeavor, it was all about fundamentals. Stedman never got away from the basics. He was direct about all things. It kept him centered. He said I was his marker, and when I argued he showed me the rule. It was as simple as that. And it was a valuable lesson.

  With that settled, we drove to a diner around the corner and had an early lunch.

  He had a good appetite. I suspected that was one of the secrets to his longevity.

  While we ate, I asked him if he ever wanted to do anything other than play golf. He shook his head.

  “There was never anything else. Nothing else feels as good as hitting the ball in the middle of the club face. Or seeing it go where you want it to go. Being able to curve it around a tree or flip it over a bunker at a tight pin. Nothin’ compares to that. Nothin.’ ”

  He took another bite of his lunch. “It’s just you, your ball, and the course. Nobody else can beat you. You can only beat yourself.”

  “Is that why you were so good at match play?”

  “I suppose. There never seemed any point in worrying about what the other fella might do. I had no control over that. Seemed to me it was best just to think about getting my ball in the hole.”

  Once again, I marveled at the simplicity with which he viewed the game. I couldn’t count the number of times I had read an article giving complicated advice on how to handle various match play situations, all based on what the opponent was doing. It seemed to me that thinking about your opponent only served to distract you from your own game. I didn’t see how spending time thinking about how an opponent was playing his next shot would help me play mine.

  And that’s what Stedman was telling me. The way he put it, you were much better off playing your best game regardless of how your opponent was faring. Stedman maintained his focus by eliminating thoughts of anything other than the best way to play his next stroke.

  “You were willing to risk a lot to play golf. Why?”

  “I had a gift. Not using it would have been a sin. If I couldn’t do it one way, I had to find another.”

  Another simple answer.

  “But you took a lot of chances doing what you did.”

  He looked at me. “And if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be sitting here today, now would we?”

  Whatever had driven every great golf champion from Old Tom Morris to Tiger Woods had driven Beau Stedman. Maybe, I thought, it was useless to put too fine a point on it. For some players, the drive to excel was the product of an overcompensating ego, a need to elevate self-esteem by achievement. They were primarily motivated by a fear of failure. For Stedman, golf was what he did best, so it was what he should do. Like everything else, it was that simple to him.

  Stedman had apparently never married. He explained that he had come close a couple of times, but never could convince himself to trust any woman with his true identity. In the end, Augusta National became his family. He told me about a waiter there named Walter Abercrombie who had worked at the club for over 30 years.

  “He became Mr. Jones’s right-hand man. After Mr. Jones got sick, Walter took care of him whenever he came out to the club. We both did.”

  He told me about others at the club, too, who had become fixtures there. Many of them had their own families, of course, and Stedman often spent holidays with them.

  I asked how he was doing. He said he still went to the club almost every day. Most of the old staff, including Walter, had passed away. But he was still close to many of their children and grandchildren, and he never lacked for company.

  Stedman must have sensed from my questions that I may have felt sorry for him. He was quick to assure me that he was grateful for his life.

  “Don’t you be sad for me. No, sirree. I got no regrets. I lived at the finest club in the world. I had the greatest player in the world for a friend. And I have family. Just ’cause I didn’t bring ’em into this world don’t mean I don’t love them and they don’t love me.”

  There was a slight edge to his words, and I could tell that he resented the prospect of anyone pitying him.

  Referring to the exhibition, he said, “And now I have this. What more could one man expect?”

  Beau Stedman made the world a simple place. As if answering his prayers, God had truly granted him the serenity to accept the things he could not change. Stedman’s refusal to allow bitterness or regret to absorb his energy was probably a key to his success in golf. More importantly, it was a key to his happiness in life.

  33

  THE MESSAGE LIGHT was flashing on the telephone in my hotel room when I returned. Katharine Leigh had called.

  I immediately returned the call. She wanted to know how the exhibit went. I didn’t know quite how I should answer her, since a large part of the exhibit revealed to the public that her father had murdered her mother.

  “I think you’d be pleased” was the best I could muster. She wouldn’t let me off the hook, though.

  “Do you think the world will finally know the truth about Mr. Stedman?”

  I didn’t know if she was referring to his golf or his innocence, so I gave another vague response. “I think the story is well-told.”

  She pressed me for more, asking for details about what the exhibits looked like. She was particularly interested in whether there were any photographs of Stedman.

  I told her about the old pictures of him at various events when he was identified by his aliases. Then I gave her the big news: “I’ve got better than a picture, though. I was with him today.”

  There was a silence.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s here. He’s alive.”

  She said in a halting voice, “But you told me he was dead.”

  I laughed. “I thought he was. No one had heard of him or from him in years. Turns out he was at Augusta National all this time.”

  There was a long silence. It confused me, but something told me not to interrupt. I could almost feel an immediate change in the emotional climate at the other end of the telephone line. When she finally spoke, her voice was surprisingly weak and fragile.

  “Do you think I might meet him?”

  “That’s funny. He asked the same thing.”

  She sounded surprised. “Did he really?”

  “Yes, he did. He’s very grateful to you for making this exhibit possible.”

  In a polite voice, she said, “Well, that’s more credit than I deserve. You were the one who made this happen, young man.”

  I told her there was plenty of credit to spread around. That’s when she really surprised me.

  “I can be there first thing in the morning.”

  I hadn’t expected that. But I should have known that Mrs. Leigh was someone who was not easily deterred once she decided on a course of action. It looked like Beau Stedman was going to get his wish a lot sooner than he expected.

  I told Mrs. Leigh that I would expect her at the hotel in the morning. As soon as I hung up the telephone, I called Beau.

  His reaction was as curious as hers.

  “She wants to meet me?”

  “That’s what she said. She’s flying up here first thing in the morning.”

  After a pause, he said, “Gee, I dunno. It’s kinda quick, don’t you think?”

  I couldn’t understand his sudden shyness, so I tried to make a joke about it. “Beau, she’s not comin’ here to marry you. She just wants to meet you and look at the exhibit. It’s only natural, don’t you think?”

  He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. When I asked him what he said, he didn’t answer. It suddenly occurred to me he might jump bail before she arrived.

  “Beau, this lady chose the truth about you over her own family. She made all this possible for you. Aren’t you anxious to meet her?”

  He emitted a sound th
at was almost like a moan. “I dunno … I mean, I guess so. This brings back a lot of things from the past, you know.”

  I could tell he had begun to think about things that were long buried. It had to hurt. I said as much as I could to comfort him. By the time we hung up, he had agreed to meet us and even said he was looking forward to it. I wasn’t sure he meant it, and I went to bed praying that he would show.

  When I saw them together the next morning, I knew instantly why Katharine Leigh never felt Harold Gladstone’s affection and why she was drawn to help clear Beau Stedman’s name. I also knew why she had seemed so familiar to me from the moment I met her.

  The likeness was unmistakable. Katharine Leigh was Beau Stedman’s daughter.

  Needless to say, the reunion of a parent and child under those circumstances is an incredible event. I started to leave, but they both asked me to stay. I guess they didn’t know what to say to each other and needed someone around to mediate their first meeting.

  For the longest time, they just held each other’s hands and cried. Sensing I was supposed to say something, I looked at them both and asked, “How did you know?”

  She finally took her eyes off him. “I came to suspect it over the years. I just never felt any connection with my father. I didn’t look like him or my brothers, either. And there were things said over the years, some of them very cruel. I just never thought I’d ever get to meet him.”

  I turned to Beau. “Did you know?”

  He looked down, as if in shame. “Yeah, I knew. And he knew, too.”

  He looked back at Katharine. “But I didn’t know if she knew, and I didn’t think it would be right for me just to appear in her life and turn it upside down. I mean, what am I gonna say? ‘I’m your real father, and I didn’t kill your mother, the man you think is your father did’? So I just prayed you had a good life.”