The Caddie Read online

  I knew it was his quasi-cruel way of teasing me again. As a result, I was too irritated with him to make a good stroke and pulled the putt. Just like he said (Stewart read putts ex cathedra, which is to say with the infallibility of the Pope), it broke about a cup to the left and slid by the hole on the low side.

  “I suppose you remember that putt from the Open,” I said sarcastically as we walked to the fourth tee.

  He just shrugged and said, “That green hasn’t changed.”

  Despite my pique, I finished with a 68. It was my best round since our break.

  xxvi

  WE TOOK SUNDAY off.

  It wasn’t my idea. After enjoying my best round in weeks, I was anxious to play again. I guess I was feeling a little left out while reading the scores from the Memorial in the Sunday paper.

  “Looks like a horse race over at Muirfield. Duval’s slump may be over; he and Mickelson are tied for the lead. Tiger and Jim Furyk are a shot back, and Kenny Perry’s only one back of them.”

  Stewart didn’t seem impressed. Putting down his coffee, he said, “That’s behind us. The only thing that counts is tomorrow.”

  “If tomorrow’s so important, why aren’t we playing somewhere today?”

  His expression didn’t change. “Your game is coming back. Let it be. Forcing things won’t help.”

  “Didn’t Hogan say that everyday you take off means you’re one more day away from getting better?”

  Stewart laughed. “If Hogan said half the things they claim he said, he wouldn’t have had time to practice or play.”

  I suspected that Stewart was right. I knew that Hogan wasn’t much of a talker. Sam Snead claimed that the only thing the man might say to his playing companions during an entire round was “You’re away.” And, of course, there was the familiar story about Hogan being so absorbed in his own play at the Masters one year that he didn’t even notice when his playing companion, Claude Harmon, aced the par-three twelfth hole.

  As usual, Stewart got his way. We spent most of the day just sitting around the hotel pool. There wasn’t much conversation between us, either. If Stewart was planning our strategy for the Open qualifier, he wasn’t letting me in on it. Although I was curious to know what he was thinking, something told me to leave him be. He always seemed to know what was best for my golf and for me as well.

  By midafternoon, I couldn’t stand it anymore and went inside to watch the finish of the Memorial on television. Remarkably, Stewart declined to join me, feigning no interest. He was certainly true to his word when he said that only tomorrow mattered.

  Watching Duval win the tournament with birdies on the last two holes only got me worked up at the thought of trying to win a place in the Open field. One thing that makes our national championship so special is that it is exactly what its name implies: an “open” competition. Any professional (or scratch amateur) willing to pay the entry fee may enter and compete to win one of the 156 places in the starting field. Although the USGA grants a growing number of exemptions from qualifying to past winners of golf’s major championships and to other players with exceptional records, the majority of the field is filled through a series of rigorous qualifying competitions.

  The first stage in the process consists of eighteen-hole local qualifying rounds. The lowest scorers in each of those competitions, held around the country, advance to a second stage, called sectional qualifying. There, the local survivors compete against one another and against established players who have earned exemptions from the first stage through playing accomplishments that are noteworthy but not quite significant enough for a full exemption into the Open itself.

  Sectional qualifying is a high-wire act for all involved. If you are one of the few players to survive, you tee it up in the U.S. Open a few days later. If you fail, you wait—literally—until next year to try again.

  Like any serious professional player, I was quite familiar with Open qualifying. I had tried to make it on three different occasions and even got past local qualifying once. But you had to play really well over a long period of time to make it through both stages.

  As the winner of a PGA Tour event, I was exempt from local qualifying, which was a big advantage. In fact, I was surprised to discover a few days before that I had missed earning a full exemption from all qualifying by only $4,782—the amount of prize money that I needed to finish in the top ten on the Tour’s money list at the time. Those missed cuts in Florida had proved more costly than I realized.

  Even so, I had no problem with the idea of playing my way into the Open. The way I looked at it, the name “Open” was supposed to mean something. I knew that there was some controversy over the growing number of exemptions into the national championship that was awarded each year by the USGA’s executive committee. Some critics argued that the list of exemptions was looking more and more like the list of invitees to the Masters and that our Open was in fact becoming closed. To make their point, they often pointed out that 1996 Open Champion Steve Jones (who beat Tom Lehman and Davis Love in a dramatic finish at Oakland Hills) earned his place in the starting field by winning the very last spot available in a sectional qualifier ten days earlier. This was proof positive, they said, that the qualifying process was a meaningful part of identifying our national champion because it demanded exceptional play over a longer period of time and not just during the four days of the championship proper.

  There were now over sixty spots in the field awarded through full exemptions, leaving fewer than a hundred to be filled by qualifying competition. But they were there, and I was more hopeful and determined than ever to earn one. My first trip around Scioto had been a good one, and I saw no reason why I couldn’t complete two more loops around the course with equal success. I figured that another couple of 68s would be more than enough to get me in.

  The sectional qualifiers are either one- or two-day affairs, depending on the official in charge of the competition. In order to move all of the PGA players along to the next Tour stop, they ran the qualifier at Scioto as a one-day event. That put a premium on endurance. Thanks to Stewart’s fitness program, however, I felt that gave me an edge.

  We were due to start at 7:32 A.M. the next morning. We got to the course by 6:30 and were on the range shortly thereafter. I felt good all the way through my bag, which heightened my optimism. But it was on the putting green that Stewart told me something that turned out to be one of the best tips he had ever given me.

  I was rolling the first few putts well enough, but Stewart seemed unsatisfied. Walking over to me, he asked quietly, “Bobby, are you much of a baseball fan?”

  I looked at him curiously. It seemed to be a strange time to be asking about another sport. “Yeah,” I said, “I’ve always liked the Yankees.”

  “I suppose most folks do.” The way he said it sounded a little condescending, as if I pulled for them only because they were winners. The truth was that the Pee-Wee League baseball team I played for as a nine-year-old had been nicknamed the Yankees, and that determined who I would always root for.

  He continued. “Do you remember Sandy Koufax?”

  “He was a little before my time, but I know that he was the best pitcher in baseball back in the sixties. Played for the Dodgers, right?”

  “That’s right,” Stewart said, nodding. “But what you may not know is that, despite having the hottest fastball in the game, Koufax was merely average for the first five years or so that he was in the big leagues, because he lacked control. One day, quite by accident apparently, he took a little off his delivery, throwing at about 80 percent of his full effort. The results were remarkable. Every pitch went exactly where he wanted it, with no loss of speed or movement. He not only achieved total control of his previously wild fastball, but his curve became a devastating pitch as well.”

  Stewart paused, either to see if I was still paying attention or for dramatic effect. Apparently satisfied on both counts, he continued, “Suddenly, by holding back a little, he became the most domin
ant pitcher in the game, able to place every pitch on the edges of the plate, wherever the hitter’s weakest hitting zone might be.”

  With that, he was done with his little oration. However, I didn’t have the slightest idea why he had chosen to share this little parable with me in the last few minutes before we were set to tee off.

  “Okay,” I said tentatively before bending over another putt.

  Stewart was clearly disappointed that I hadn’t gotten the point. “Don’t you understand, Bobby?”

  “Understand what?”

  “He was pressing. Out of control. Afraid to hold back.” I could tell that my friend was becoming a little exasperated at what he perceived was my denseness.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  He rolled his eyes. “He didn’t trust his game, Bobby. He couldn’t let go of his fear. When he finally relaxed, he jumped to an entirely new level.”

  He rolled a ball back at me. “It’s the same thing with your putter. Don’t be afraid to miss a putt. Trust your stroke. Play a level below your hardest and maintain control that way. It’ll smooth out your stroke.”

  I realized then what he was telling me. I had been pressing. That’s what had pulled me out of my game. Of course, we both knew that was the problem (hell, lately I could feel myself getting tense the minute I walked onto the golf course), but I needed a new way or reason to give up forcing my game.

  The story about Koufax was just what I needed to hear. It also made me realize the reason I had played so well two days earlier. The practice round at Scioto had been casual and relaxed, and I had trusted my game. And, of course, that’s when it began to reappear.

  I made the next five six-footers. That was all the confirmation I needed as we headed to the first tee. I also recognized that what Stewart told me applied to the entire game. It made no sense to feel frantic about hitting any shot. If I stayed within my game and just allowed the club to release naturally, it would stay on-line and follow my shoulder turn.

  It was the first time I had ever played golf using a baseball player as my swing thought. But God, how it worked. Stewart and I cruised around Scioto with a 67 in the morning, followed by a 70 in the afternoon. I missed winning the medal by two shots, but it didn’t matter. I was going to the U.S. Open at Pebble Beach.

  That’s right: Pebble Beach. I had refused to allow myself to think much about where the Open was being played, because Pebble Beach was certainly one of my favorite golf courses on the planet. That wasn’t based on personal experience: I had never played there before. But, next to Augusta National, Pebble Beach was perhaps the most publicized course in America.

  Between golf magazines and televised tournaments, I had seen enough of the place to be captivated by it from afar. Only now, for the first time, I could personally savor the prospect of walking fairways that overlooked the Pacific Ocean, of playing anything from a six-iron to a sand wedge at the 107-yard seventh hole (depending on how the wind was blowing at the moment), and of trying to stop my guts from seizing up like an overheated car engine while I attempted to steer my tee shot at the eighteenth hole somewhere between the ocean on the left and the white stakes on the right.

  It is difficult to describe what gives Pebble Beach such a special place in the affection of so many golf fans. The most obvious attraction, of course, is the incredible beauty of the Pacific Ocean, which serves as the world’s largest water hazard on five of its holes. (During the days when the old Crosby clambake was played there, Arnold Palmer’s tee shot wound up among the rocks along the beach behind the par-three seventeenth hole. He climbed down to play the ball rather than accept a penalty. After several unsuccessful attempts to reach the green, Jimmy Demaret quipped to a national television audience, “What choice does he have? His nearest drop is Honolulu.”)

  But there are any number of courses bordering great bodies of water that don’t rank with Pebble Beach. Besides the beauty of the landscape, the course has a great competitive history, having hosted both the U.S. Amateur and the U.S. Open on multiple occasions, not to mention the PGA Championship and numerous other events. Again, so have other courses. Jack Nicklaus has been quoted as saying that, if he could only play one golf course the rest of his life, it would be Pebble Beach. Yet I’m aware that many consider the inland holes at the course, particularly the stretch from eleven through sixteen, to be pretty ordinary from an architectural point of view.

  So what is it that inspires such devotion? In the final analysis, I’m not sure there’s any simple explanation. All I can say is, I loved the place before I ever played it, and when I finally did tee it up there, it certainly returned my affection.

  xxvii

  NOW THAT I’VE been there, I must say that I truly feel sorry for anyone who lives on the Monterey Peninsula. They have nothing to look forward to when they die, because heaven has got to be a letdown.

  The list of what makes this area special is lengthy. First of all, the weather is crisp and cool year-round, with a near-constant ocean breeze that’s as invigorating as anything you can imagine. And the place has scenery to match, with a coastline that alternates between sandy dunes and rocky cliffs. And below these gifts of nature lie beaches frothing with cold surf thrown up by the Pacific Ocean. Then there are cypress trees in abundance everywhere, beautifully gnarled and twisted by the powerful trade winds that buffet the area. Occasionally, they announce their triumph in this remarkable battle against the elements by establishing themselves even among the otherwise barren rocks.

  If you’re a golfer, it gets even better. The Monterey Peninsula features classic links land reminiscent of Scotland, which means that it’s a kind of transition zone between the ocean and the acreage farther inland. The sandy soil conditions there, together with the moisture provided by the ocean, are seemingly perfect for any number of fine-bladed grasses required for golf. Heck, one of the native grasses used on the putting greens at Pebble Beach, Poa annua, is actually classified as a weed in some (obviously nongolfing) quarters. But it can be mowed down to the height of peach fuzz, and a golf ball rolls across it as smoothly as anything I’ve ever seen.

  As a result, the area in and around Monterey is blessed with a number of magnificent courses in addition to Pebble Beach. First, of course, is the Cypress Point Club, an exclusive private course barely more than a three-wood away that certainly rivals, if not exceeds, Pebble Beach. There’s also Pebble Beach’s sister resort course, Spanish Bay, as well as other great tracks at Spyglass Hill, Poppy Hills, Monterey Peninsula Country Club, and Pacific Grove. Except maybe for San Francisco (Olympic, Lake Merced, Harding Park, and San Francisco Golf Club) and Long Island (Shinnecock Hills, the National, Maidstone, Bethpage Black, and Garden City), it’s awfully hard to find another place on the planet where so many beautiful and challenging golf courses are in such close proximity.

  That’s why there are plenty of smiles to go around whenever the USGA selects Pebble Beach to host the Open. The only downside, in fact, is that the place ain’t cheap, and hotel rooms can be hard to come by. Some of the players on Tour grumbled about having to stay as far away as Salinas. Because some of the classic courses selected by the USGA to host the Open are a little off the beaten path (Shinnecock Hills is a good example), we had all heard horror stories about guys who got caught in traffic and missed their starting times. Since the Rules of Golf don’t permit tardiness on the first tee for any reason, getting a place within walking distance of the course is a high priority.

  Stewart somehow arranged for us to stay at a private home just off the second hole at Pebble Beach, which was ideal. I knew better than to ask how he pulled it off. All I know is that we flew into San Jose on a Sunday evening, which allowed us to get in three full days of practice rounds before they started counting strokes on Thursday.

  We arrived at our temporary home fairly late, around ten o’clock that night. I should have been tired from a long day of travel (sitting on an airplane for any period of time usually wears me out), but I wa
s much too jazzed up to think about sleeping. Besides, we weren’t scheduled to play our first practice round until midmorning, so I could afford to sleep late.

  So instead of turning in, I decided to explore our surroundings. I quickly discovered that Stewart had done well; it was a sumptuous place by any standards. Whoever owned our “bungalow” (a term that really didn’t do the place justice) had an obvious affection for golf. There were photographs and other mementos in almost every room recalling the great moments of golf on the peninsula, including action shots of famous players, from Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen to Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson, each photo depicting action at the various courses in the area.

  On the coffee table in the main room was a large book tracing the history of the Monterey Peninsula. Looking through it, I learned that the area was first developed by Samuel Morse (the nephew of the telegraph inventor), who purchased 5,300 acres in 1915 that included Pebble Beach. Just two years earlier, in a defining moment for golf in this country, a young American named Francis Ouimet had won the U.S. Open, defeating heavily favored Englishmen Harry Vardon and Ted Ray. Morse believed that the increasingly popular game of golf would be a perfect way for people to derive the greatest pleasure from the weather and magnificent scenery his new property offered. So he envisioned a golf course there as the centerpiece for a resort and residential enclave for the rich and famous.

  Morse commissioned two California State Amateur champions, Jack Neville and Douglas Grant, to design his course. As far as I know, the two men never designed another course together. If so, they can be credited with quitting while they were ahead, because it’s doubtful they ever could have matched what they did at Pebble Beach.

  According to what I could tell, however, the golf course had an inauspicious beginning. When it first opened with an invitational tournament in 1918, the new layout proved so difficult (owing partly to primitive conditions) that the best score was 20 over par. Morse quickly closed the course and retained a local golf enthusiast named Francis McComas to improve its playability.