The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Read online

  I’ll rite agin.

  Beau

  There can be a fine line between courage and stupidity. At that moment, I couldn’t tell which side of the line Stedman was on.

  6

  WHILE MOST OF my time was absorbed by my detective work, I did enjoy an occasional diversion.

  One afternoon several of us were invited to Peachtree Golf Club for lunch and a round of golf. I hadn’t been playing much and looked forward to the game.

  Peachtree was known as the other club started by Bobby Jones. It was founded in 1948, and Jones’s involvement supposedly rankled some of Augusta’s membership at the time. Not surprisingly, Peachtree enjoyed an outstanding reputation from the very beginning, not only because of its link to Jones but also because of the quality of its golf course. As evidence of the latter, the USGA chose Peachtree as the site of the 1989 Walker Cup competition.

  Jones’s memory was treated with the same reverence at Peachtree as it was at Augusta (and most everywhere else in Georgia, for that matter). That wasn’t always a good thing. For instance, when he started the club, Jones had suggested that membership be limited to 275. Over the years, despite a great demand, the club refused to budge from that number, for no other reason than it was the number chosen by Jones.

  However, by the 1980s, the average age of Peachtree’s membership had surpassed 70, and few of the members were active golfers any more. The Peachtree superintendent often lamented that he maintained a great course for no one to play. In fact, the course was so deserted at times that some members used the fairways as a practice range, hitting shag balls without ever interrupting play.

  Even so, the members stubbornly refused to resign so that the numerous candidates on the club’s rather sizeable waiting list could take their place. This was one of “Bobby’s clubs,” and, even if they only used it for an occasional lunch, the members weren’t going anywhere, not even to transfer their membership to their own children.

  However, even Jones’s intimates were mortal. By the end of the 1980s the old membership was dying faster than a bad comedian, and the club took on a different look as new members quickly took to its fairways.

  The contrast between the old and new membership was immediately apparent upon our arrival at the club. The new members were dressed in golf clothes; the old members wore business suits. The new members were animated; the old members were subdued. The new members were in their 40s or 50s; the old members were in their 70s or 80s. I suspected that the oldtimers resented the newcomers because, after all, they hadn’t even known Bobby Jones.

  Fred Nathan was hosting us for lunch and golf. He had invited Ken Cheatwood, me, and Barry Horn, a second-year clerk from Harvard Law School. Horn was an Atlanta native, but he had never been to Peachtree and was just as excited about it as Cheatwood and I were. He was also getting the big rush from the firm, which wanted him to work in its estate and tax section.

  Fred Nathan had been a member at Peachtree for three years or so. Like the other “new members,” Nathan had not personally known Jones. But being a lawyer with Jones’s old law firm and having three senior partners who had known Jones—and had been members at Peachtree for many years—hadn’t hurt.

  Fred was obviously proud to be a part of Peachtree. He gave us a tour of the clubhouse on arrival and showed us the photos and other memorabilia of Jones on display. It was quite impressive.

  There were photographs showing Jones and other founding members at the groundbreaking. There were photographs showing Jones playing the first round when the course opened. Some of his clubs were mounted for display, too, as well as balls he had used in competition.

  The clubhouse was comfortably appointed. It seemed to match Jones’s personality: dignified and unpretentious. And it smelled of old money. There was a library, or reading room, with a fireplace and leather wingback chairs. Two older members were quietly reading what I assumed was either the Atlanta Constitution or the Wall Street Journal. I wondered whether they were men of achievement or simply part of what Cheatwood called the “lucky sperm club.”

  In this environment, it didn’t take long for me to start thinking about Jones’s connection with Beau Stedman. Over lunch, Fred Nathan naturally asked each of us how our summer was going. He wanted to know how we liked the work.

  When he came to me, I told him about discovering this great player in whom Jones had taken a fervent interest, to the point of shielding him from authorities who sought him for questioning in a murder case. He smiled politely, in the agreeable way of someone at a cocktail party, but clearly did not find the subject as interesting as I did.

  “Charley, I bet you’re going to find a lot of stories in those files. Bobby Jones was a very famous person. His celebrity attracted a lot of people. There’s no telling what kinds of oddballs came out of the woodwork to approach him. Remember, next to Babe Ruth, Jones was probably the most recognized athlete of his day. I can imagine this kind of thing happened all the time to him.”

  “But I don’t see any sign that Jones thought this guy was crazy or anything like that,” I responded. “He had been a caddy at East Lake. Jones wrote a letter vouching for his character when he got in trouble.”

  Nathan smiled. “Jones was a gracious man. From everything I hear, he had trouble saying no to any well-intended request. He would politely endure the most rude interruptions by strangers who approached him during meals or golf or whatever without ever becoming angry or upset. Maybe it was his Southern breeding. Maybe it was his character. Who knows. But it would have been like him to write something nice about some poor caddy who had gotten into trouble.”

  “This was more than that,” I insisted. But I could tell I was getting nowhere, and we changed the subject.

  I quickly forgot my disappointment when we teed off. Peachtree lived up to its reputation as a test of golf. Cheatwood was true to form, shooting 74. Horn and Nathan were not as good but played well enough. Both scored in the mid to high 80s.

  I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of Nathan’s game. His bookish appearance had led me to expect far less competence at the game than he demonstrated.

  As for myself, I fit somewhere in the middle, shooting an 83 with the benefit of a mulligan. It seemed like every time I got something going I stopped myself with a double bogey.

  In the 19th hole afterward, Nathan introduced me to an old member we encountered named Harland Carruthers.

  “Charley, Mr. Carruthers knew Bobby Jones. In fact, he’s one of the charter members of our club.”

  I looked at Mr. Carruthers with heightened interest. He seemed pleased to see that I was impressed by the reference to his connection with Jones. In an exchange that he had no doubt been through hundreds of time, I asked him to tell me about Jones. He indicated that his father had been one of the Colonel’s clients. Eventually, the son of the client met the son of the lawyer, and the two became friends.

  Mr. Carruthers spoke in paragraphs that were no doubt memorized from repetition but did not sound rehearsed. He had been through this so often that I was sure he felt certain of my next questions.

  I threw him a curve, though. In a tone of voice that surprised me by its intensity, I asked the old gentleman, “Did you know Beau Stedman?”

  He was apparently disappointed to be asked a question he had not practiced answering. “I don’t believe so,” he answered in a soft voice after an awkward pause. The poor fellow seemed almost embarrassed by his answer, as if he had just been tested and failed.

  That more or less ended the exchange. After Carruthers shuffled away, Nathan gave me a mild reproach. “For a second, I thought you were going to put poor old Mr. Carruthers under cross.”

  I looked to Cheatwood for a little support, but he said nothing, so I mumbled an apology that I hadn’t meant to embarrass anyone and changed the subject.

  It disappointed me that one of Jones’s old friends apparently had never heard of Stedman. I was now more determined than ever to find out what became of the man Jones
may have been grooming as our next great golf champion. If I failed, Beau Stedman would remain the greatest player who never lived.

  7

  MY INVESTIGATION SEEMED to stall for a while. I came across a number of files that were uninteresting, which is to say they did not relate to my increasingly myopic search for information about Beau Stedman’s eventual destiny. I found it hard to concentrate on cataloging these files. It was a distraction. I was much keener on playing detective than on being a librarian.

  After two days of this, I felt a little panicky. What if there was nothing else? I picked up the pace at which I was working, as if rushing through the files would increase the chances of finding more news about Stedman.

  I did find some interesting tidbits along the way. There was correspondence from Jones booking transatlantic passage to Great Britain for the Walker Cup when it was contested at the Old Course at St. Andrews in 1926.I looked it up; that was the trip when Jones stayed over to win the first of his three British Open championships.

  When I told Cheatwood about it, he described British Open courses as being “Scarborough Fair golf.” I didn’t understand what he meant until he joked about playing out of the parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

  Jones’s father and his law partners must have been very supportive of his golf exploits, for they indulged his lengthy absences from the office for these transatlantic trips. The files contained memos from Jones to the rest of the firm explaining his schedule, and they were written in a way that indicated his complete confidence in their approval. The file also contained several reply memos from Jones’s partners wishing him well and indicating their deep pride in his accomplishments. I was not surprised; no one could have accomplished what Jones did without the support of those around him.

  Nonetheless, I was becoming increasingly discouraged. A couple of more files, and still no sign of Stedman. I did not give up all hope, however, because none of the papers appeared to have any logical order. In fact, everything had apparently been thrown into these boxes without any particular rhyme or reason. Whoever packed them must have been in a hurry.

  Thus, I knew that the very next file might just be the one I was looking for.

  And I was right. I opened a file and picked up the scent again. I was back into Depression-era golf once more.

  This file also had a large number of clippings on top. They described amateur tournaments across the country during the 1930s. Jones had retired from competition by then, so these were reports of tournaments in which he did not compete. I quickly scanned them for Stedman’s name, but was disappointed not to find a single mention of him.

  After the clippings were handwritten notes. The writing was familiar.

  Dear Bob,

  I am okay. I find work here and there. Nuthin speshul. I am even giving golf lesons.

  I have been playing, to. I have to make up names. So far it has worked.

  I put my new address on the invelop, I know you tole me not to. Please rite. I get lonesum sumtimes.

  Beau.

  Jones was compelled to respond.

  My dear friend,

  Thank you for your recent letter. It was good to hear from you.

  I am pleased that you are playing. However, there is a risk that you will be discovered. Please be careful. I am hopeful that the day will come when we can finally clear the air. Until then, you cannot be too careful.

  I was also very pleased to hear that you are giving golf lessons. You have a remarkable talent for the game and can pass a lot of it along to others through teaching.

  The game has many layers of meaning. I for one have never exhausted them. You will learn much about yourself from teaching others and peeling back as many layers as you can.

  I think of you often. You are not alone.

  As ever, Bob

  Again, Jones had retained a copy of his handwritten letter. Since there was no longer any question about whether he was serving as Stedman’s attorney, I wondered why he did so. He obviously wanted to retain a record of his correspondence to Stedman, but what for?

  Perhaps he wanted evidence of the kind of suffering Stedman was being forced to endure, I mused. Perhaps he wanted the world to know one day the true extent of the injustice of this false accusation.

  As a player, Jones had long understood the competitive necessity of accepting bad bounces. He once described how golf, more than any other game, could sear the soul with its dramatic changes of fortune. It was critical, he knew, not to be defeated by such adversity but to accept it with equanimity. Only then could it be overcome.

  But he was apparently having some difficulty accepting Beau Stedman’s bad bounce. And so I found a cache of letters between Stedman and Jones that revealed two men of vastly different backgrounds with much in common. They shared indomitable wills and a refusal to accept defeat. They both loved golf and had a great talent for it. And they both found in that game the means by which to survive the great trials of their lives. Stedman’s test was first, coming tragically early in his life. Jones’s was later, when he was struck by a crippling spinal disease.

  I went back to the clippings.

  8

  MALONE WINS STATE AM WITH RECORD SCORE

  (Associated Press) Ocean Springs, Mississippi—Young Dave Malone, a carpenter from Natchez, nearly lapped the field here in winning the 1931 Mississippi State Amateur, posting a record score of 276 after 72 holes of play at the Gulf Hills Dude Ranch and Country Club. Malone posted 14 birdies and only two bogies in four rounds over the 6,650-yard layout known for its tight fairways and smallish greens.

  “He just overpowered the course,” said an admiring runner-up Phillip Martin, who finished ten strokes behind Malone. “He hit almost every par five in two, and he even drove the green on that short par four (the 310-yard 12th hole).”

  Todd Andrews, from Jackson, quipped, “He said he just moved here. I don’t know where he came from, but I wish he would go back and take his golf game with him.” Andrews, the 1928 champion, finished fifth at 291, a whopping 15 strokes behind Malone.

  Malone left quickly upon the conclusion of play and was unavailable for comment. The top results of the championship:

  Dave Malone, Natchez 276

  Phillip Martin, Jackson 286

  Fred Graham, Greenville 289

  Mike Passey, Brookhaven 289

  Todd Andrews, Biloxi 291

  Ray Carter, Jackson 292

  John Peters, Jackson 292

  Sam Bass, Starkville 293

  George Miller, Bay St. Louis 295

  Doug Anderson, Biloxi 295

  Pete Warren, Ocean Springs 295

  Hillary Johnson, Natchez 296

  Terry Baylor, Oxford 297

  Virgil Lee, Jackson 300

  Tim Patterson, Hattiesburg 301

  Olen Frazier, Jackson 301

  Cleveland Wall, Brookhaven 302

  Martin Castle, Tupelo 303

  Robert Links, Moss Point 304

  Craig Darrow, Jackson 305

  Robert Timmons, Oxford 306

  Scott Fussell, Picayune 306

  Russell Landry, Brookhaven 307

  Charles Withers, Biloxi 308

  Paul McCall, Starkville 309

  Eugene Meyers, Greenville 309

  Carson Haley, Ocean Springs 310

  So Beau Stedman had become Dave Malone. And he was still chasing championships. While a state amateur title was a notch or two below regionals like the Southern Amateur and the Northeast Amateur—and of course even farther removed from the U.S. Amateur—it was still good competition. Winning any golf tournament by such a large margin was an impressive performance.

  Besides, it was no doubt easier to escape detection in smaller events. While the Mississippi story had been placed on the AP wire, I doubted that it had been picked up by any newspaper outside the state, with the possible exception of the New Orleans Picayune.

  The next clipping showed that Beau was on the move.

  AMATEUR TITLE TO WALKERr />
  Special to The Picayune—Clarence Walker, a young construction worker from Destrehan, is the 1931 Louisiana State Amateur champion. He won the tournament in fine fashion, taking charge with a 68 in the first round to put him ahead of the field by two strokes and then increasing his lead with scores of 71, 69, and a final 67. The five-under score in the last round tied the competitive course record at the New Orleans Country Club, and Walker’s total of 275 set a new tournament record. He outdistanced runner-up Jimmy McGonnagill of Monroe by eight shots.

  Interviewed as he was leaving the course, a bashful Walker said, “I had a good week. The breaks went my way. The other fellows were good to play with.”

  Second-place finisher McGonnagill, a three-time champion, was impressed by Walker’s play. “He’s a lot longer than anybody out here. I never played with him before. He doesn’t say much. He just goes about his business. I just couldn’t keep up with him.”

  Defending champion Mark Quarles of Lafayette finished third. The top ten scores were:

  Clarence Walker 275

  Jimmy McGonnagill 283

  Mark Quarles 285

  Harold Simon 286

  Cam Theriot 286

  Gerald Collins 287

  John Fontenot 288

  Joe Guillory 288

  Eddie Simien 289

  Allen Trosclair 291

  Beau had won another championship, and he made it look just as easy as the last one. He apparently hadn’t moved very far to do it, either. I looked on a map and found Destrehan. It was a small town 30 miles or so from New Orleans.

  I had to wonder where he was headed next. If Beau continued in the same direction, his next stop would be Texas. Then, again, maybe he would take Cheatwood’s advice and go to California.

  I also wondered if he knew the difference between going underground and digging his own grave.

  9

  IF BEAU CONTINUED west and landed in Texas, he was going to find a much different world there. Most Texans considered themselves to be a republic rather than another state. If forced to do so, they would eventually concede to being an equal part of the United States. They just thought themselves to be a whole lot more equal than anyone else.