The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Page 8

  He is a curious fellow. Not much with the social graces, mind you, but damned near a genius with a golf club in his hands. What do they call them? Idiot savants, I believe. Perhaps that’s too strong. He did give us a wonderful afternoon of golf.

  All for now. Thanks again.

  Tom Wisdom

  Like a cat burglar, Stedman had snuck in, claimed another prize, and left without being identified. Although I briefly questioned how Stedman believed he could return to the place where he defeated Jones years earlier and not be recognized, I reminded myself that there was no television in those days. Athletes’ faces were not as recognizable as they are now. Stedman’s features had rarely if ever appeared in the newspapers or in movie newsreels, so the only people who might have recognized him would have been those who may have watched him play in the Southern Amateur there six years before. Even then, if he shaved or cut his hair differently, it would have been difficult to recognize him as the same person who had defeated Jones. So the few people Stedman may have encountered on the day he played Hagen who may also have seen him years earlier were not likely to put things together.

  15

  IN A SUMMER FULL of surprises, none was bigger than getting to play Augusta National.

  Late one Tuesday afternoon, Fred Nathan wandered into the Jones Room and, after surveying my pile of boxes and files in various states of disarray, asked if I could afford to break from my project for a day. I thought he had an actual legal research assignment for me. I allowed that I could. After all, there was nothing particularly pressing about my “busy work.”

  “Good. Since you’re so interested in Bobby Jones, I thought you might like to see the National.”

  It was apparent from my reaction that I didn’t fully understand the invitation.

  “You do want to see Augusta National, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I stammered something to indicate my acceptance. I was still thinking I was just going to be taken on a tour of the place when Nathan said, “Good. We’ll drive over in the morning, have an early lunch, and tee off around noon.”

  The thought of playing the site of The Masters had me reeling. Then the worrier inside me spoke up. “How are we getting on? Don’t you have to play with a member?”

  Nathan laughed. “Daniel Smith is hosting us. I guess you haven’t met him yet. He retired four or five years ago, but still keeps his office and comes in most mornings. Dan’s our connection.”

  I remembered seeing the name of Daniel O. Smith on the right side of the firm’s letterhead under the heading “Of Counsel.” That was a flexible term indicating that a lawyer had some affiliation with a law firm other than as an associate or partner. It was usually reserved for older lawyers who either retired or desired fewer responsibilities than a partner.

  After I thanked Nathan again, he took his leave. “We leave at 8:00 sharp in the morning. See you then.”

  I hadn’t relished this astounding development long when I thought of my friend Cheatwood. He would kill to play Augusta National. I was dying to share my good news with him, but I was afraid it might be poor form to do so, like talking to a friend about a party only to find out he wasn’t invited.

  I was in the middle of this debate when he walked in. One look at his face and I knew he was coming to the party, too. He looked like he had just won the lottery.

  “As rush tactics go, this one’s over the top,” he grinned. “If they want me, they got me.”

  I agreed it was a pretty impressive move.

  He clapped me on the back. “C’mon, we’ve got to celebrate. Let’s go to Clancy’s.”

  Our destination was only a few blocks from the office, well within walking distance. As the name suggested, Clancy’s was a bar with an Irish theme. It was in the older part of downtown Atlanta and had somehow avoided demolition even as new buildings had risen all around it. In a landscape of steel, glass, and cement, the wood-and-brick two-story structure that was Clancy’s Tavern was an apparent anachronism. Still, it had retained its neighborhood feel and, once inside, patrons felt far removed from the progress that downtown Atlanta had erected all around them.

  I loved Clancy’s. Walking into the place, I felt transported back in time. Everything was old. I liked that.

  I had discovered the place during my first week at work. Through a friend of my girlfriend back in New Orleans, I had sublet an apartment for the summer that was just a block away. One trip to the parking garage next to the office taught me that it was a lot cheaper to walk to work than to pay seven bucks a day to park my car. I also wasted little time in learning the best route to walk to the office, and it took me right past the tavern. I stopped in the second time I walked by after work.

  Clancy’s was real Irish. No green beer. No cute leprechaun decorations. A sign indicated that it had opened in 1938. It looked like little had changed since then. The paneling had a deep mahogany look that came only after years of polish. The wood floor had been worn deep at the most commonly traveled route around the bar. The bartenders wore white shirts with small black bow ties and white aprons. They rolled their sleeves to the elbow and were constantly wiping off the bar with a damp rag, which they slung over their shoulder while pulling a draft for you.

  These were second- and third-generation Americans. There was no thick brogue to be heard when they spoke, but they had genuine Irish roots and a fierce pride about all things Irish.

  The most popular brew in the place was a lager called Harp. The most popular basketball team was the Boston Celtics (never mind the Hawks). And, of course, the most popular football team was the Notre Dame Fighting Irish.

  They were fierce Catholics as well. Danny Casey, one of the proprietors who was always behind the bar, was quick to tell you, too. I learned early on to leave the topic of Northern Ireland alone.

  Cheatwood had also fallen in love with the place. Like me, he preferred its genuine neighborhood feel to the college preppie bars that surrounded the Emory campus.

  We found a table in the corner. I started to order a couple of beers, but Cheatwood wanted to celebrate and insisted on two Bushmill’s “neat.” It had been a long day, and my stomach was nearly empty. It didn’t take long for the whiskey to take effect. I knew better than to have another.

  If I was happy about playing Augusta National, Cheatwood was damned close to rapture. He kept drinking, and the more he drank, the more he gushed.

  “You know, Augusta’s usually closed during the summer. They shut it down about three weeks after The Masters and don’t open it back up until around October.”

  “I hadn’t been aware of that,” I said.

  “Yeah. This is really unusual. Nathan told me they installed some kind of cooling system under the greens to protect the bentgrass in case it gets real hot in April around tournament time. They’ve had one under twelve for several years, and it worked so well they’re installing the same thing under the other greens. Everything’s done, so they’ve opened the course for a couple of weeks to see how the greens stand up to traffic in hot weather. Kind of a test run.” He laughed. “Only at Augusta. I guess they figure there’s no problem that can’t be solved.”

  That prompted him to begin talking about the golf course. Because the club restricts television coverage to the back nine, most people are unfamiliar with the front side. Somehow, Cheatwood had studied the entire course, though, and began giving me the rundown on each and every hole. By the time he got to Amen Corner, I persuaded him to stop and take a breath long enough to eat something, and we both had stew.

  When he finished with his hole-by-hole description of the golf course, Cheatwood began to talk about the history of The Masters. Although I had read quite a bit about the tournament, he was having such a great time that I was content to let him talk. At appropriate intervals, I would punctuate his anecdotes with an agreeable laugh or comment of approval.

  Along the way, I began drinking again. Cheatwood never stopped. It was almost midnight when we stagge
red out of the bar. I have no clear recollection of how either one of us got home.

  As a result, the first memory I have of my trip to Augusta National is that I was hung over. Cheatwood, on the other hand, appeared to be clear-eyed and ebullient when we met at eight in the morning. I remember him saying something about big dogs and staying on the porch, but I was in no mood for humor at the moment.

  Fred Nathan was next to arrive. He, too, was entirely too chipper for my taste. Fortunately, the coffee I had been pouring down started to kick in, and I was at least able to be sociable.

  We made small talk for a few minutes when Daniel O. Smith came walking up. Fred introduced us. I liked him immediately. He was a large man with tanned handsome features. He had an easy manner, and I felt comfortable with him right away.

  “Just call me Dan,” he said when we were introduced. His tone indicated that he meant it. He was clearly someone who did not stand on ceremony.

  We went in Smith’s car, which was a four-door Mercedes sedan. It wasn’t new; in fact, it looked to be several years old. It appeared that Dan Smith was a practical man who bought a good car and expected it to last.

  Augusta is a couple hours’ drive east of Atlanta on Interstate 20. The town is located on the eastern border of Georgia, next to the South Carolina state line.

  The ride was pleasant. Dan Smith was a gracious host. He wanted to know how we liked our summer. He asked us what we thought of law school and what areas of the law most interested us.

  Although I had a hundred questions about Augusta National, I knew from reading about the club that its members were under strict instructions not to discuss anything about the club except The Masters. On rare occasions, a member failed to heed those instructions. Soon thereafter, he became an ex-member with no right of appeal. I didn’t want to alienate my host by being too inquisitive.

  Augusta National is located on Washington Road on the west side of town. Washington Road is one of the first exits off the interstate as you get into Augusta. Within a minute of turning off the highway, we came upon a large hedge that grew to the very edge of Washington Road on our right. It must have been at least ten feet tall and appeared to be almost as thick. It totally hid from view whatever was on the other side. I was surprised the hedge hadn’t been trimmed back by highway authorities as a potential hazard.

  I didn’t realize that Augusta National was directly on the other side until Dan Smith slowed his car after a half mile or so, just in time to turn into a small break in the hedge. There we were. To our immediate right was a neat and well-maintained guardhouse. In front of us was famed Magnolia Lane. In the distance, at the very end, was the clubhouse. I was looking at something I had seen numerous times in golf magazines.

  A guard came out and leaned over to look into the car. His stern expression immediately softened into a smile. “Oh, hello, Mr. Smith. Nice to see you. Kinda different coming out during the summer, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is, Fred. I’ve got these guests with me today. They’re gonna help me test this new system we’ve been hearing about.”

  The guard waved us on.

  The drive down Magnolia Lane was only 300 yards or so. Trees lined both sides of the drive and formed a canopy overhead. Beyond the trees on each side were immaculately manicured practice areas. The trees were lush and obscured all but the very front of the clubhouse as I looked down Magnolia Lane. When we reached the very end, we turned right into the parking lot.

  We piled out of the car and stretched. Caddies appeared and began pulling our clubs out of the trunk. I started to change into my golf spikes, but Dan Smith stopped me.

  “We’ll do that inside.”

  I followed him and the others into the clubhouse. As we walked, Smith exchanged pleasantries with the other members he encountered. Judging by the expressions on their faces, Dan Smith was a popular member of the club.

  Like Peachtree, the clubhouse at Augusta struck me as more dignified than spectacular. That didn’t make it any less impressive. I couldn’t say what it was that made the clubhouse seem so distinctive, other than perhaps the fact that this was the clubhouse at Augusta National.

  Smith guided us to a smaller locker room upstairs. It had only 40 or so lockers and was virtually deserted except for a single attendant. We changed shoes quickly. As we were leaving, he looked at Ken Cheatwood and me.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why we came up here just to change our shoes.” He gestured around us. “This is the locker room used by past champions for the tournament.” With that, he gave us a wink and walked out.

  As we visited during the day, I noticed that Smith never referred to the tournament by its familiar name. In fact, I never heard anyone associated with Augusta National use the words “The Masters” during the entire time we were there. It was always called “the tournament.”

  I had been impressed by the photographs and other memorabilia at Peachtree, but the stuff at Augusta blew me away. First, there was Jones’s Calamity Jane putter. And, of course, there were numerous pictures of Jones, as well as some of his golf trophies. But there was so much more.

  It is a custom for every Masters champion to donate a club used while playing in the tournament that year. Each club is mounted in a shadow box with the champion’s name on it. It made for a rather impressive display.

  Then, of course, there were photographs of the members. I immediately recognized the familiar face of then-General Dwight Eisenhower.

  As I looked at Eisenhower’s picture, Cheatwood told me that there was a tall pine tree on the left side of the seventeenth fairway that had always frustrated Eisenhower. A chronic slicer, he was forced to aim his tee shot down the left side to give his ball room to curve back to the right in order to stay in the fairway. The tree kept getting in the way.

  Finally, Eisenhower complained to Cliff Roberts that he wanted the tree cut down. Roberts refused. Undeterred, Eisenhower supposedly brought it up at a meeting of the members, at which point Roberts promptly adjourned the meeting. The tree has been known ever since as the Eisenhower Tree.

  Lunch was simple, but very good. Only three or four tables were occupied. It was obvious that we would have the course mostly to ourselves that afternoon.

  After lunch, we ventured back across the parking lot to the practice range. Our caddies were waiting for us, each standing by one of our bags. As I walked to my bag, my caddy held out his hand and introduced himself as Peanut. He said he would be “taking care” of me today. I laughed and told him that might be a bigger job than he thought.

  I never slept well after drinking too much, and the previous night was no exception. Although my hangover had worn off, I was still tired. When I swung the club, it felt like I was in slow motion.

  I soon noticed, however, that I was making solid contact every time. The fatigue had smoothed out the jagged edges of my swing. There were no more jerks and hitches in it; I was just taking the club back and then following through.

  Shot after shot went to the target. Peanut feigned excitement. “We gonna do some good today.” I reckoned it wasn’t the first time he had used that line on a guest who was eager to be impressed.

  We then walked to the pro shop, where Cheatwood and I blew much of our summer’s profit on shirts, caps, and numerous other items displaying the prized Masters logo. In all of golf, there is no more prestigious status symbol than the Augusta National Golf Club emblem, and we wanted something to wear back at school that would make our golf-playing classmates jealous.

  When we walked out of the other side of the pro shop, I was stunned by the sweeping vista of golf’s Garden of Eden that greeted me. Augusta National is probably the most frequently-photographed golf course in the world, but the best photographers on the planet could not have prepared me for the sight of it in person. It was splendid, to say the least.

  From the back of the clubhouse and pro shop, the ground swept down into a beautiful valley of perfection that bordered on the surreal. The course deserved its reputat
ion as the best-conditioned in the world; my eyes could not detect a flaw in the entire landscape. Even the color of the grass was richer and deeper than anything I’d ever seen, as if Augusta green had its own chip in nature’s paint catalogue. Whoever was superintendent here had to be a first cousin of Mother Nature.

  16

  AS WE GATHERED at the first tee, Dan Smith asked for our handicaps. Nathan was a 12, Cheatwood a 1, and I announced that my handicap was 10.

  Dan Smith told us he was a 6. “We’ll split the lows.” Pulling a coin from his pocket, he turned to Cheatwood. “Ken, call it to pick your partner.” He tossed the quarter in the air. Cheatwood called heads. It fell tails.

  Smith laughed. “No offense, Fred, but I’ll go with youth. Charley and I will take you guys on a one-one-two. Automatic presses at two down.” He turned back to Ken. “Since you lost the toss, we’ll give you the hill.”

  The first hole at Augusta is a par four of medium length that is one of the easier holes on the course. However, it’s an awkward driving hole. From the tee, the hole bends slightly to the left, but there is a large bunker on that side of the fairway that can be flown only by the longest hitters. There are trees on the left. Thus, while Augusta National is generally an open course, its first hole calls for an uncharacteristically tight tee shot.

  Cheatwood’s swing was a little quick. He hooked the ball toward the trees on the left, where it settled on the pine needles that are used as ground cover. Nathan hit a short but straight drive. He was in the fairway, but he had a long iron to the green.

  Ever the gracious host, Dan Smith gestured for me to hit. I still felt pleasantly tired and not nearly as excited as I thought I would be. My swing was slow and smooth, and the ball flew long and straight down the fairway. Since my game was ordinarily neither long nor straight, I was delighted. I turned to hand the club to Peanut. He gave me a big grin, put the club away, and turned back to his fellow caddies to complete the wager they were negotiating.