The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Read online

  Dan Smith lost little time in hitting. He, too, was long and straight, although I suspected he was more accustomed to it than I was. His drive finished 10 yards left of mine. Both of us had seven irons to the green.

  I remember very little thereafter about anyone else’s round. What happened to me that day had never happened before. Whether I was in what they call “the zone” or was moved by the spirit of Bobby Jones, I played as I had never before played.

  My seven iron to the first green was 20 feet from the hole. After replacing my divot, Peanut handed me my putter and smiled.

  “Happiness is a long walk with the putter, sir.”

  I made the putt for a birdie, thanks to a perfect read by Peanut.

  The second hole is a downhill par five that is reachable in two, even for me, from the members’ tee. However, after another drive down the middle, I pushed my five wood to the right. It finished level with the flagstick but about ten feet or so off the green.

  Peanut told me to bump the ball with my sand wedge and let it trickle to the hole. I hit it stiff. Another birdie.

  The third hole is a fairly short par four. However, the second shot is uphill to a green that sits on a plateau. It is almost a blind shot, depending on where the flagstick is located. Still swinging slowly and smoothly, I hit a pitching wedge onto the green in regulation and two-putted for par.

  The fourth hole is a par three. I hit five-iron to the right rear of the green. My putt for birdie ran past four feet. I told Peanut that I had never putted greens so fast. He told me to keep my backstroke short and aim for the inside right edge. I pushed the putt slightly, but it turned back toward the left at the last second and caught just enough of the right edge of the cup to fall in.

  Peanut gave me too much club for my approach to the fifth green. (One thing I learned is that it’s always the caddie’s fault.) My ball sailed over the green, but fortunately settled in a flat area. I chipped back to within three feet of the cup and made the putt for par.

  The sixth hole is the second par three. With the hole located toward the right rear of the green, Peanut said the shot called for another five-iron. I put it in the middle of the green, ran the first putt a foot past, and tapped in for par.

  The seventh hole is a par four. Like the third hole, the green sits on top of a hill. A good drive left me with only a nine-iron, but the shallow green left little margin for error, and an unexpected gust of wind knocked my ball down into the bunker guarding the front of the green. Peanut told me to hit my sand shot up the incline that was behind the hole and let the ball trickle back down. I did, and it did. I made a five-footer for par.

  The eighth hole is a par five. As with all of Augusta’s par fives, it is reachable in two well-played shots from the member’s tee. My second shot landed in the fringe, and I two-putted from there for birdie.

  I was now three under. I remember vaguely how everyone’s attention began turning from the golf course to my score. At first, there were friendly complaints from our opponents about the beating they were taking. When I got to three under, however, everyone began to leave me alone. It was if they knew something special was happening, like teammates avoiding a pitcher in the final stages of a no-hitter.

  The sudden silence may have unnerved me. At the par-four ninth hole, I hit my second shot reasonably well, but it finished above the hole. Being above the hole on Augusta National greens is a mortal sin. In most cases, it guarantees a three-putt, because it is impossible to stop the ball near the hole. Despite Peanut’s coaching, I could not bring myself to hit the ball as softly as he told me to. It ran 12 feet by the hole. Not surprisingly, I left the comebacker short. Bogey.

  Still, I made the turn in 34. For a 10-handicapper, that’s climbing awfully high without a net. I was way beyond my customary comfort level.

  For some reason, though, I felt strangely serene. The club still felt pleasantly heavy in my hands, and I was still swinging it slowly.

  After a short pause at the turn, we headed for the back nine. The tenth hole at Augusta is listed at 485 yards from the back tee. Yet it plays as a par four. The measured distance is deceptive, because the hole runs sharply downhill from the tee with a dogleg turn to the left. Thus, a drive that is struck solidly, especially with a slight draw, will travel well over 300 yards.

  The hole is only slightly shorter from the members’ tee. I hit a perfect drive, drawing the ball around the corner. Another five iron to the green. My 12-footer for birdie stopped on the lip. For a second, I thought it would fall. No such luck. After waiting the allowed ten seconds, I tapped in for par.

  The eleventh hole is another par four featuring a landing area that runs downhill and left. The green is guarded by a pond that wraps around its left side. It’s the pond that sank Raymond Floyd’s playoff hopes against Nick Faldo in 1990. The flagstick was sitting only 12 feet or so from the left edge of the green.

  Handing me a nine iron, Peanut warned me, “Ignore that flag. That’s a sucker flag. Hit this to the right side of the green.” I did. The ball landed safely. Although I was 30 feet away, it was a flat putt. I lagged it close and again made a short putt for par.

  This brought us to the par-three twelfth hole, which may be the most famous at Augusta. It features a narrow green that angles away from the tee. When the flagstick is on the left side of the green, the hole plays to 138 yards. When it’s on the right side of the green, the hole plays about 15 yards longer. Club selection is therefore critical, as is evident from the double-digit scores occasionally recorded there at The Masters. The flag that day was on the right. Peanut handed me a seven iron.

  I made my first really poor swing of the day, hitting the ground almost an inch behind the ball. It never had a chance to reach the green. As luck would have it however, the ball just cleared the pond in front of the green before dropping in the front bunker.

  The bunkers at Augusta are so well-maintained that it’s almost impossible to get a bad lie. My ball was sitting up nicely on a slight up slope. As a result, I almost made the bunker shot; the ball lipped out. Another par.

  The thirteenth hole is a par five that bends sharply to the left. Rae’s Creek and a stand of tall pine trees exact a harsh penalty for anyone who tries to cut off too much of the dogleg. The hole can be reached in two, however, by starting the tee shot down the right side of the fairway with a draw. The ground there slopes back to the left. I made another good swing with my driver, and the ball bounced off the high ridge along the right side of the fairway and ran down to a flat spot 205 yards from the center of the green. I was in the “A” spot for my approach. All I had to do was steer clear of the bunkers on the left. Unfortunately, I overcorrected and pushed my five wood to the right where it caught the meandering portion of Rae’s Creek that crosses in front of the green.

  I took my penalty drop in an area that left me with a good angle to the pin for my pitch over the creek. I knew the day still had some magic in it when I made a smooth pitch (normally the weakest part of my game) to within eight feet of the hole. Peanut read two balls to the left. It went right in for another par.

  The fourteenth hole is a long par four. I pushed my drive to the right again, but the uncommonly generous Augusta fairways gave me plenty of room. Still, it took a full three-iron to reach the green. The trick here is to clear the treacherous mounds on the front part of the green, as they are the most severe on the entire course. The pin was back right, a favorite location for “the tournament.” Peanut told me to aim for the center of the green and reminded me that I had plenty of club to get to the back of the green.

  I hit the three-iron well, and it finished only a foot or so short of the back fringe. It was a good distance away from the hole, but I had avoided a certain three-putt by getting past the mounds in the front part of the green. In my first big break on the backside, I made the 25-footer for birdie. I was now back to three under.

  The fifteenth hole at Augusta is, like its other par fives, reachable in two. It is also like the first h
ole in that it presents an awkward appearance from the tee. At the time, there was a series of mounds down the right side of the fairway that appeared completely out of place with the landscape, which is flat in the area. (Owing to their artificial appearance, they have since been removed.) To the left is a grove of pine trees. The best drive is down the right side of the fairway, which leaves a clear second shot to the green. Unfortunately, I pulled my drive and came dangerously close to getting hung up in the pine trees. Peanut had gone out to forecaddie and was waiting for me when I got to the ball.

  “You got 207 to the front of the green.”

  I looked toward the green. I didn’t like what I saw. It may have been 207 as the crow flies, but I was going to have to hook the ball to get around another cluster of pine trees sitting 75 yards or so down the fairway. I had gotten much too far left. I couldn’t afford to come up short, as a large pond fronted the green.

  I decided against tempting fate again. I might not be lucky enough to get up and down again. “Give me a nine iron.”

  Peanut nodded. “Smart play.” Whether he believed it or not, he was not about to disagree with me now.

  The nine iron finished in the middle of the fairway and left me 85 yards to the flag. It was perfect for an easy sand wedge. Unfortunately, I came up on it a little and caught it thin. It flew to the back of the green before skidding to a stop.

  We walked slowly to the green. By now, no one was talking to me. (If they had been, I doubt that I would have heard them.) Peanut read the putt a cup to the right. I hit it on line but too hard. The ball rolled six feet past.

  I remember becoming a little irritated for the first time all day. I had done the right thing, played it safe, and laid up. After all that, here I was facing a possible bogey anyway.

  I looked over the putt. Then I looked at Peanut. He motioned at the cup with his hand. “Inside left. Don’t give the hole away.”

  He stood off to the side, holding the flagstick. The moment I struck the putt, he said, “You got it!” and began walking to the hole. The ball creased the middle of the cup and fell in. Peanut pulled it out before it came to a complete rest in the bottom of the hole.

  The sixteenth hole is, of course, the par three that has seen so much of the great drama of Masters history. Jack Nicklaus sinking a monster 60-footer for birdie in 1975 to steal a green jacket from Tom Weiskopf and Johnny Miller. Corey Pavin knocking it in the water after taking the lead in the final round of the 1986 Masters to dash his hopes. Greg Norman completing his collapse in the 1996 Masters by finding the pond and allowing Nick Faldo to overcome a seven-stroke deficit.

  I wasn’t thinking of any of that as I stood on the sixteenth tee. But I swear that pond looked like the Atlantic Ocean. And the pin was sitting on top of the ridge that ran along the right side of the green next to a bunker. It was easily the most difficult hole location on that green.

  I didn’t know whether to hit a six or seven iron, and Peanut seemed to have trouble deciding as well. I didn’t think a seven would get there, so we settled on a six. Bad move. I hit the six right at the flag, only it didn’t come down until it sailed past the hole into the bunker.

  When I got there, my heart sank. I had allowed thoughts of breaking 70 to intrude, which I knew was a mistake. I had read a thousand times how golfers must live in the present. Every article ever published on the mental side of golf had warned against thinking about anything other than the process of playing the stroke at hand. Thinking about consequences inevitably produces tension, and nothing destroys the golf swing like tension.

  I did not like what I saw when I got to my ball. The shot would be much too delicate for my fraying nerves. The pin was a mere eight feet from the edge of the green. If I could pitch my ball just clear of the bunker onto the fringe, it still might not stop at the hole. If it rolled past the hole by more than a foot or two, it would quickly run down the ridge and settle 30 or 40 feet away.

  Which is precisely what happened. Two putts later, and I had made bogey. Back to two under with two holes to go.

  The seventeenth hole may have given Eisenhower fits, but it is really one of the more benign holes at Augusta. I easily avoided the Eisenhower Tree by directing my drive down the right side of the fairway. I was still moving slowly. Peanut offered me a six iron for my approach shot. I wasn’t pleased to see the club that had betrayed me on the last hole so soon again, but I took it and made a smooth swing. The ball landed on the green just 14 feet from the hole.

  I wanted to make the putt badly. Perhaps too badly. I tensed up, tried to guide the ball, raised my left shoulder, and pushed the putt right. I made the two-footer for par and walked with the group onto the eighteenth tee.

  If Eisenhower disliked the drive from the seventeenth tee, he must have loved the eighteenth. Off the tee, the hole falls sharply down to a valley and then takes a sharp dogleg right as it turns uphill toward the clubhouse. There are two large bunkers on the far side of the fairway that are straightaway from the tee. To avoid the bunkers, a player must cut the ball right around the corner. Laying up leaves much too long an approach, and only the longest hitters can launch it over the bunkers across to the tenth fairway. The hole was tailor-made for a slicer like Eisenhower.

  I knew I couldn’t clear the bunkers, and I wasn’t a natural slicer. I would have to try to cut the ball. Opening the face of my driver, I took another slow and smooth swing. The ball slowly began to bend to the right and dropped safely in the fairway. It wasn’t very long, but I had a good uphill lie for a three iron to the green.

  The flagstick was located that day in the front left portion of the green. It was known as the “Sunday pin placement,” meaning that it was traditionally used for the final round of “the tournament.” Miss it left, and your ball is collected in a valley that requires a chip up the hill or a lob pitch over it that even Seve Ballesteros wouldn’t want. The majority of pros aim for a spot 20 to 25 feet right of the pin in front of the green. That was the spot from which Mark O’Meara made birdie to win the 1998 Masters.

  And that was exactly what Peanut told me. “Sucker pin. Don’t fool with that flag. Hit it front right. Easy putt from there.”

  Ben Hogan supposedly said that a player’s golf game is measured by the quality of his misses. By any standards, my three iron to the eighteenth green was as good a miss as I ever hit. I caught it thin, and it came out low. I was sure it wouldn’t reach the green, but it landed short and somehow had enough steam to bounce twice before trickling onto the front right side.

  We trudged up the hill toward the green. Suddenly I was very tired. Peanut was already talking about the putt. Handing me my putter, he said, “Easy putt. Play it a hole out.”

  He was either very confident or pretending to be, because when we got to the green he did not even bother to look at the putt. He simply repeated, “One cup to the right. That’s the line.”

  I was nearly 30 feet away. In hindsight, being that far away was the only way I could have made the putt. If I had been within 10 feet, I couldn’t have pulled the putter back. From 30 feet, I figured, what the hell, and gave it my best shot.

  At first I thought I hadn’t gotten it far enough to the right. But it didn’t seem to be breaking as sharply to the left as Peanut had predicted. If it held on just a little longer, I thought, it had a chance. It did, catching the left side of the cup. Birdie at eighteen.

  I had shot 69 at Augusta.

  Suddenly, everyone was pounding on me. The next thing I remember, I was in the clubhouse, and Dan Smith was squiring me around and telling everyone about my score.

  They were, of course, the inevitable accusations of sandbagging. As Fred Nathan said, “Whoever heard of a 10-handicapper breaking 70 in his first round at Augusta?”

  Even I had to admit it was far-fetched. I do not know what possessed me or induced my calm demeanor that day. Who knows, maybe I owed it all to Peanut. Or maybe there was something else there. Maybe I felt Bobby Jones’s spirit that day. He had certainly become
a part of me that summer.

  Or maybe a part of Beau Stedman had somehow invaded my golfing soul. Whatever it was, it was my 15 minutes of fame, and no one was going to take it away from me.

  17

  I STILL DON’T KNOW if I can explain what happened that day. Perhaps more than any other sport, golf is a game in which such temporary flights of fancy are possible. In fact, I later learned that it is not all that uncommon to hear stories like mine, in which some medium handicapper is relieved of his neurological limitations for a few hours (or even a few days) and inexplicably plays the game at a level far beyond anything he ever experienced before.

  In virtually every case, this state of grace is very temporary. To be sure, there are instances in which for some mysterious reason a golfer takes a quantum leap forward and remains there. However, this usually happens after a player has worked very hard to improve and, after months of showing precious little progress, finds that things have come together all at once.

  That is a different—and much more understandable— phenomenon altogether. What happened to me was not the result of long hours of practice. It was, for the most part, serendipitous.

  As I thought about it, I had to allow that the combination of alcohol and lack of sleep had something to do with it as well. In some peculiar way, the two factors had combined to slow my golf metabolism and in the process relieve me of the spasms that normally attended my efforts to strike a golf ball. I did not understand much more than that, and I certainly didn’t possess the scientific expertise to test my hypothesis.

  Anyone who plays golf knows there is a spiritual side to the game. Like baseball, golf is defined by events rather than time. A game of baseball consists of nine innings; a game of golf consists of eighteen holes. Other sports, such as football and basketball, are governed by time. This inevitably changes the pace of the game.