Unplayable Lies: (The Only Golf Book You'll Ever Need) Page 7

  I don’t usually ask questions in front of a group, but I said, “Paula Jean, you and Michelle put on quite a show today. Want to talk about it?”

  Paula Jean said, “M.J. really stuck it today. I thought she was gonna shake the tree, but she cratered on the greens.”

  Somebody said, “It looks like a two-way battle between you two.”

  “No way,” Paula Jean said. “There’s a whole crew of SoKos behind us.”

  “The South Koreans, you mean,” Emily said.

  “Yeah. They’re pretty killer.”

  The writer from Teen Vogue said, “Aren’t some of the Oriental players from Japan and China?”

  Paula Jean shrugged. “Same thing.”

  Emily asked, “The, uh, SoKos … what is it they do best on the course?”

  “They’ve got it all,” Paula Jean said. “They can download it. I played a practice round with Hee Ho Ding, and she cold-jumped a four-iron 267 yards to 16.”

  Another question. Did Paula Jean have a favorite club in her bag?

  “My three-comp.”

  Emily said, “Your what?”

  “I guess you old people would call it a three-wood or three-metal,” Paula Jean said. “It’s a composite. You know, like, composite material. Titanium, carbon, uranium.”

  A writer wanted to know if she had a current boyfriend.

  Paula Jean said, “Terry would be hot.”

  “Who is Terry?” Emily asked.

  “Terry Cutter. He’s the new Rory. You living on Jupiter? Listen, I’m gonna boogie on outta here. How far is the mall from here in my limo?”

  Emily looked around for help.

  Becky Tracy said, “About four miles.”

  “I’m there,” Paula Jean said, and left.

  I accepted Emily’s invitation to attend a dinner party that evening in her home, which bordered the golf course. “Home” might not be the right word. It more closely resembled King Ludwig’s castle in Bavaria.

  The best view was from the south terrace. You could gaze down on number 16, last of the three island greens. Number 16 was the one with the Mount Rushmore sculpted into a tall cliff behind the green.

  I say Mount Rushmore. The rock faces on the cliff were those of Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, and Big Jake Lewis.

  The truth is, I had never heard of Big Jake Lewis. But I learned he was the man who developed the property and arranged for the golf course and Mount Rushmore to be built. The course and the Mount Rushmore were finished shortly before he went to prison for fraud.

  Big Jake Lewis’s name was spoken in reverence at the dinner party among the twelve guests, all of whom were local residents in various shades of pink, lime, and gold. One guest, a gray-haired man whose name, if I heard it right, was Floppy, said Big Jake Lewis never robbed anybody who couldn’t afford to lose it, and if the feds had left him alone everybody would have gotten their money back. “Some people just hate golf,” Floppy said.

  Emily asked us to join hands while she said a prayer as the first course arrived. She asked the Lord to continue to bless wineries, fashion designers, Cadillacs, JPMorgan Chase, the game of golf, and please tell all the terrorists and liberals to show a little respect for rich people, who mean well.

  Paula Jean and Michelle Janine came out for the last round dressed for action. They wore short skirts that showed a lot of leg and breast-hugging, navel-exposing T-shirts. Ponytails dangled out of the backs of their visors.

  They both drove the first green, a downhill par-4 of 345 yards, and two-putted for birdies. Michelle Janine drew gasps from the gallery when she reached the par-5 6th with a driver and five-iron. She sank the 20-foot eagle putt to take a two stroke lead on Paula Jean.

  Paula Jean pouted and bit her lip.

  Michelle Janine Fox toyed with her diamond earring as she walked to the next tee.

  Paula Jean got even at the 590-yard par-5 10th. She hammered her drive 310 yards over a pure wasteland and into the fairway, then put a high nine-iron on the green and rammed a 30-foot putt into the cup for an eagle.

  “Nothing but throat,” I heard her say as she walked off the green, toying with her own diamond earring on her ear.

  Now tied, Paula Jean and Michelle Janine battled evenly all the way to the 17th tee, which was where they heard the roar for the chunky Hee Ho Ding.

  The SoKo had been five strokes back starting the day, but she had birdied four holes in a row on the back nine, two of them with chip-ins, and now she’d holed out a two-iron shot at Mount Rushmore for an ace. She was suddenly leading the Clambake by one.

  Paula Jean and Michelle Janine both parred the last two holes, and all they could do then was wait to see how Hee Ho Ding finished.

  Presently the scoreboard told them the SoKo had parred 17.

  “Dink,” Paula Jean said.

  The way Hee Ho Ding played the par-5 18th hole would be remembered as one of the most bizarre finishes in the Clambake’s history. She skied her tee shot, shanked her second, topped her third, and pulled her fourth into the pond that guarded the green on the left. She could see the ball three inches beneath the surface and decided to try to hit it out.

  She took a mighty swing with a sand wedge and made a tremendous splash, but out came the ball with a piece of mud on it. The ball and the mud sailed directly into the cup on the fly for Hee Ho Ding’s par—and her one-shot victory.

  “Hog,” Michelle Janine said.

  “Bacon bitch,” Paula Jean said.

  A moment later I wheeled my cart around and drove to the pressroom. I finished the piece in an hour and went to the Teen Vogue hospitality tent to say good-bye to Emily Turner.

  I found her dipping into a large vodka martini on the rocks. Perhaps her third or fourth. “It was a good show,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, slurring her words. “I’m sure all the little people in Seoul are happy.”

  I left for the airport in a taxi, opened my laptop, and read the story I’d filed. I think I did an okay job expressing my feelings about women’s golf. My lead read:

  “Does anyone really want to live in a world where the cutest girls don’t win golf tournaments?”

  THE NEXT BIG THING

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

  Brazos State Teachers College for Men and Women announces that its women’s golf program has signed Wanda Gaynelle Stout to a National Letter of Intent.

  A native of Swamp Fever, Florida, Stout is ranked sixty-seventh nationally by Golfscoop magazine, trailing thirty-five ladies from Asia and the rest from California. She is also ranked twenty-seventh in the world by the Association of Daddies of American Junior Girls, which does not include international players.

  Brazos State coach Edna Fay Taylor said, “Wanda Gaynelle is six-two and will fit in perfectly with our previously announced recruits from Finland, Croatia, Lichtenstein, and Turkey. I am confident this group can take our program to the next level. Each lady is tall, and most of them speak English.”

  Stout was named Deep Divot Weekly’s Girl Player of the Year in 2012 when she won three tournaments—the IO2JG Junior Girls Invitational at Crab Shack Country Club near Destin, Florida, the FTJ3-17 Junior Girls Classic at Secret Quarry near Ocala, Florida, and the AIJG4M Junior Girls Match Play at Spring Break CC near Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida.

  Wanda Gaynelle first caught everyone’s attention in 2011 as a fourteen-year-old when she tied for medalist honors with two golfing gymnasts from Bucharest, Romania, at the World Girls 14-and-Under Juniors on Pinehurst No. 16.

  The question of how Wanda Gaynelle is still listed as fourteen years old today continues to baffle followers of junior girls golf. Coach Taylor, however, said it is a nonissue, “a spike mark on the bent greens of life.”

  Stout’s greatest achievement may well have been her victory in the 2013 Florida 2XA-52 State Championship at Blinding Sand Golf Links near Vero Beach. She was four under par through thirteen holes in the final round—and holding a slight lead—when the tournament was shortened by H
urricane Gwendolyn.

  Coach Taylor said, “Wanda Gaynelle is one of the best junior golfers in the country and competes with a fire to win, especially when her tee ball finds the fairway.”

  Wanda Gaynelle inherited her love for the game from her father, Bo Boy Stout, a former professional golfer. Bo Boy achieved six top-twenty finishes in his playing days on the Fast Pencil Tour, which is now the Web.com Tour, and was previously the Ben Hogan Tour, the Nike Tour, the Buy.com Tour, and the Nationwide Tour.

  Stout was homeschooled in Swamp Fever from the first grade through the ninth, mostly by golf magazines. She received a scholarship to the Academy of Gurus in the Everglades. It consists of an 18-hole course, dormitory, clubhouse, practice range, and storage bin for bug spray.

  At an early age Wanda Gaynelle’s father put a bucket-head driver in her hands and taught her to swing as hard as possible at the alligators that frequently crawled onto the family’s front porch to devour empty beer cans.

  Bo Boy was recently quoted as saying, “I knew I had me something when I seen her airmail a gator’s jawbone onto the next boat dock. Me and her stepmama Francine are gonna ride this hoss all the way from college to the LPGA Tour.”

  DESTINATIONS

  AMONG THE MANY things that have sneaked past me while my back was turned are these new public courses that are springing up across America—challenging, well manicured, painstakingly remote. They provide landing strips and boutique hangars for private jets and tree-lined drives leading up to fashionable clubhouses with elegant bars and restaurants in which you will find the most serious and adventurous recreational golfers that God ever poked in the ribs with a Callaway X Hot fairway composite with a modern warbird sole and a forged speed frame face cup.

  It’s certainly alien to what I once knew and considered normal—the rock-hard fairways, scrawny trees, dirt bunkers, and fuzzy greens of Goat Hills, the thieves sitting on the concrete porch in old rocking chairs waiting for the next sap to show up with money in his pocket, not to mention the greasy meatloaf at the lunch counter that passed for our men’s grill.

  But in today’s world, the golf victim can travel far and wide to play public courses with fetching names and enjoy the fellowship of other golf victims.

  Here are three places I’m happy to recommend:

  Old Humbler at Salt Water Gulch

  A difficult course within sight of eight drilling rigs producing natural gas in an obscure yet booming area of North Dakota.

  The course has a plethora of Church Pews, Hell Bunkers, Redans, and Hogan Bridges. Par is between 75 and 80, depending on the time of year.

  Three holes—the 3rd, 9th, and 14th—require a horseback ride from green to tee, but it’s worth the effort to see the mounds where a dozen frozen drilling superintendents are buried.

  Once you’ve enjoyed the golf course, ask Camille, the shapely bartender, to make you a Four-Putt cocktail, then savor a Roughneck Burger on pita with refried beans, chipotle, and snails, one of Chef Timothy’s specialties.

  Gun Creek Run at Wild Orchard Mountain

  Although the course is not that far from Atlanta, it isn’t easy to find unless you know your Civil War history and are skilled at hacking through brush.

  The design outdoes itself by paying homage to the Baffling Brook, the Postage Stamp, the Alps, and the Cape. Each hole is named for a Confederate general. There is one rule that some visitors may find inconvenient. You must wear gray or butternut. Slacks, shirts, and sweaters of these colors are available for purchase in the pro shop.

  Gun Creek’s director of golf, Shorty Grits, is always available to assist you.

  After your round, implore the shapely bartender, Celeste, to make you a Jeb Stuart cocktail to go with Chef Simon’s Beauregard Burger, which is a rare possum pattie with turnip greens and eggplant on a sweet potato bun.

  The Links of Squatting Screech Owl

  This jewel of the Great Northwest wanders along a strip of land jutting into the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Oregon.

  The best access is to be tendered to shore from a U.S. Navy destroyer.

  The layout sets a high bar for originality. It was designed by a relatively unknown architect, Dippy Baker, who won a Golf Digest contest for design. The highlight might be the 18th hole, which presents a challenging finish.

  This par-5, which is named The Scissors, stretches 896 yards over hill and dale and fishing pier. There are several options. You don’t really know if you’re hitting in the right direction until you find yourself on the green.

  Phil Mickelson, I was told, currently holds the course record with a 78.

  Collette, the shapely bartender, fixes a mean Albatross cocktail, and it goes down well with Chef Nigel’s Reef Burger. He blends prime shark’s belly with delicate chunks of squid, crisp minnows, and pureed spinach.

  Between you and me, the things I’ve mentioned make me yearn for the old lunch counter at Goat Hills. Sure, the meatloaf might have been made of finely ground spare tires, but I ate it if there was enough A.1. left in the bottle.

  At breakfast you needed to tell the cook, a tired man named Will, to put the trichinosis bacon back in the skillet and cook it till you couldn’t see through it.

  I would caution that around any public course, you are likely to find vultures loitering. It was at Goat Hills that I learned never to bet with a man in a hard hat who smoked Camels, never bet with a man in torn jeans with keys on his belt, never bet with a man with only five clubs in his bag, never bet with a man wearing an eye patch, and, needless to say, never bet with a man in suspenders and a Schlitz cap who says he will putt only with his nine-iron.

  You may consider this last paragraph a public service announcement.

  “MATCH OF THE CENTURY”

  WALTER HAGEN IS known to have said, “You are only here for a short time—be sure to stop and smell the flowers.” It is also known that Walter, as often as possible, stopped to smell the money.

  It didn’t take long for Hagen to figure out that he could bank more money in exhibition matches than he could by winning the Asheville-Biltmore Open, or something of that nature, on what constituted a haphazard PGA Tour in the early twenties, which happened to be the prime of Walter’s silk-shirt life.

  If another pro golfer had any sort of recognizable name, and was standing still, Hagen’s manager, Bob Harlow, a man ahead of his time, might enlist him for an exhibition match.

  Most of the exhibitions were 18-hole affairs, Hagen against the likes of Macdonald Smith, Leo Diegel, Bobby Cruickshank, “Wild Bill” Mehlhorn, Joe Turnesa, Emmett French, Al Espinosa, or any other competitor whose name was vaguely familiar to the public.

  It was in 1922 that Hagen and Harlow began to think big. A young upstart named Gene Sarazen won the U.S. Open at Skokie and the PGA at Oakmont that year, thus a “World Championship” match was arranged between Sarazen and Hagen. They played 36 holes in Pittsburgh and 36 holes in New York. Walter won the engagement 3 and 2.

  In 1924 when Cyril Walker won the U.S. Open at Oakland Hills and Hagen won both the British Open at Hoylake and the PGA at French Lick, Harlow arranged a “World Championship” bout at 72 holes in Florida. Hagen dusted Cyril Walker 16 and 15.

  Hagen would take his game global and win such tournaments as the French Open, the Belgian Open, and the Pan-American Exposition Open. In his travels he managed to work in a couple of “World Championship” battles with England’s match-play specialists, Abe Mitchell and Archie Compston. He whipped Mitchell and split with Compston.

  In 1928, after Johnny Farrell had won the U.S. Open at Olympia Fields in Chicago and Hagen had won the British Open at Sandwich, they played a “World Championship” series in five different cities—New York, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, and St. Louis. Hagen won three of the five.

  But in the middle of all that, Hagen and Harlow came up with their greatest promotion.

  In late February 1926, a head-to-head match was arranged between Walter Hagen, the ruler of pro golf, and Bobby J
ones, the ruler of amateur golf.

  Hagen versus Jones, as you may guess, caused looks of gleeful anticipation.

  At the time, Hagen was thirty-four years old and had won two U.S. Opens, two British Opens, and three PGAs. Jones was only twenty-three but had already won a U.S. Open and two U.S. Amateurs, and had been runner-up in two other U.S. Opens.

  Bob Harlow, with help from his friends in the press, not only promoted the affair as a 72-hole “World Championship” but, more important, he sold it as “The Match of the Century.”

  Harlow somehow managed to raise a prize of $10,000 that would go to the winner, which of course would be Hagen since Jones was an amateur and couldn’t accept prize money. But this didn’t detract from the buildup.

  Leading up to the match, numerous members of the sportswriting lodge ran away with themselves. They saw it as more than a golf game. It was going to be a Civil War, the North against the South—Hagen coming from Rochester, New York, Jones from Atlanta. It would be a class struggle. Hagen was a poor guy who had worked for every paycheck, while Jones was a country club kid from a well-to-do family, a borderline socialite. It would be a clash of cultures. Hagen played golf for a living, Jones played it “for the love of the game.” So they wrote.

  A majority of the sportswriters favored Jones, and it apparently didn’t bother them that Hagen and Harlow had chosen the venues. The first 36 holes would be played at Whitfield Estates in Sarasota, Florida, a new course designed by Donald Ross that would become known as the exclusive Sara Bay Country Club. A week later the second 36 would be played at Pasadena Golf Club near downtown St. Petersburg, Florida, a course designed by Hagen himself and two other guys. That course has since been redesigned by Bill Dietsch and then by Arnold Palmer and his partner Ed Seay, and is now known as the Pasadena Yacht & Country Club.

  A photo taken of Jones and Hagen on the first tee before the match got under way on February 28 shows both titans nattily dressed. Jones is wearing a shirt and tie, a long-sleeve slipover sweater, plus-fours, and a fedora, and he holds a cigarette in his hand. Hagen, bareheaded, is in a silk shirt and tie, a sleeveless sweater, plus-fours, a pair of custom-made golf shoes, and his black hair is slicked down in the fashion of Rudolf Valentino or a member of New York’s Café Society.