by Dan Jenkins
That was the logic. If you’ve ever explored Ryder Cup history, you know that’s always been the USA’s logic. It’s successful about 50 percent of the time.
The captain tried to hide me, putting me ninth, but as fate and destiny conspired to have it, that was where Europe slotted Knut Thorssun.
I was as elated about the matchup as my captain was depressed.
Larry’s look and body language told me he’d already conceded a point to the enemy. Knut had been Europe’s stud-bubba-muffin for two days. He and Parnevik had won all four of their partnership matches, Knut doing most of the damage.
Then, of course, my performance at the Saturday night press conference didn’t make my captain feel any better about things. If it had been a football game, I’d have been accused of providing bulletin board fodder for the other team.
When the twelve Europeans were seated behind the microphones in the press room to discuss their singles opponents and offer their thoughts in general, they made every effort to be nice and complimentary.
Our guys did the same thing when it was our turn, even Cheetah.
Well, everybody but me.
The thing a writer said to me was “Bobby Joe, you seem to have drawn a pretty tough assignment tomorrow. How do you feel about having to play Knut Thorssun?”
I made the impulsive mistake of saying, “Knut’s real tough, especially when he’s got the zebras going for him.”
“What do you mean?” the writer followed up.
“Knut gets his share of favorable rulings,” I said.
All it takes is a sniff of controversy for the media to be on you like alligators on marshmallows. Hands went up all over the room. The PGA officer who was sitting up there with us and running the interview pointed at a guy in the crowd.
The guy stood up and said, “What rulings are you talking about?”
I said, “Well, for starters, go back and check out how he won at San Diego, Colonial, and Winged Foot this year.”
“Are you accusing Knut Thorssun of cheating?” somebody yelled.
“I don’t really know what constitutes cheating anymore,” I said. “You tell me. Is it cheating to take advantage of a ruling when the dumbass official is obviously making a big mistake, but it helps you win a tournament? Knut did it three times. Bobby Jones would never have done it, and I don’t think most of the guys on our tour would have done it.”
The writer said, “San Diego, Colonial, and Winged Foot—are those the three worst things Knut Thorssun’s ever done, in your opinion?”
“No,” I laughed. “He’s done three worse things than that.”
“What, what?” The shouts came from different areas.
I started to respond but a Rally Killer interrupted.
“Bobby Joe!” he screeched. “Bobby Joe! Over here!”
I nodded to him.
“What year did you start using Hogan irons?” the Rally Killer asked.
He was roundly booed and hooted into the rear of the room.
“Tell us the three worst things Knut Thorssun ever did,” a writer yelled. “What were they?”
“Yeah, what?” somebody else shouted.
“That’s easy,” I said. “He got born . . . came to America . . . stayed.”
There was some laughter. Most of the writers scribbled on their notepads. My captain held his head in his hands.
AS THE eight matches ahead of us were sent out to do combat, Knut and I hit balls on the range, a good distance apart. Mitch either liked my action or he was only trying to build up my confidence.
“I believe I see grease drippin’ off them irons,” he said.
Translated, that meant I was in a clubface mode.
The surprise I’d planned for Knut worked out well on the first tee. Buddy and Cynthia arrived early enough to secure a place to stand right up against the ropes, parallel with the tee markers. Stationed next to them on both sides were Cheryl, Alleene, and Jerry Grimes.
Even if Knut hadn’t spotted Cynthia himself, I was going to make certain he did before we teed off.
He exclaimed, “My God, it is the she-bitch I see! Look!”
“I see her,” I said. “She’s with Buddy Stark, isn’t she? I wonder how long that’s been going on?”
Knut went over to the ropes. I followed him.
“What is this nonsense of you being here?” Knut said to Cynthia.
“I just came to root against you,” Cynthia said.
“You have made enough trouble for me,” Knut said.
Somewhat giggly, Cynthia moved her arms and hips back and forth, and quietly chanted, “Bobby Joe, Bobby Joe, he’s our man . . . if he can’t do it, Tiger can!” Cheerleader deal.
I glanced at Buddy as if to ask if it might be a little early in the day for Cynthia to be into the white wine. Buddy shrugged.
Knut said to Buddy, “You are selecting to be with this crazy woman?”
Buddy pulled Cynthia close to him and said, “Love’s got hold of us, Knut. We can’t hardly help ourselves.”
Knut shook his head in what was supposed to be disbelief and faked a laugh, har-har, and walked away to take the driver out of his bag.
I grinned at my pals. “Well, I’ve got my ankles taped. Guess I’m ready to go.”
“Fairways and greens, Bobby,” Alleene said.
“Tell me that helps,” I said.
THINGS CHANGE quickly on the last day of the Ryder Cup matches. Always do. You can’t take anything for granted. A good example is The Country Club in ’99. That’s where Olazabal was four up on Justin Leonard with only seven holes to play, but Justin rallied and sank that putt from Boston to Providence and the USA swooped the deal, broke the little European hearts.
All I could do was try to concentrate on my own match with Knut. I’d learn from murmurs in the crowd, or by perusing the occasional scoreboard, or from my captain appearing out of the trees, that Tiger and Davis and Couples were winning, but then I’d hear later they weren’t.
One thing I did with Knut was wait until we were on the fourth tee to examine his bag, make sure he was carrying only fourteen clubs. The fact is, I only did it to annoy him. Even Knut wasn’t dumb enough to have too many clubs in his bag at the Ryder Cup.
Actually, I did it to remind Knut that I was aware he’d once been caught by Jerry Grimes with a fifteenth club in his bag. It was in the first round at Harbour Town four years ago, on about the sixth hole, and Jerry had been generous enough, or stupid enough, to stand by while Knut instructed his caddy to take the extra club, a third wedge, into a portable toilet and ditch it. Knut ended up winning the tournament thanks to Jerry’s silence.
“Just checking,” I said to Knut on the fourth tee as I peeked around in his bag. “Some of us remember Harbour Town.”
Knut looked injured. “I have heard such vicious rumors these years, and I must tell you I am greatly offended beyond description.”
I said, “Knut . . . ? Play golf.”
Knut and I wound up in what you call your melee.
I was playing as good as I knew how, shooting three under par—Mitch rewarding one of my shots from time to time with a “Hello, golf.” And Knut was cheating quite well on the greens. I was aware of it but I was waiting for the right moment to call him on it.
The right moment came at the seventeenth hole. We were all square there and we’d inherited most of the gallery—not to mention all the teammates, sweethearts, wives, and mothers on both sides.
By then I was aware that we’d won six matches and Europe had won five, which meant the whole Mother Goose was riding on our match.
Time to play my ace.
I played it after we’d both steer-jobbed the fairway and hit the green in regulation at seventeen, and after I’d two-putted for a par, and Knut had missed his twenty-foot birdie putt that slid two feet past the cup.
As Knut walked to his ball, I stopped him on the green and said, “Nukester, you’re not gonna mark this ball the way you’ve been doing it all year. It’s
fucking cheating. You know it and I know it.”
Knut looked flustered. “You are saying what?”
“What I’m saying is, I’m gonna lie down on my stomach and watch you mark this ball unless you do it with two fingers and very daintily.”
That came out real slow, real clear.
Knut had been cheating when he marked his ball on short putts on good bent greens. I don’t know where he learned it. From some old guy on the Senior Tour, I guess. It’s an old trick, going back to the ’50s and maybe even longer.
Knut would put the coin down behind the ball, but in the seconds before he’d lift the ball, he’d mash it down and rub it forward just hard enough to make a slight groove in the green. Then, when it came his turn to putt, he’d replace the ball precisely back in the slight groove before he putted.
What the slight groove can do, it can make the two-footer race straight for the cup regardless of any break that might be there. Knut had been deadly on short putts, two-footers, for months.
I stood right over him while he marked his ball daintily, properly.
“Knock it in,” I smiled, stepping away.
He pulled the putt to the left.
There were gasps and then the gasps were drowned out by raucous cheers as the ball didn’t even get a piece of the cup.
All Knut could do was stare down at the ball as if he couldn’t figure out where in the hell that ace of clubs came from.
I didn’t realize we’d won the Ryder Cup in that moment. Not until Mitch was picking me up and whirling me around and everybody came rushing onto the green to pick me up and whirl me around.
There was another hole to play, and it hadn’t occurred to me that Knut’s bogey had put me one up with only one to play. I’d cinched a half-point for us, which was all we needed.
Captain Larry Foster, fine sportsman that he is, gave the last hole to Knut. In the permanent record book this would show that Knut and I halved the match individually, but this didn’t matter to me. All that mattered to me was the final score of the Ryder Cup.
USA 141/2, Europe 131/2.
After all the handshakes and backslaps and hugs from good pals and total strangers, and while a massive celebration involving hundreds of American fans was forming up near the clubhouse, I was left with Cheryl and Alleene.
Cheryl embraced me and we kissed, long and hard.
“Can I kiss this guy, too?” Alleene asked Cheryl.
“Of course,” Cheryl said.
Alleene put her arms around my neck and I put my hands on her waist and we slowly kissed on the mouth.
“Careful,” said Cheryl.
Alleene and I broke off the kiss, laughing.
The three of us then walked arm in arm toward the clubhouse.
“Hello, golf,” Cheryl said with a grin.
THE BASIC END
Dan Jenkins is the author of several novels and nonfiction books, including Semi-Tough, Dead Solid Perfect, Rude Behavior, and Fairways and Greens, and writes an enduringly popular column in Golf Digest. He is the sponsor of the Dan Jenkins Goat Hills Partnership, a charity golf tournament that attracts players from around the world. He divides his time between Fort Worth, Texas, and New York City.
Also by Dan Jenkins
NOVELS
Rude Behavior
You Gotta Play Hurt
Fast Copy
Life Its Ownself
Baja Oklahoma
Limo (with Bud Shrake)
Dead Solid Perfect
Semi-Tough
NONFICTION
I’ll Tell You One Thing
Fairways and Greens
Bubba Talks
“You Call It Sports but I Say It’s a Jungle Out There”
Football (with Walter Iooss, Jr.)
Saturday’s America
The Dogged Victims of Inexorable Fate
The Best 18 Golf Holes in America
A hardcover edition of this book was originally published in 2001 by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. It is here reprinted by arrangement with Doubleday.
THE MONEY-WHIPPED STEER-JOB THREE-JACK GIVE-UP ARTIST. Copyright © 2001 by Dan Jenkins. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address: Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc., 1540 Broadway, New York, NY 10036.
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday hardcover edition as follows:
Jenkins, Dan.
The money-whipped steer-job three-jack give-up artist :
a novel / Dan Jenkins.— 1st ed,
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3560.E48 M66 2001
813'.54—dc21 2001028602
eISBN 0-7679-1315-9
v1.0
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