The Greatest Course That Never Was

by J. Michael Veron

  So it made sense that, if Jones was going to build another course out west—particularly one overlooking the Pacific Ocean—he would have wanted MacKenzie to design it. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen because MacKenzie died unexpectedly at the age of 63 in 1934. From all accounts, he never even saw his completed handiwork at Augusta National before he fell ill. As a result he wouldn’t have been available to help Jones with Bragg’s Point, so Maxwell was apparently tapped for the job.

  I was interested in knowing more about Maxwell’s design work. Could he possibly have matched MacKenzie’s brilliant work at Cypress Point? There wasn’t enough time to run that to ground at the moment, however, because it was time to leave for San Francisco.

  Chapter 11

  MOONLIGHT AGREED TO meet me at the airport. I found him at the ticket counter just as I was checking my bags. He sported his familiar Hogan cap, polyester pants, and caddie’s sneakers. And he looked nervous.

  I smiled and tried to reassure him. “All set?”

  He looked at me, licked his lips, and said, “I could use a drink.”

  I laughed. “Did you take the Dramamine I gave you?”

  “Nah, I thought I’d wait an’ wash it down with some Scotch.”

  I recalled his fondness for Rolling Rock. “I thought you liked beer.”

  “At a time like this, I need somethin’ a little more potent.”

  I looked at my watch. “Well, we’ve got an hour before our flight leaves. Let’s find a bar.”

  I knew that there was one down on our concourse. I headed him in that direction. As we approached the security station, he stopped short. After looking around nervously, he asked,

  “What’s all this?”

  His question reminded me that he had never flown before. So naturally he hadn’t ever been through the security screenings or metal detectors that have become a necessary aspect of air travel. As skittish as he was, I didn’t want to tell him that these security measures were a response to the threat of terrorist skyjackings.

  “It’s just a routine thing.”

  We got in line. As we approached the portal, we could hear the security guards directing everyone ahead of us to place all jewelry and other metal objects in a plastic tray to avoid setting off the sensors. At about the same time, I saw Moonlight carefully reading the warning signs announcing that it was a violation of federal law to carry weapons onto an airplane. The next thing I knew, he had pulled me out of line and said in an agitated voice that I needed to follow him. I did, to a nearby restroom.

  To my astonishment, he then opened his jacket to reveal a small .22-caliber handgun. I grabbed his coat, closed it, and shoved him into a stall.

  “What the hell are you doing with that?” My voice was louder than I would have liked, but it was difficult to whisper under the circumstances.

  “I didn’t know…” he said lamely before I cut him off.

  I fought off visions of sitting before a hearing committee trying to avoid disbarment for a federal firearms violation. “For God’s sake, why are you packin’ a gun?” I didn’t wait for his answer. Reeling off a long strip of toilet paper, I grabbed the gun from him, wrapped it up, and then opened the stall door. At that point, another man entered the room, but he walked straight over to a urinal, which put his back to us. I moved quickly to drop the wad of paper into the trash receptacle and then pulled Moonlight by the scruff of the neck out of there as fast as I could.

  I was too nervous to return to the security station, so we headed back toward the lobby. As luck would have it, there was a lounge at the far end. I made a beeline for it, literally dragging Moonlight with me.

  “Now wait just a damned minute,” he said finally. “Ya’ don’t have to get crazy, ya’ know.”

  I turned on my heels to face him. “You’re calling me crazy?”

  I saw from his reaction that I had hurt him. I patted his shoulder in a gesture of reconciliation. Pointing to the bar, I said, “Look, let’s duck in there for a drink. I need one now even more than you do.”

  After Moonlight promised that he had no more unpleasant surprises for me, I bought a round of Scotch. One drink led to another, and we were both pretty lightheaded by the time we boarded our flight.

  The combination of whiskey and Dramamine took its toll on Moonlight shortly after we were airborne, and he slept most of the way. I was grateful that we encountered no turbulence to disturb his restful sleep. He didn’t wake up until we were beginning our descent into San Francisco.

  Even after he was fully awake, Moonlight wouldn’t look out of his window. He preferred to stare straight ahead as if he were counting the minutes until we would be back on the ground. I don’t think he really began to relax until we had retrieved our luggage and located the rental car. By that time, the incident with the gun seemed to be behind us, although I never did get a straight story about why he had it to begin with. He did tell me later that it wasn’t loaded and that he wasn’t even carrying any ammunition for it. Like so many other things about Moonlight, that didn’t make any sense either.

  As we exited the San Francisco airport, I turned to Moonlight and said, “Do I take 101 North?” I was referring to Highway 101, which runs north and south along the West Coast from Tijuana to Canada.

  He gave me a wry smile. “So ya’ think ya’ know where to go, do ya’?”

  It was my turn to be coy. “I may have some idea,” I said, leaving him to wonder how much I did know about his big “secret.”

  Moonlight was not to be outdone. He let me drive on for a bit before commenting, “Well, this is at least in the right direction.” After a pause, he added, “But it ain’t the only way to get there.”

  We soon came upon a sign indicating an exit one mile ahead to California Highway 1. Pointing to it, Moonlight instructed me to take the exit. “This way’s better.”

  And it was. Where Highway 101 strayed inland as much as 40 miles or more, Highway 1 hugged the coastline for a hundred miles or so before it eventually looped back into 101. The view along the way was breathtaking. Lots of beaches, bluffs, cliffs, and ocean.

  I saw any number of remarkable vistas for golf courses. Depending on how much of the area was still unclaimed by developers nearly 70 years ago, Jones could have found his golfing nirvana virtually anywhere along the Northern California coast. I could only hope that there was something left in the area to identify the location of Bragg’s Point. Otherwise, I would soon have to rely on Moonlight for further directions.

  I engaged him again in another history tutorial. “Tell me how they were able to finance the new course.”

  He grunted. “We’ve been over that, Charley. Mr. Roberts took care a’ that. He did it the same way they built the National. Mr. Roberts could lay his hands on a lotta money up North. Ya’ know, they built Augusta National in ’bout three months. The man could really mobilize the troops when need be.”

  “And even with all those people involved, they kept it a secret?”

  Moonlight laughed. “You’re havin’ trouble with that part of it, ain’t ya’? Ya’ had to know Mr. Roberts. He didn’t tell ya’ anythin’ he didn’t want ya’ to know. An’ no one questioned his authority. Not if they wanted to stay in the club at Augusta. Besides, things were different then. People kept their word ’bout things, ya’ know?”

  He watched some seagulls hovering over the beach to our left. “Mr. Jones put a lotta his own money into this project, too. He got paid big money for makin’ those movies. He had family money, too, an’ owned a Coca-Cola bottlin’ plant in Massachusetts.”

  I knew that Jones came from money. His grandfather owned virtually all of Canton, Georgia, including its main bank and cotton plantation. And his father, a lawyer nicknamed “The Colonel,” had done well, too. Jones was an only child, so everything had gone to him.

  The Coca-Cola plant was news, however. I figured it must have come through Jones’s connections with the founding family of the Atlanta-based company. I made a note to ask Moonlight
about that part again later.

  Moonlight was suddenly in the mood to talk. “Ya’ know, another thing that Jones liked ’bout it out here was that he could play all summer. Hell, sometimes ya’ had to wear a sweater’n July. Back’n Georgia, ya’ wouldn’t think ’bout stayin’ out in the sun very long in the middle a’ the summer. That’s why they always closed the National from May to October.”

  “But what about Jones’s law practice? Was it a problem for him to be gone for long periods of time?”

  “Nah,” Moonlight said lightly. “Just to have Mr. Jones’s name in that firm you’re workin’ for was money in the bank for ’em. Ya’ don’t think they objected if he took off to play golf, do ya’?”

  Not if they wanted to play Augusta National or enjoy the considerable financial benefits of being associated with the greatest golfer in the world, I thought.

  “They began to call the course at the National ‘the tournament course,’” Moonlight explained. “An’ those who knew ’bout the new course referred to it as ‘Bob’s course.’”

  Knowing Roberts’s penchant for promotion, especially in the early years of the tournament, I asked Moonlight why they didn’t refer to it as “the Masters course.”

  “Ya’ know, Mr. Jones never really liked that name. He wanted to call it the Augusta National Invitational Tournament. Mr. Roberts kept pesterin’ him to call it the Masters. Mr. Jones eventually gave in, but he never used that name. He just called it ‘the tournament,’ an’ that’s what the members called it. At least, the older members did—an’ still do.”

  I was becoming more and more fascinated by the idea of the world’s most famous golfer hiding away and playing on his private playground. I had to admit that what Moonlight was telling me made sense. Everything I knew about Jones was consistent with Moonlight’s story. Jones was, as Moonlight suggested, a very private person who was drained by public attention. How else could you explain his decision to step down from the top of the sporting world before his prime?

  I remained skeptical, however, about keeping such a remarkable secret from the media. Moonlight didn’t seem to think that was such a difficult thing. “If ya’ think ’bout it, ya’ could do it then. The news media wasn’t so snoopy. They didn’t have no television, ya’ know. An’ reportin’ was different back then. I guess they felt they needed famous people more’n famous people needed them, so they looked the other way when asked. Besides, Mr. Jones an’ Mr. Roberts had some powerful friends in the media.”

  I recalled that Grantland Rice, perhaps the preeminent sportswriter of the day, was one of the original members of Augusta National. Jones’s influence ran deep into the American Establishment.

  Moonlight gave me a mischievous look. “I guess I should tell ya’. There was one fella who came close to figurin’ it out. Never knew what happened to him.”

  “What do you mean?” I sensed that there was a great deal more to be told from the tone in his voice.

  “Not long after the course opened, we heard that some guy was snoopin’ ’round town askin’ questions. He was some kinda reporter or investigator. I really don’t know if he was with a newspaper back East or from the government.” He gave me a sideways look and cocked an eyebrow. “Ya’ know, I don’t think the land deal went through normal channels, if ya’ know what I mean. Maybe some bureaucrat was gettin’ nosy, for all I know.”

  “Okay, so what happened?”

  “Mr. Jones was worried that the course’d become public knowledge. He thought it’d look bad, not to mention probably shut the place down. He tol’ some a’ the others who were out here playin’ ’bout it. One a’ the caddies in the group was a guy named Clarence Henderson. His nickname was ‘The Cleaver.’ I never knew why. Frankly, didn’t wanna know.”

  What an ominous handle, I thought.

  “Anyway, the man was fanatically devoted to Mr. Jones. Apparently, he loved bein’ a caddie ’cause it was the first thing that ever kept him outta trouble. The guy had done three stretches in prison before he somehow caught on at the National.”

  I interrupted Moonlight to ask why anyone at Augusta National would hire a three-time felon nicknamed “The Cleaver.”

  “They don’t check references in the caddie shack. If a guy is willin’ to show up, keep up, an’ shut up, he’s got the makin’s of a good caddie.”

  I laughed.

  Moonlight apparently thought I was making light of the caddie’s job. “It ain’t as easy as it sounds, lad. You’re either hur-ryin’ ahead or behind the player, gettin’ a pin or repairin’ a divot or bunker. An’ in between you’re givin’ out yardage an’ tellin’ him what club to hit or how much a putt breaks. Ya’ never get credit when you’re right—the good shots are always the player’s doin’. But when you’re wrong, ya’ hear ’bout it, ya’ know what I mean?”

  I tried to make amends by saying sympathetically, “Sounds like being an umpire. When you do a good job, no one notices. Blow one call, though, and everybody’s all over your case.”

  Moonlight just grunted, as if still a little upset at me for not appreciating the demands of his profession. I needed to get him back on track, so I asked about Clarence Henderson again.

  “He had somethin’ inside his head, kinda like a gyroscope. Never seen anythin’ like it before or since. The man could measure yardage without ever pacin’ anythin’ off. We’d check him, an’ he was right on the money every time.”

  He paused and stroked the permanent stubble on his chin. “That wasn’t the best part, either. He did the same thing with the wind. At the National, the wind can kill ya’ on the back nine, especially at number 12.”

  Moonlight was referring to the adventurous par 3 whose meager 153 yards had often proved to be too much for some of the world’s best players. The hole challenges the player with a shallow green that is nestled against the back edge of the property, where the wind direction above the tall loblolly pines is often different from what the player feels against his cheek or sees at the flag. As a result, the slightest miscalculation can mean that a tee shot finds the pond guarding the front of the green or gets lost in the dense brush covering the hill immediately behind it. In virtually every Masters tournament, at least one contender has encountered disaster on Sunday because he was deceived by the air currents swirling above the 12th green.

  There have been any number of novel theories advanced by Masters veterans about how to figure the wind at the 12th. Ben Hogan supposedly ignored the tips of the pines swaying above and instead looked at the flag on the nearby 11th green to determine which way the wind would blow his tee shot. Ken Venturi has claimed that a limp flag at 11 means the wind is moving above 12 and that a flag waving in the breeze there means there is no wind above the par 3 at the moment. Neither one of them ever adequately explained the basis for their theories.

  At any rate, I understood the enormous value of having a caddie at Augusta National who could decipher which way the wind was blowing, particularly down at Amen Corner.

  “So Henderson had the wind figured out, huh?”

  “It was amazin’, I tell ya’. Whenever we were on a bag in his group, we’d look to him at the 12th before we said anythin’ to our man. Even when we had a bet, he never lied to us. Got it right every time.”

  “How’d he end up at the new course?”

  “Mr. Jones an’ Mr. Roberts didn’t want to take a chance an’ hire people out here they didn’t know. They took several of us from the National. They didn’t need many; wasn’t gonna be that many playin’ the course anyway. Anyhow, Clarence wanted to get away. He was tryin’ to live down a bad reputation, an’ people in Augusta knew all ’bout his past. Guess he felt he’d be gettin’ a fresh start out here.”

  He pointed toward the ocean. “Can ya’ imagine havin’ a caddie who can figure out what that wind’s gonna do comin’ in off the ocean an’ bouncin’ ’round in these trees?”

  I took it to be a rhetorical question and continued with the interview. “So what did Henderson hav
e to do with the guy who was snoopin’ around?”

  He took a long time answering. “I got no evidence a’ what I’m ’bout to tell ya’.” He hesitated again, carefully choosing his words. “The man had an almost religious attitude ’bout Mr. Jones, like he was his savior or somethin’. He must’ve felt like workin’ for Mr. Jones at the National turned his life ’round, if ya’ know what I mean.”

  I nodded. A lot of people back then had made a religion out of following Jones.

  “Like I said, Clarence was in the group when Mr. Jones shared his fears ’bout what this fella might find. The next thing we knew, the fella disappeared. Never heard from ag’in.”

  “What makes you think Henderson had anything to do with it? Maybe the guy just went back to wherever he came from.”

  Moonlight shook his head. “I don’t think so. Clarence tol’ another one a’ the caddies, Gra’m McNulty, ‘My man won’t have to worry ’bout that snitch no more.’ It don’t take a genius to figure the rest out.”

  “Did they ever find a body or any evidence of foul play?”

  Moonlight laughed softly. “Ya’ lawyers all sound like you’re a book. Ya’ got that lawyer-talk down, Charley, I’ll say that for ya’.”

  I took no offense. “Well, they pound it into you for three years, night and day. Either you learn it their way or you don’t become a lawyer.”

  He nodded agreeably. “To answer your question, they never found nothin’.” He paused a moment before adding, “An’ that was the end a’ that.”

  “You don’t think Jones had anything to do with it, do you?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no, nothin’ at all. Clarence would never’ve said anythin’ to him ’bout it. He protected Mr. Jones. Besides, he knew Mr. Jones would never had stood for anythin’ like that. It was just his way a’ takin’ care a’ his man.”