The Greatest Course That Never Was

by J. Michael Veron

  By the time we were done, it was late afternoon. We went back to the hotel. As we were headed to our room, Moonlight abruptly took his leave. He didn’t say where he was going, and I didn’t ask.

  When he returned a few hours later, we ate a snack for supper and watched a little television in the room. He didn’t speak much and seemed preoccupied. I guess I was, too, because I didn’t push for conversation.

  As I turned out the lights that night, I knew I would have trouble sleeping again. Only this time, it wouldn’t be Moonlight’s snoring that would keep me awake. My mind was crowded with questions about the splendid place called Bragg’s Point.

  Chapter 15

  I AWOKE THE next morning to find Moonlight sitting in the only chair in the room. He was cleaning my golf clubs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “My job,” was his terse reply.

  “Since when is that your job?”

  “Since today it’s my job.”

  I was now fully awake and able to understand what he meant. He was going to caddie for me today, and cleaning his player’s clubs was part of a caddie’s job.

  I glanced over at the clock on the table next to my bed. It was only 6:15 in the morning.

  “It’s kind of early to be doing that, isn’t it?”

  “Beats layin’ ’round in bed all day.”

  “Touché.”

  Moonlight softened his attitude. “Nah, it’s alright, lad. When ya’ get as ol’ as me, ya’ can’t sleep much anyway. Dream those sweet dreams while you’re young.”

  I got up, showered, and dressed. By the time I was done, he had finished with the clubs. “Ready for some breakfast?”

  I told him that I was, and we left for the coffee shop.

  Moonlight ordered eggs over easy, with bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee. He also wanted grits, but they didn’t have any. I was surprised he didn’t ask for haggis, too, and I asked him if he always ate like that.

  “Nah. Too much trouble to cook like this at home. Besides, this stuff’ll kill ya’ if ya’ eat it all the time.”

  It didn’t take long for our conversation to turn to Bragg’s Point. I had laid awake thinking about the course until the wee hours of the morning, and I had questions.

  “Moonlight, who owns the property now?”

  “Good question. It was supposed to belong to Mr. Jones, but Mr. Roberts always handled all the paperwork. I once heard Mr. Jones refer to a foundation, an’ I gathered that the land was under the control a’… whaddya call it?”

  I tried to think of whatever word he might be searching for. “Are you talking about a trustee?”

  “Yeah,” he said brightly. “That’s the word he used.”

  “I wonder why they would do that?”

  “Beats me.” He bit into a slice of bacon. “I guess they figured that puttin’ Mr. Jones’s name on it would attract attention, an’ that’d defeat the whole purpose a’ what they were doin’.”

  I considered how ironic it was that Jones took such great pains to remove himself from the public eye. Celebrities almost always crave attention, no matter what they may say otherwise. And public adulation is apparently as addictive as any drug. The most difficult adjustment most famous athletes are forced to make upon retirement is not so much the loss of competition but the loss of the constant ego-stroking from adoring fans.

  But Jones not only embraced a world away from the limelight, he went to extremes to wall himself away from public view. He found the perfect architect for a new private life in Cliff Roberts, a man who had many acquaintances but few friends. Nor did Roberts have family obligations to distract him from serving Jones; a series of unhappy marriages produced no children.

  During my tossing and turning the night before, I had also wondered why we were waiting until two o’clock in the afternoon to play. As I quipped to Moonlight at breakfast, it wasn’t as if all the morning starting times were booked.

  “When ya’ see what the afternoon sun does to the place, you’ll see why we’re playin’ then. The spirit a’ the course becomes most evident in the settin’ sun.”

  So we were back to the magic. I wondered if I would ever understand it. It was becoming clear that the most important part of the story of Bragg’s Point, that Moonlight wanted me to relate to others, was not so much its geography but its spirituality. Jones had found a piece of ground that was holy to him. To be sure, the gorgeous setting was important, but Moonlight clearly believed that it was only a small part of what made Bragg’s Point so special.

  That Sunday, he wanted me to envision that other layer, the one beneath the marvelous physical beauty of the place. I guess he felt like I could only take in so much at a time. So the day before had been my first view, and I had needed 24 hours to get over the splendor of it all.

  I recalled that Jones had hated the Old Course at St. Andrews at first. He had to play it several times before he began to understand and appreciate its subtleties and charm. By the time he finished his career, he would rate it as the best course he had ever played.

  Moonlight obviously believed that, just as with Jones at St. Andrews, a true appreciation of Bragg’s Point would take time. The first sight, though spectacular, didn’t reveal all that was there. I only hoped that I would eventually see everything I was supposed to see.

  I shared my misgivings with him as he was finished the last of his toast.

  “You’ll see it, lad. Ya’ won’t be able to miss it.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Once ya’ play the course, you’ll be under its spell.”

  I hadn’t considered our round to be part of a ritual, but Moonlight apparently did. Play the course, say abracadabra, and the spell is complete. It was kind of a scary thought.

  Back in the room, I began to consider what I was supposed to do with this discovery that Moonlight was sharing with me. He had always said that he wanted me to tell the story. Now he had shown me the secret place. That proved the place existed, but not the truth of all the stories associated with it. If we could prove them to be true, Moonlight’s tales would reveal the “magic” that was the real story of Bragg’s Point.

  The only tangible evidence I had of any activity at the place was the old scorecard Moonlight had given me. The lawyer part of my brain began to compile a list of exhibits to prove Moonlight’s case for Bragg’s Point. I needed to research the public records here to document the conveyance of the property and to show its present ownership. Beyond that, I had to find some paper trail to connect the deeds to Jones and Roberts.

  We would also need mementos from the secret club, physical evidence that would prove what took place there. Were there other scorecards? Maybe a guest register of some kind existed. Old photographs would be the strongest evidence.

  Moonlight had promised from the beginning that he could prove what he was telling me. I hoped he understood that the world was not going to believe his fantastic story just on his say-so. Like the crowd at Phil’s Bottle Shop, they might well dismiss him (and me) as crazy if we couldn’t back up our claims.

  We left for the course right after eating a light lunch. As we drove along, I shared with Moonlight my concerns about having adequate evidence to give “our story” credibility.

  “Didn’t I tell ya’ I’d lots a’ proof?”

  “Yeah, you did, Moonlight. But I think we need more than your testimony. The world is a cynical place, you know? People will think we’ve got an angle when we tell them about Bragg’s Point. They’ll say we’re just trying to make money somehow, and they’ll use that as an excuse not to believe us.”

  He nodded. “That’s the beauty of our story. It’s not ’bout money. It’s ’bout much, much more. An’ I’ve got all the proof you’ll ever need, so put your mind at ease.”

  We passed through the security checkpoint (Moonlight’s new card worked just fine) and onto the winding road that had been so difficult to negotiate the day before. For some reason, the brush didn’t seem quite so d
ense this time. I assumed it was due to the fact that I now knew my way and wasn’t quite so uneasy about what lay ahead.

  When we arrived at the gate, Moonlight got out to unlock it. As he pulled out his key, he suddenly stopped. I saw him reach up to the padlock and take it into his hand. He turned it over, as if he were looking for its serial number or checking for damage. He then flipped it open, pushed the gate back, and waited for me to drive through.

  He was quiet when he got back in the car.

  “What were you looking at?”

  He shook his head side to side slowly. “I dunno. I could’ve sworn I locked that gate when we left here yesterday.”

  I felt a little unsettled. “What do you mean?”

  “The lock was open.”

  “Maybe you didn’t push it all the way closed yesterday. Maybe it didn’t catch.”

  He nodded. “Or maybe someone’s expectin’ us.”

  I stopped the car. Suddenly, I recalled again how I had heard strange sounds while we were in Jones’s quarters the day before and had seen something move below when I looked out of his window. I didn’t like what I was feeling at that moment.

  “You want me to turn around?”

  He was quiet. After staring ahead for a minute, he said, “Nah. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I didn’t close the lock.” He shook his head as if to clear it of bad thoughts. “I don’t mean to go buggy on ya’, lad. I’m okay now. Let’s get goin’. We’re due on the first tee shortly.”

  I wasn’t quite so keen on playing anymore, but I put the car in gear and continued down our narrow path toward the clubhouse. In a few moments, we were clear of the brush again.

  But there was one difference: There was a flag on the 18th green in front of the clubhouse. Looking closer, I saw, too, that the green had been mowed. So had the first and eighth tees that flanked each side of the clubhouse.

  Without thinking, I jumped out of the car and ran to the front of the clubhouse for a better look. I could see several more greens from where I stood. Each one had a flagstick and appeared to be ready for play. The same for every teeing ground in view.

  I felt Moonlight standing next to me.

  “I told you I heard something when we were leaving yesterday.” I looked at him closely. For the first time, it dawned on me that my newly found trust in him may have been misplaced. Maybe I was being manipulated in some way. Lawyers are trained to be a little paranoid; it helps to avoid being surprised at trial. But as I looked at Moonlight, he appeared to be as bewildered as I was.

  “Glory be. The magic’s stronger than I thought.”

  “Magic, hell. Moonlight, I hate to tell you, but you’re not the only one who knows about this place.”

  He shook his head, still looking around in wonderment at what was before us. “I’m tellin’ ya’, lad, the spirit here is strong. Stronger than anythin’ you’ve ever seen. Don’t let go a’ your faith. Not now, when we’ve come this far.”

  He turned to me and said simply, “I’ll get your clubs.” He left me standing there and headed back toward the car.

  In a few minutes, he returned with my golf bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Follow me.”

  We walked to the first tee. Unless we turned back, I was about to put myself under the spell of the Bragg’s Point Golf Links.

  Chapter 16

  AS WE STOOD on the first tee, Moonlight must have sensed my lack of faith, and I could tell he was disappointed. “Do ya’ wanna call the thing off?”

  I knew he was testing me.

  “No,” I assured him. “But it’s kind of hard to concentrate with something as weird as this going on.”

  “Show your faith, lad. The course has been made ready for ya’. It don’t matter who or why. When it comes right down to it, all ya’ can do is play. Whoever—or whatever—did this wants ya’ to play. Can’t ya’ see that?”

  I treated his question as rhetorical, mainly because I didn’t have an answer. Moonlight took my silence as an agreement to continue.

  Although the tees and greens were prepared for play, the fairways looked exactly as they had the day before. The grass was tall and thick—perfect for rough at a U.S. Open, perhaps, but unsuitable for much of anything else.

  I pointed down the first fairway and asked Moonlight, “How are we going to find a ball in that stuff?”

  He smiled in a condescending way, as if disappointed in my continued unbelief. “Remember what I told ya’ ’bout my nickname? Leave that worry to me, lad. Ya’ just hit the ball where I tell ya’. I’ll take care a’ the rest.”

  He started walking toward the clubhouse, telling me over his shoulder to loosen up. I started stretching. In a few minutes, he reappeared, wearing the white overalls worn by the caddies at the National.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Ya’ don’t think Mr. Roberts would have us dress any differently here than at the National, now do ya’?”

  When he bent down to pick up my bag, I saw that my name was on his back. Before I could comment, he began emptying the pockets of my bag on the ground.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ya’ got all kinds a’ stuff in here ya’ don’t need. I’m gonna lighten my load a little.”

  He started dropping balls, head covers, an umbrella, and other unnecessary baggage right there in a pile on the tee. He was down to the essentials, nothing more than my clubs, a couple of tees, a glove, and a ball. Pointing to the pile, he said, “We’ll get this when we’re done.”

  “But you only left me with one ball.”

  He clucked disapprovingly at me. “One ball’s all you’ll need. Stop that whinin’, will ya’? Ya’ need to embrace the spirit, lad. It’ll tell us what to do. Don’t worry. I’ll hear it even if ya’ don’t.”

  As we stood there on the first tee, I began to swing my driver back and forth to loosen up. Moonlight was watching me intently.

  “Ya’ got a good-lookin’ swing there, Charley. What are ya’—’bout a five or there’bouts?”

  I was impressed. Actually, I told him, I was a six, although I had been a semipermanent twelve until I got serious about the game a couple of years before.

  “Well,” he said, “You’ll be just fine today, so long as ya’ do what I say. Ya’ got plenty a’ game, if you’ll just take what the course here gives ya’. It rewards virtue, especially patience. Get greedy, an’ she’ll slap ya’ down hard.”

  “I’m in your hands,” I assured him.

  “Fine. Now listen to me. The key here is to stay outta the brush. You’ll find that it runs up an’ down the sides a’ every hole. Sometimes it takes your ball an’ won’t give it back.”

  I looked out at the wiry grass and thickets of brush that appeared to form a gauntlet at each hole. It was clear what he meant.

  “An’ another thing. Mr. Jones tol’ that Maxwell fella he wanted a thorough test a’ golfin’ skills. Some holes turn left; others turn right. Some are short, an’ some are long. Some a’ the greens break toward the water, but not all of’em. The trick is knowin’ which ones. That’s my job.”

  I nodded to indicate that I was paying attention. He took it as a sign to continue.

  “But the real killer out here is the wind. It’s like the devil; it’ll lie to ya’. Ya’ think it’s comin’ in from the ocean, but it’ll swirl over the brush, bounce off these trees, an’ do tricks with your ball.”

  Again, I let him know I would heed his warning.

  He continued with his briefing of the course. “Mr. Jones knew that the course had to be maintained by a small staff. That’s why he told Maxwell to keep bunkers to a minimum. So ya’ won’t see quite so many out here as ya’ might expect.”

  He snorted. “Not that it matters; ’tween the trees an’ the wind, you’ll’ve all the challenges ya’ can handle.”

  He watched as I continued to make dry swings, trying to knock the rust off. It seemed to inspire one more bit of advice.

  “Can ya’ knock the ball down?”<
br />
  I suppose I was feeling a little intimidated. After all, Moonlight was a veteran who had caddied for the likes of Bobby Jones. I hesitated, not sure of what to say.

  Sensing my unease, Moonlight pulled my 7-iron out of my bag, took a stance with it, and said, “It’s easy, lad. Ya’ just play the ball back in your stance a coupla’ inches. Pick the club up quickly on your backswing”—here, he demonstrated—“an’ hit down steeply. Then cut off your follow-through, keep’n it low. The ball’ll come out on a clothesline. It’ll bore right through the wind an’ stop the minute it lands.” He gave me a wink. “An’ that’s how ya’ cheat the devil.”

  I couldn’t resist a quip. “I never thought golf was so theological.”

  He laughed. “You’re closer to the truth than ya’ think, Charley. Anyway, Mr. Hogan knew how to play that shot bet-ter’n any man alive. Mr. Palmer was almost as good. He could hit a 9-iron a 140 yards, an’ it never got higher’n your chest.”

  I gave a slight whistle in appreciation.

  “Is there anything else I need to know about the course?”

  He thought for a second. “Just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember you’re walkin’ with the great ones.” With that, he handed me a scorecard. It was identical to the one he had sent me earlier, only this one had no scores. He had written my name on it. It was an eerie feeling seeing that same shaky handwriting I had first seen on his mysterious notes. It was as if I was now becoming a part of the story.

  Somehow, he could tell what I was thinking. “When we’re done, lad, we’ll put your card in the box with all the rest. You’ll leave your mark on this place, too.”

  He then handed me my ball and a tee. “Ya’ can play away now.” Pointing down the first fairway, he said, “Favor the right side if ya’ can. It’ll make it easier to get ’round the corner.”

  Moonlight was referring to a dogleg that swung gently right about 275 yards down the fairway. As I considered my tee shot, I began to look critically at the hole for the first time. It was a generous and forgiving starting hole that measured 471 yards, according to the card. From the tee, the hole ran downhill to a wide fairway, encouraging—and rewarding—big hitters.