Moonlight shifted my bag to his other shoulder. “But we had a caddie who could outputt anyone on tour. Name was Jedediah Nash. He was one a’ the original ones at the National. Mr. Jones had known him for years. In fact, Mr. Jones tol’ people at the club that Jedediah was the one who taught him how to put that hook overspin on his putts to make ’em roll better.”
This was something new. I had never heard of Jedediah Nash, much less that he helped Jones with his putting.
“So how come this fellow Nash never played the tour?”
Moonlight laughed. “’Cause he couldn’t hit the ball a lick. But he won all the games of ‘up and down’ in the caddie yard. He had the damnedest short game of any man alive.”
He paused as he recollected the caddie who was a short game wizard.
“Mr. Snead loved to bet with the caddies. After Nash beat him three days in a row on the puttin’ green, Mr. Snead said he’d pay double if Jedediah would show him some a’ his tricks.”
“Did he?”
“Oh, yeah, Jedediah showed him, alright. Showed him how to cut his downhill putts to slow ’em down an’ how to hook ’em to get ’em to run through the grain. Did the same thing with chips. An’ he taught him how to dead wrist the ball on short pitches to take the air out of it. Jedediah could pitch the ball onto a downhill slope an’ make it pop back into his pocket.”
We arrived at the green as I pondered Moonlight’s hyperbole. I had about 25 feet to the hole. It looked pretty straight. Moonlight barely looked at the line and said, “It’ll break left when it loses speed. Play it a ball out.”
I did as I was told and hit the putt. The result reminded me of the old joke: Other than distance and direction, there wasn’t a thing wrong with the putt. It took me two more tries to get the ball in the hole. I would’ve been upset on any other day, but not today.
At that point, the course turned inland, as the fifth hole ran parallel and counter to its predecessor. It was ten yards or so longer and played slightly downhill off the tee before turning right and leveling out. As a result, it didn’t play quite as long as it’s listed 417 yards. Still, it was a healthy two-shotter, as Moonlight called it.
Pockets of scrub brush and fir and cypress trees touched both sides of the fairway, but they were considerably thicker on the left side, which was farther inland. As Moonlight pulled my driver from my bag, he said, “Take it down the middle, but favor the left if ya’ have to.”
I managed a good swing—thanks to his steady reassurance —and so we were off down the fairway again. Despite my earlier concerns, I noticed that Moonlight seemed to have even more energy than when we started. It was as if he was drawing something from the place.
Once again, he walked straight to my ball. I was no longer surprised to find that I had another perfect lie. Moonlight looked at the nearby bunker to confirm his bearings, and said quite simply, “It’s right at a 160 yards to the middle. Pin looks left, behind the edge a’ that greenside bunker. It’s a sucker location. Ignore it an’ play to the center a’ the green.”
I tried to follow his instructions, but I came over the top, sending the ball left of my intended line. It dove into the very bunker that Moonlight had warned me to avoid.
As I handed my 6-iron back to Moonlight, he said brightly, “Well, you’re into a bit a’ history there.”
Seeing my puzzled look, he explained, “When we get there, you’ll see what I mean.”
I followed him quickly to the green. When we got to the hazard, he pointed to its contours and said, “Can ya’ make out the shape a’ the thing? Mr. Jones said it was what he liked best ’bout MacKenzie’s work. At one time, ya’ could see it all over the National, before they let every architect an’ his brother tinker with the course. Mr. Jones told Maxwell that he wanted the bunkers at Bragg’s Point to look that way.”
I saw what he meant. The trap wasn’t just a round hole dug in the middle of the course. Instead, it had several fingers radiating from its center. I was immediately reminded of the large bunker on the tenth hole at Augusta National that sits about 75 yards or so in front of the green. Although it rarely comes into play, it offers a stunning visual effect as players round the dogleg and begin the long walk down the slope to the landing area.
“The players liked ’em, too. That meant a lot to Mr. Jones. Mr. Sarazen used to spend hours practicin’ outta this very bunker. Ya’ know, he had invented the sand wedge. Had a big contract with Wilson because of it. But he was forever tin-kerin’ with the design, tryin’ to make it better. The Wilson people were always pressurin’ him to come up with somethin’ new they could sell. So he kept solderin’ on the sole, addin’ bounce, takin’ off bounce.”
I had heard that the famous Wilson R-90 wedge was one of Sarazen’s designs. “They say that Wilson made Sarazen a rich man on account of that wedge.”
Moonlight shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno what the numbers were, but I know one man who would.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. His name was Ivory Chavis. He was in charge a’ the locker room here. Mr. Jones brought him out from Augusta with the rest of us. Mr. Sarazen talked him into lettin’ him use his buffin’ wheel to grind on his wedges. He’d wrap sandpaper ’round the wheel.”
Moonlight put my bag down next to the bunker. “Chavis had to replace his wheel twice ’cause the motors would burn out. They just weren’t made for the heavy pressure Mr. Sarazen was puttin’ on ’em. Chavis used to say, ‘Mr. Gene, ya’ better’ splain to Mr. Jones why his shoes ain’t as shiny as they used to be. Tell him why my wheel don’t work.’”
He laughed at the thought of the bright little man they called the Squire using a shoe buffer to grind wedges. “Sarazen ended up givin’ him a piece a’ his royalty on one a’ his new wedges. Made him the wealthiest locker-room man in America.”
I saw that my ball was sitting on the upslope of the bunker. Moonlight had pulled my sand wedge from my bag.
I opened the face of the club until the grooves pointed past the front of my left foot, opened my stance, and swung. The ball rode atop the layer of old, compacted sand removed by my club as it sliced underneath it and dropped right next to the hole. Once it landed, it released into a lazy roll and stopped no more than six feet from the pin.
I was so pleased with myself. “How about that?”
Moonlight had already removed my putter from the bag and was exchanging it for the sand wedge. “Don’t act surprised, lad. When ya’ swing like you’re supposed to, the ball knows it.”
I got a little too casual on my putt and missed on the right.
Moonlight reproached me. “Let’s keep our mind on what we’re doin’, now, okay?”
I had to laugh. Moonlight had spent a lifetime carrying clubs for serious players, and he wasn’t about to take off his game face now. I hated to tell him, but I was a whole lot more interested in learning all about this wondrous place than I was in keeping score.
Chapter 18
THE SIXTH HOLE was a par 5. The card said it was 519 yards in length. (I found the odd yardages to be a curious thing. Why 519 instead of 515 or 520? After all, it wasn’t as if the tee markers were never moved.) It doglegged to the left and required the player to choose between a high-risk second shot that had to carry a cove and at the same time avoid a deep bunker or a simple layup for a fairly routine wedge on the third shot. It was the kind of decision that Jones himself relished on three-shot holes.
The brush and thicket that lined the left side of the fairway were thick and heavy. As we stood on the tee, I reached for my driver. Moonlight placed his hand on it. “Not here, lad. This is what Mr. Jones called a ‘USGA par 5.’ He said it was like the ones he played in the U.S. Open. Ya’ couldn’t reach ’em in two, an’ with the rough so high, there was no point in hittin’ the driver.”
He sorted through my irons, found the 3, and handed it to me. “Use this. All we want to do is keep it in play.”
That’s about all I managed, hitting it fat and sending
the ball no more than 175 yards from the tee.
Moonlight was quick to comfort me. “That’s alright. It’s in the fairway. We’re where we need to be.”
As he picked up my bag, he asked me if I ever heard of “Bootsie” Beacham. I said no.
He laughed. “I didn’t think ya’ had. Bootsie was the first caddie they hired who was from out here. One a’ the Augusta guys got homesick an’ left. They needed someone quick. Mr. Jones asked ’round, an’ somehow Bootsie got sent here.”
He shook his head, still laughing. “One thing ya’ knew the minute ya’ met him; he was gay, although they called it some-thin’ else back then. Bootsie didn’t really care what anyone thought; he literally skipped ’round the golf course. Ya’ should’ve seen the reactions a’ the players who’d never been ’round him. They’d drop their jaws in amazement. Mr. Jones would just grin. He liked Bootsie a lot an’ tolerated his flitty ways—probably ’cause Bootsie read these greens better’n anyone but Slats Reinauer.”
I wondered if it might have been Bootsie that I had seen in the shadows. “Do you think he’s still around?”
“Nah. After a coupla’ years, he went out on tour as a caddie for a pro a’ similar persuasion, who for obvious reasons, I won’t name. The guy won a few events, an’ Bootsie ended up makin’ some money, which he promptly spent on a sex-change operation.”
“I didn’t think they did those back then.”
“Not in this country. Hell, he went all the way to Denmark or Russia or someplace. Anyway, that pretty much ended his career. Not that it mattered. I heard later he—or she—married some rich guy up East. They spent their time playin’ golf all over the world.” He chuckled. “I don’t guess the guy ever did figure out why his ‘wife’ was such a strong player.”
“What made you think of Bootsie?”
He kept looking straight ahead at the spot where he had located my ball. “Aw, I dunno. I just remember bein’ on this hole when Bootsie was caddyin’ in the same group. Bein’ out here brings back a lotta memories, ya’ know?”
When we got to my ball, Moonlight pointed to the fairway and said, “Ya’ got 180 to the corner there. It’s another 40 yards or so to the trees beyond that on the other side a’ the fairway. We need to keep it between there.”
I saw what he meant. The fairway made another turn right before presenting the green to the player. I needed to keep my ball within the bracketed yardage to have an open shot.
“Another 3-iron?” I asked hesitantly.
He nodded confidently. “That’s the one. Keep it smooth an’ let the club do the work.”
I hit it better than my last effort.
As Moonlight wiped the club clean with his towel, he said, “Not much more’n an 8-iron in from there.”
As we made our way along, Moonlight asked me about my clubs, which were the perimeter-weighted type that were marketed under the euphemism of “game improvement” clubs.
“Ya’ like these?” I sensed from his question that he didn’t think much of anything that wasn’t a traditional blade.
“Yeah, I do,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “They feel good.”
“Well,” he sniffed, “they’re popular ’nough these days. I just can’t seem to get used to how they look.” He walked a few more steps before offering, “‘Course, ya’ seem to hit ’em well enough.”
As we stood at my ball, Moonlight pointed to a nearby cypress. “It’s right at 130 yards from that tree there to the middle a’ the green. We’re a coupla’ yards behind that. I think ya’ can get there with an eight.”
Which, of course, was the club he had called from 200 yards back.
The green at the sixth was guarded by two bunkers. The first was in front of the green. The other wrapped around the green’s left side, extending from front to back. Since it was the side opposite the water, I imagined that the left-hand bunker had been a frequent destination for nervous approaches.
Before pulling my bag away, Moonlight offered his parting advice. “Ignore that front bunker. Ya’ can’t tell from here, but it’s a good 70 yards in front a’ the green. Maxwell learned that trick from MacKenzie. Changes the dimensions a’ the green to the eye an’ makes it harder to figure the right club. It ain’t as tough as it looks. Just shoot for the flag; it looks like it’s dead center. If the ball rolls right after it lands, that’s okay. It’ll leave us an uphill putt.”
Beyond the green, I could see the clubhouse in the distance, sitting on the bluff above us. As I stood over the ball, I turned to take one last look at my target. When I looked at the flag, I saw something move off in the distance. I backed away and looked at Moonlight. I waited for him to say something, but he remained quiet. Finally, I said, “Did you see that?”
He looked puzzled. “Whaddya mean?”
Once again, I thought, I’m seeing things that Moonlight doesn’t see, or at least won’t admit to seeing. There didn’t seem to be any point in saying anything more.
“Nothing. I guess the wind made something move.”
But it distracted me. I had lost my concentration. What should have been an easy 8-iron turned into a spastic effort that pulled the ball so far left it even missed the bunker.
Moonlight seemed miffed. “Well, that wasn’t your best effort, now was it?”
“No, it wasn’t,” I admitted.
To make things worse, I had missed on the high side of the green. I would have to pitch the ball over the bunker down onto a green that fell away from me. I knew it would be hard to get the ball close to the hole.
When we got to the ball, I saw that I had a fluffy lie. I tried a flop shot, but came too far underneath the ball and left it short, about five feet from the hole. I then pushed the putt just enough to miss it on the right side.
The seventh hole was a one-shot hole that played back toward the clubhouse. At only 131 yards, it was easily the shortest hole on the course. Because it ran slightly uphill, Moonlight warned me that it played a half a club or so more than its measured distance. According to him, most players either punched a 7-iron or hit a full 8.
As might be expected, Maxwell’s design compensated for lack of distance by requiring great precision in the tee shot at the seventh. The green was small and elevated. On every side were deep swales that served as grass bunkers. Missing the green meant the player faced a very difficult up-and-down for par.
The view of the ocean behind the tee made it hard to turn away and focus on the target. From where we stood, the third and sixth greens and the rocks jutting up from the ocean floor just off the shore formed a spectacular backdrop. Throw in the crashing surf and daunting ocean breeze, and the player on the tee had more than enough distractions to make him forget whatever swing he thought he had when he teed his ball.
As I took it all in, I spoke what I was thinking. “This is a helluva place.”
Moonlight nodded in agreement. “It’s awe-inspirin’, isn’t it?” As he handed me the 8-iron, he cautioned me, “Keep your mind on your business now, lad.”
He pointed out a line to the middle of the putting surface and told me to ignore the pin, which was tucked in the front right quarter of the green. “Aim for the dead center. Anywhere on the green will do just fine.”
I made a good pass at the ball that sent it toward the middle of the green. However, the trade winds from the sea pushed it left, and I ended up in a grass bunker.
As we walked down toward the green, I asked Moonlight how Jones thought this course compared to the National.
He gave me a curious look. “Now, ya’ don’t think Mr. Jones would be so rude as to suggest that any course was better than the National, do ya’?” He chuckled and added, “Not if he ever wanted to face Mr. Roberts ag’in.”
“Maybe not, but I was wondering if he ever made any comparisons at all.”
“Well,” Moonlight said carefully, “I heard him say more’n once that he thought both courses tested every club in the bag.” After a moment, he added, “I can tell ya’ tha
t he changed some things at the National because a’ the way some a’ these holes played.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Well, he liked the forced carries on several a’ the holes here. Ya’ seen it on the fourth an’ sixth holes. There’s more on the back. So he turned what was nothin’ more than a ditch into a pond at the 16th at Augusta. Plus, he thought havin’ problems beyond the green, like the 13th an’ 16th holes on the back side here, tested a player’s ability to control distance.”
He laid my bag next to the green. “That’s why he had ’em slope the back a’ the 15th at the National to run down to the new pond at the 16th. Overshootin’ the green with a long second shot now will land ya’ in the water. It wasn’t always that way, but now there’s greater risk in goin’ for the green in two. Mr. Jones also had ’em cover the upslope behind number 12 with all kinds a’ brush to penalize any shot over the green. Remember how it caught up with Greg Norman at the Masters in ’99 when he was fightin’ for the lead?”
I remembered how Norman had lost his ball in the dense vegetation behind the 12th green. Under penalty of stroke and distance, he had to return to the tee. Despite what must have been bitter disappointment, he hit his next shot on the green and made a lengthy putt for a heroic four.
Something else clicked inside my head. “I did read somewhere that Perry Maxwell was hired by Augusta National sometime after it opened to make some modifications to the course.”
Moonlight laughed. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”
I managed to escape the bunker, but just barely. I then lagged a 20-footer and tapped in for four.
The eighth hole ran slightly inland across the beach on a diagonal. As we stood on the tee, Moonlight explained that this 486-yard hole could be reached in two with a good tee shot, allowing the player a good chance at four when five was a good score. Because of higher ground on the left side of the fairway, the ball tended to run toward the right when it landed. For that reason, Moonlight directed me to aim down the left side of the fairway from the tee, keeping the ball inside a small group of trees on the left.
The Greatest Course That Never Was Page 12