The Greatest Course That Never Was

by J. Michael Veron

  I had to admit that whoever (or, as Moonlight put it, whatever) was out there was not unfriendly or hostile. They wanted us there and wanted us to play the golf course. It occurred to me that we might have some unexpected allies in our quest to give Bragg’s Point its rightful place in golf history. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the blonde girl telling us that our table was ready.

  Chapter 27

  GOLF IS A game that inspires blind devotion, the kind sometimes lavished by foolish men and women on unfaithful and abusive lovers. How else can you explain the way golfers feel about a game that disappoints them—even spurns them—far more often than it returns their affections?

  Moonlight obviously had fallen hard for the game early in his life. He had chosen to forsake any prospect of material wealth for the opportunity to be close enough to caress his great love on a daily basis. As the two of us followed the blonde girl to our table, I found it hard to fault him for doing so. Even as Moonlight approached his own sunset, he could look back at his life with contentment because he had spent it doing what he loved to do.

  It made me think. Would I find that kind of satisfaction arguing with people for a living? Those who play golf police themselves, and the integrity of the game is important to all who play it. Lawyers, on the other hand, spend their lives policing one another. Given the nature of law, I found that sadly ironic. As we sat looking at our menus, I had the disquieting realization that the life of a caddy was far less corrupting than the life of a lawyer. It wasn’t a happy thought for someone who had just finished three difficult years at a demanding (not to mention expensive) law school like Tulane.

  I considered ever so briefly whether I wanted to follow Moonlight’s career path and carry a golf bag for a living. After all, I was single and had no dependents. Unfortunately, there were student loans to be repaid, so I rejected the notion of leaving Butler & Yates, at least for the time being.

  My reverie about my career plans was interrupted by the appearance of our waitress. “Hi,” she said sweetly, “my name is Michelle, and I’m your server this evening. What can I get for you?”

  Moonlight ordered a filet, which the menu indicated was a specialty of the house. It sounded so appetizing that I abandoned my thoughts of eating healthy and ordered the same thing. We also called for our third round of beer.

  As Michelle walked away from the table, Moonlight watched her in an admiring way. “Ya’ know, I’m 84 years old, an’ I’ve never met a girl named Michelle who wasn’t pretty.”

  I laughed in admiration of his spunk. Moonlight reminded me of the pictures I had often seen of old Scottish caddies, still carrying a bag every day well into advanced age. I didn’t know if it was his heritage or the daily exercise (or both, perhaps), but Moonlight obviously still had a lot of life left in him.

  It seemed to me that it was time to figure out where we were going from here, so I asked Moonlight what he had in mind.

  “I want the world to know ’bout this place. Like I tol’ ya’ from the beginnin’, I want ya’ to do for Bragg’s Point what ya’ did for Beau Stedman.”

  “Moonlight, we’ve got to have more if we want the USGA to do something with this story. It’s too bad we don’t have pictures from the old days. That would help us prove your story.”

  He smiled in a mischievous sort of way. “Ah, who said we don’t have pictures—an’ more, for that matter?”

  I arched an eyebrow at my caddie friend. It wasn’t the first time he had hinted at having additional evidence. “Have you been holding out on me?”

  His smile grew. “Ya’ may have wondered why I never let ya’ in the house. I wasn’t sure I could show ya’ what I had just yet. I’ve got stuff, Charley, all kinds a’ stuff, all over the house. Ya’ want pictures? I’ve got pictures. An’ that ain’t all. I’ve got scorecards, flags, old clubs, bags, gin rummy scorepads, ya’ name it. I ended up with everythin’.”

  I nearly choked on my beer. It had never occurred to me that Moonlight might be the curator of the Bragg’s Point Golf Links collection. He was describing a trove of physical evidence that would corroborate all of his stories—and maybe persuade the USGA to share them with the golfing world.

  “You know, Moonlight, one of the major golf magazines might pay you a lot of money for this story.”

  He immediately gave me a look of ill humor. “Are ya’ for-gettin’ the deal we made? I tol’ ya’, we won’t be makin’ any money on this.” He threw his napkin on the table in disgust.

  I held up my hands. “Hold on, Moonlight. I’m not forgetting anything. And I’m certainly not questioning your integrity. I’ll do it just the way you want. I guess the lawyer in me just wanted you to be aware of your options.”

  He gradually calmed down. I continued to talk to him in a soothing tone. “The first thing I think we have to do is document who owns this property. We need to trace the chain of title back to when the course was being played so we can prove that it was under Jones’s control.”

  Our food arrived, which put an end to conversation for a while. About halfway through our steaks, Moonlight muttered something about “Augusta West.”

  “Augusta West?”

  “Yeah, that’s what some of ’em called the course out here. Mr. Demaret was the first. He’d tell Mr. Jones, ‘When are ya’ gonna have the tournament at the West course?’”

  Moonlight’s anecdote made me think of something. “You know, Demaret was the first player to win the Masters three times. They’ve got bridges named after Sarazen, Hogan, and Nelson, and they’ve got markers for Palmer and Nicklaus, but they don’t have a thing for Demaret. Do you know why?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t give ya’ a reason. Mr. Jones liked him, I know that. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have invited him out here to play the course as often as he did.” He finished chewing on another bite of steak. “Everyone liked Mr. Demaret. Hell, he was the only one I ever saw who could make Mr. Hogan laugh.”

  I commented that it was hard to imagine anyone making jokes around the man that the Scots called the “Wee Ice Mon.” Moonlight quickly disagreed.

  “I remember we came in late one afternoon after getting caught in the rain at the Point. We were all shiverin’ from the cold. Mr. Hogan was mad that we had to quit, mainly ’cause Mr. Demaret was three up on him. Mr. Hogan said somethin’ ’bout the cold keepin’ him from makin’ any putts. Mr. Demaret wasn’t havin’ any a’ that. He looked Mr. Hogan dead in the eye an’ said, ‘Ben, ya’ wouldn’t have beaten me today if your putter had been blessed by the Pope.’ Mr. Hogan just fumed at that. Mr. Demaret then winked at us an’ said ‘Watch me warm Ben up’.”

  He took another bite of his steak before continuing. “Anyway, while Mr. Hogan was in the shower, Mr. Demaret found some liniment an’ put it in Mr. Hogan’s shorts. When Mr. Hogan pulled those shorts on after his shower, his face turned four shades a’ red. That stuff must’ve burned like hell. Mr. Hogan whipped those boxers right off an’ yelled for Mr. Demaret, but the man was already sittin’ at the card table like nothin’ had happened.”

  Moonlight laughed again as he recalled the scene.

  “I’m surprised Hogan didn’t choke him.”

  Moonlight shook his head. “Aw, he ended up laughin’ ’bout it. To tell ya’ the truth, I think Mr. Hogan knew it was Mr. Demaret’s way a’ bein’ his friend. Ya’ know, Mr. Hogan didn’t allow himself a lotta friends. I don’t think he trusted many people. But he trusted Mr. Demaret.”

  We meandered through the remainder of our meal exchanging thoughts about golf, life, and Bobby Jones. Back at the hotel, we agreed to find the local courthouse the next morning so that I could research the title to the course at Bragg’s Point. After that, Moonlight wanted to take one last look at the golf course he so dearly loved before we caught an early flight the following day.

  The combination of red meat and alcohol proved to be lethal. Both of us fell asleep as soon as our heads hit our pillows. I never heard Moonlight’s freight-train snoring this t
ime, and, when I awoke the next morning, I felt like I had slept for a week.

  Moonlight, of course, was already up and gone on his morning walk. His note told me to meet him for breakfast. I showered, dressed, and went down to the coffee shop, where I found him in a corner booth covered with orange Naugahyde.

  He handed me a menu. “I already ordered.”

  I could still feel the remnants of the huge steak I had eaten the night before and told the waitress just to bring me coffee, juice, and toast. Moonlight had apparently worked up an appetite; he was having eggs, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits.

  I couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “Where do you put all that food?”

  “I dunno. Family trait, I guess.”

  We each retreated into our own thoughts for the rest of the meal. Once we were done, we got directions to the local courthouse from the cashier and headed out to the parking lot.

  The Mendocino County courthouse was located in Willits, a small town that was only eight miles away. We found it easily, and I made a mental note to thank the cashier later for her directions.

  The courthouse was an old building, and the conveyance records were kept in the basement. The clerk there was cooperative and helpful and showed us where everything was located. I found the volume for the 1930s and began looking under the letter “J” to see if we could find anything purchased or sold in the county by Robert Tyre Jones. Nothing.

  The results were different, however, when I looked under “R” for Roberts. On October 12, 1935, the United States Government issued a patent conveying a 124-acre tract of land to Charles de Clifford Roberts, Jr., for $5,200.I quickly did the math in my head, and it came to less than $50 an acre.

  That seemed like an absurdly low amount of money for such a splendid piece of land, but I reminded myself that this was still the Depression. Besides, this part of California must have seemed like the middle of nowhere back then. I just didn’t have enough information to tell whether the price represented the fair market value of the property.

  I then ran the records to see what happened to the property after Roberts acquired it. He didn’t hold onto it for long; there was a deed dated less than a year later in which Roberts conveyed the property to something called the Bragg’s Point Charitable Trust.

  I found the trust instrument in the records. Neither Jones nor Roberts was the trustee; instead, someone named P. Harvie Moore was placed in charge. I assumed that, for tax reasons, Roberts didn’t want to appear on both sides of the transaction. I also figured that Jones didn’t want his name attached because it would only attract unwanted attention.

  I had no idea who P. Harvie Moore was, but I suspected that he was a close friend and confidante of Roberts, possibly a member of the close circle of New Yorkers who had figured so prominently in the formation of Augusta National. On reading further, however, I saw that the trustee’s address was listed in Atlanta. Moore was apparently an insider who came from the Jones side of the equation rather than from Roberts’s connections.

  Roberts had donated the property to the trust for use as a golf course. The donation stated that the property could not be transferred again for the maximum period allowed by California law and that, if it was ever sold, the proceeds were to be used to benefit golf.

  I asked Moonlight if he knew anything about P. Harvie Moore.

  “Yeah, I knew him. He was a member at the National. He was a few years younger than Mr. Jones, but they knew one another from East Lake. He was a doctor—surgeon a’ some kind, as I recall. Pretty good player, too, for an amateur.”

  “Did he ever play the course out here?”

  “Oh, yeah, lots a’ times.”

  “Do you think he might still be around?”

  Moonlight shook his head. “I dunno. He’d be ’round my age, an’ there ain’t that many of us left.”

  I knew the records might tell us the answer, so I went back to the indices to see if there were any further conveyances affecting the property. Remarkably, there was nothing until 1988, when Harvie Moore’s son Stephen applied for and obtained judicial appointment as the successor trustee. His application stated that Harvie had died a few months before, giving rise to the need to name a new trustee.

  The records showed no further transactions. Thus, for all we knew, the present trustee of the Bragg’s Point Charitable Trust was Stephen R. Moore, whose address was given as 48 Peachtree Cove, Atlanta.

  I paid for copies of the documents pertaining to the trust and to Stephen Moore’s appointment, and we left. Moonlight wanted to see the course again, and for that matter so did I. So we headed toward Fort Bragg.

  Unlike the day before, the gate was locked this time. When we reached the clearing, I noticed that the flagsticks had been removed. I looked over at Moonlight. “I guess they figured one round was enough for us.” He just shrugged.

  When Moonlight had insisted on returning to the course again, I thought he might have had a specific purpose in mind. Perhaps he wanted to show me something else about the place.

  Instead, it appeared that he just wanted to breathe the air there one more time. He said little. We walked together down toward the water’s edge. I began to relive the previous day’s round, recalling shots played on the holes where we were walking. From the far-off look in his eyes, I could tell that Moonlight was recalling much more memorable events in the distant past.

  I should have understood better then, as I do now, that the events and people of Bragg’s Point were the defining moments of his life. Moonlight wasn’t just a caddie here at this secluded golf retreat; he was treated as a friend and intimate of the greatest golfers who ever lived. These were people he sat in the clubhouse with, playing cards, sharing beers, and telling stories, joined together by the common bond of their love of a great game.

  There were so few people admitted to Bragg’s Point that it was pointless to draw class lines between them. Everyone who was admitted through the gate was on equal footing. Moonlight may have been a caddie at Augusta National, but he was a member at Bragg’s Point. And it was his crowning achievement in life.

  We must have wandered all over the property for the better part of two hours. This wasn’t a place either one of us wanted to leave. Because I was less absorbed this day with the challenges of playing the game, I was able to appreciate better the marvelous design of the course. The way that the fairways traversed the slopes and ridges that graced the terrain seemed so natural and only served to enhance its features.

  I thought again of Alister MacKenzie’s design philosophy of “finding” the course in the land. Perry Maxwell had learned well during his apprenticeship. Every green seemed to be set in the only possible location it could have had, as if God Himself had done the routing of the course.

  This was a place that inspired thoughts of the Almighty. It was a place not only of great beauty, but of great peace. No wonder it meant so much to Jones.

  Unlike most world-class athletes, Jones did not thrive in the spotlight. Even while winning the four major championships of golf all in one year, he found performing for the public at the height of his powers to be so difficult that he vomited before virtually every championship round. Faced with the prospect of never again being able to enjoy a casual round away from public scrutiny—even at Augusta National—this hallowed retreat must have been the answer to his prayers.

  And it must have become even more important when he learned, in 1948, that he had syringomyelia, a slowly debilitating disease of the spinal cord with no known cause or cure. Like most great champions, Jones had enormous pride. The thought of putting himself on display playing the game as he became more and more crippled no doubt was repugnant to him. Too, Cliff Roberts and the other members of Jones’s small circle of confidantes almost certainly were just as pained at the thought of their wonderful friend being embarrassed to play the game of which he was once the indisputable master.

  Without Bragg’s Point, Jones would have had to give up the game years before the disease f
inally forced him to do so. Even after he put away his clubs for good, the seclusion of the place allowed him to drink in its beauty without onlookers and to be alone in his thoughts of a life well lived.

  For the first time, it also occurred to me that, in bringing the story of Bragg’s Point to the world, we were risking its destruction. I knew enough about the strong economic forces in this country to think, ever so briefly, that Bragg’s Point might be reduced to some garish amusement park for golf if it fell into the wrong hands. I resolved that, no matter what, I wouldn’t betray Moonlight and allow that to happen.

  Chapter 28

  WE COULD HAVE lingered there forever, but Moonlight and I eventually forced ourselves to withdraw from Jones’s idyllic refuge. Moonlight seemed especially reluctant to leave.

  “It took me so long to get back. I may never see this place ag’in.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get back here soon. You can count on that.” When he smiled, I added, “I’ve got the feeling this is the first of many trips out here.”

  I had come to feel real affection for Moonlight. After what I had heard at Phil’s Bottle Shop and being greeted by a shotgun at his door, my first inclination had been to dismiss him as an eccentric old coot. But, as I got to know him, particularly over the past few days, I could see that there was much about Moonlight to admire. He had a passion for life and a unwavering sense of values that directed that passion.

  Moonlight also understood the game of golf better than anyone I had ever known. Not just how to play the game, but what it meant and why it was such a noble sport. He understood its integrity, and that was driving his attitude about how we should bring the story of Bragg’s Point to life.

  Some of that was rubbing off on me, too. For one thing, I felt the same sadness about leaving the place as he did. My promise to Moonlight about returning was selfishly made; I expected to be with him on the return trip.