He headed for the door, then stopped. “Oh, yeah. There’s one more thing. Your man in Mobile must have pretty good connections.”
“What do you mean?”
Frankie smiled. “He’s a member at Augusta National.”
Before I could react, he was out the door and gone.
Chapter 31
BEFORE I CALLED Francis Moore, I sat down and scripted the conversation. I had learned that from Emile Guidry. He preached effective communication as the key to successful lawyering. As he put it, “You can do so much more for your clients by avoiding fights instead of picking them.”
So I made notes in a rough outline form of what I wanted to say to Mr. Moore. I ran through them a couple of times to make sure I had the right phrases and tone for what I wanted to say, and then dialed the number on the paper that Frankie had given me.
Of course, Moore wasn’t in. His secretary informed me that he was out of town and wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. I left my name and number, thanked her, and hung up.
I was disappointed, but not nearly as much as Moonlight. He acted like a kid waiting for Christmas. “More delay,” he grumbled when I told him. “That’s what I get for dealin’ with lawyers.”
I probably should have been offended, but his tone was more frustrated than malicious. I tried to remind him of how lucky we were to have located the man.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he conceded. “But we gotta wait two days to see if he’ll even consider helpin’ us.”
“Maybe so, Moonlight, but it’s progress. You have to be patient.”
I don’t think he was fully satisfied by what I said, but I promised I would continue with my research in the library while we waited, just in case legal action became our last chance to save Bragg’s Point.
I was able to occupy myself with a couple of depositions and a brief over the next couple of days, so the time passed quickly. I was midway through the morning mail on the third day when our receptionist told me that a “Mr. Moore” was on the line returning my call.
I grabbed my notes and picked up the phone.
Francis Moore had a very pleasant voice that was quite different from his brother’s haughty tone. I thanked him immediately for returning my call so promptly.
He laughed. “Well, it’s very interesting that you called while I was in Portland. At the same time you were on the phone with my office, I was listening to a presentation by David Fay about a project of yours that hits very close to home with me.”
I dropped my prepared text. “You were at the USGA Executive Committee meeting?”
The combination of awe and surprise in my voice made him laugh. “Yeah, I’ve been a part of that group for about three years now.”
The news that Francis Moore was a member of the USGA’s Executive Committee was quite a surprise, and a welcome one at that, to say the least. I became more optimistic than ever that Francis Moore might have a very different take on this than his brother.
“Then you know all about what I was going to tell you.”
His tone remained gracious and warm. “Yes, I do. It’s something that was very dear to my Dad, and so it’s very dear to me.” He paused, and when he spoke again I heard the first trace of emotion from him. “I regret that my brother doesn’t see things the same way.”
Although the conversation was headed in the direction I had hoped for, it was moving much faster than I anticipated. The radical departure from my prepared script left me with nothing to say about the intimate family differences that apparently separated Francis Moore and his evil twin. As a result, his remark was followed by an awkward silence.
Without changing his pleasant tone or otherwise showing any sign of embarrassment, Francis Moore calmly explained his dysfunctional relationship with his brother. “No one likes to wash dirty linen in public, but I’m afraid there’s no alternative now. You see, my brother always seemed to feel the need to compete with me for my father’s affection, as if it were a zero sum game. I don’t know why; maybe it’s just the way he’s built.”
In my one conversation with Dr. Stephen Moore, I could well imagine the man he was describing.
“As you probably know by now, my father was one of the early members at Augusta. You see, our family also had a membership at East Lake and knew the Jones family well. So it wasn’t that big a surprise when Bob Jones asked my Dad to join the club after he had returned to Atlanta to practice. Dad eventually joined Peachtree, too, when it got started.”
There was another pause as Francis Moore considered what to say next. “Stephen and I went to Augusta with Dad on many occasions. As we got older, Stephen made it clear that he wanted to join the club, too. If anything, he made it too clear, if you know what I mean. Campaigning for something like that is considered to be poor form at Augusta, and it hardly ever works. Dad tried to get him to cool it, but Stephen is… well, Stephen is who he is.”
I felt the need to ease things by finishing the story for him. “But you are a member at Augusta. So you got invited instead of Stephen?”
He sounded relieved that I appeared to understand. “Yes. Apparently there was only room for one of us, and I got the call.” He gave out a short and awkward laugh, more to ease the tension than anything else. “I enjoy it, but it wasn’t something I had given a lot of thought to. It would have meant so much more to Stephen, and I’ve often wondered whether I should have turned it down because of him. If I had known then what it would do to him, I might have.”
“Stephen’s a member at Peachtree,” I interjected. “Was that his consolation prize?”
He sniffed. “I’m not sure I would call a club as good as Peachtree a consolation prize. It’s a wonderful place. Quite a golf course, you know.”
I felt embarrassed by his graciousness. “I didn’t mean to slight Peachtree, but I take it that your brother might have felt it was a step down.”
“He apparently did… or I guess I should say still does.”
I wondered how long he had known about Bragg’s Point.
“Oh, I’ve known about the place for a number of years. Dad told us both after swearing us to secrecy. He wanted us to know about the trust in case something happened to him. He always said it was the most special place on earth.”
That brought me to an obvious question. “Why did he make Stephen the trustee instead of you?”
I heard him sigh over the telephone. “Dad always felt guilty about me getting into Augusta and how it disappointed Stephen so much. He was afraid that Stephen may have gone into medicine just to please him, so he felt obligated toward him. When he told me he wanted to appoint Stephen to replace him as trustee for Bragg’s Point, I told him it was okay with me. I hated to see him tormented by something like that.”
“Were you aware of your brother’s plans to sell the property?”
“I suspected something was up, but I didn’t know what it was. The last time I saw Stephen, he said something about finally hitting a home run.” Another pause. “You see, Stephen has never been satisfied. He makes a fabulous income as a cardiologist, but even that kind of money’s not enough when it’s the only way you measure your self-esteem.”
I could tell that Francis Moore had long ago resigned himself to the flaws in his brother’s character. “So you figure selling the property was his chance to join the heavy hitters’ league and be somebody?”
He sounded a little put off. “Well, that’s kind of blunt, but, yeah, I’d say that’s right.”
I had now come to the crucial questions.
“How do you think your father would feel about selling the property?”
He responded quickly and without hesitation. “He wouldn’t like it.”
“What do you make of your brother’s new company?”
His voice immediately sounded sad. “I hate to say it, but I don’t think he’s going to do much with it. He may have convinced himself he will, but I’m afraid it’s just a convenient place to park the money.”
“You ma
y be the only person who can stop him,” I said evenly.
“I already thought of that.”
I was wondering just how much he had, in fact, thought about it. “If necessary, could you bring yourself to sue your brother?”
There was a long pause. “It would destroy what little semblance of family affection still exists between us, but I really think that’s what Dad would want me to do.”
To reassure him, I said quickly, “We’re hoping it won’t come to that, but it may be our last resort.”
He apparently didn’t want to leave any doubt about his commitment to honor his father’s wishes. “I’m not looking for a fight, but I’ll do whatever I have to do.”
This was a perfect example of how the very thing that makes clubs like Augusta so attractive to many folks—their exclusivity—is also their curse. Admitting a select few necessarily means rejecting an unselected many. Stephen Moore was obviously embittered by his exclusion from Augusta, particularly in light of his brother’s admission into its inner circle.
The irony, of course, was that the brother who was deemed not good enough for a coveted membership at Augusta now held the fate of its second course in his hands.
We talked for another ten minutes or so. Francis Moore agreed to arrange a meeting with his brother and try to dissuade him from selling the property. If his brother was unwilling to back off, Francis would threaten legal action. In Georgia, anyone on the opposite side of Bobby Jones in a lawsuit —even though Jones had been dead for 30 years or so—faced a rather steep hill to climb. We were hoping that Dr. Moore would feel the same way and relent without a court fight.
“If your brother backs off, what do you think should be done with the property?”
His answer surprised me. “I think it should be donated to the USGA. Don’t you think it would make a great permanent site for the U.S. Open?”
That wasn’t something I had ever considered, not even in my wildest dreams. The U.S. Open had always been rotated around the country’s grandest and most historic venues, such as Winged Foot, Baltusrol, Oakmont, Oakland Hills, Pebble Beach, and Olympic.
But the idea, as incredible—and politically impossible—as it sounded, made sense. Each year, the USGA invested untold numbers of staff man-hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars in its future Open sites to convert them into the perfect test of golf for four days. Its staff actually moves on-site in advance of the national championship, overseeing the transformation of the course into a stadium for golf. Then, as soon as the champion is crowned, the entire show packs its tent and moves on, to be reassembled the following year at another venue.
In that respect, all three rotating majors are no doubt envious of the Masters. Its headquarters never moves. Television towers, media amenities, and all the other necessities of staging such a grand event remain pretty much in place or are stored on-site. No one has to find new accommodations year after year, because everyone knows where they are staying in Augusta during Masters week.
By making Bragg’s Point a permanent site, the USGA could achieve the same economy. More importantly, it would have total control of the golf course on a year-round basis, which would better assure that the course would be the perfect test for our national championship.
Beyond that, playing the same course every year would build the same kind of drama that the back nine at Augusta has enjoyed over the years. Golf fans relish speculating each year about what the Sunday afternoon leaders will do at Amen Corner or at the two par 5s on the back nine as the Masters winds down to its critical moments. They could do the same thing as the Open approached each year at Bragg’s Point.
It was also telling that Pebble Beach, a shoreside course very similar to Bragg’s Point, had produced some of the most memorable Opens ever played. First, there was Nicklaus’s 1972 win, punctuated by a 1-iron that struck the flag at the 17th hole to produce a clinching birdie. Then there was Watson’s miraculous chip-in at the same hole to vault him to the 1982 championship. Next to come was Kite’s unbelievable final round under nightmarish weather conditions to gain his only major championship at the 1992 Open. Finally, of course, there was Tiger Woods’s remarkable 2000 Open victory, when he played like Secretariat at the Belmont Stakes and literally ran away from the field by 15 strokes.
I could easily imagine that much and more at Bragg’s Point as the surf pounded the players who challenged it. The only negative I could see—and it was a big one—was lack of space. There wasn’t a lot of land there.
“Isn’t it kind of small for an Open venue? I mean, where would you put the fans, or their cars, for that matter?”
“Not a problem,” Francis Moore said easily. “The place will handle about 25 thousand. Recent Opens have gotten too big anyway. Some of the committee’s older members, who have been doing this for years, really miss the intimacy they say we used to have with the smaller crowds. And the government’s got 200 acres nearby that’s available for parking and concessions.”
“Sounds like you guys have known about this awhile.”
He laughed. “No, no one besides me knew about the place. I wouldn’t have ever thought of the idea, quite frankly. But once it was dropped in our laps, some of our USGA people in California made a few quick calls. Fort Bragg has been downsizing for over three years now. That land’s available, but only for passive use. Our deal would be perfect, just parking and concessions for a week once a year. No large permanent structures, and definitely no industrial use. They don’t want any industry anywhere near the coast.”
“What would you do with the place the rest of the year?”
He had a ready answer. “We could use it for a number of things. Testing new turfgrass. Testing balls, clubs. Tweaking the course. Perhaps other events, such as the Amateur or the Women’s or Senior Opens. Nothing’s carved in stone just yet, but there are all kinds of possibilities.”
I was impressed by his apparent sincerity in wanting to donate a hundred million dollar asset to the USGA and said so. He snorted, “What would you have me do? Steal it for myself? Isn’t that what my brother is trying to do?”
His response reminded me of Jones’s famous retort when he was congratulated for calling a penalty on himself that eventually cost him the 1925 U.S. Open championship at Worcester Country Club. In deflecting what he considered to be a stupid compliment, Jones supposedly said that “you might as well praise someone for not robbing a bank.”
I should have realized that Francis Moore thought what he was doing was nothing more than honoring the trust that Jones and Roberts had placed in his father. Considered that way, it was unthinkable for him to profit from the management of the property. It was equally insulting to him and his father’s memory that his brother was contemplating that very thing.
When we signed off, Francis told me he would be calling his brother later that day to set up a meeting, and he felt he would have something to report very soon.
Chapter 32
I HAD JUST returned to my office from a meeting down the hall with Emile Guidry when Gloria handed me a telephone message. The slip indicated that Francis Moore had called a half hour earlier.
It had been two days since we had spoken on the telephone. I was relieved that he had finally called me back; I was growing tired of fielding calls from Moonlight every couple of hours asking for status reports.
I had tried to keep Moonlight busy by telling him to catalogue his many treasures from Bragg’s Point. He complained in his last call that he had organized and reorganized the stuff so often that he was dreaming about it at night.
When I reached Francis Moore, I knew instantly from the deflated tone of his voice that the news wasn’t good.
“I’m afraid that my brother has lost sight of why our father was put in charge of this trust. He told me in no uncertain terms that the decision of what to do with the Bragg’s Point property was his and his alone. To quote him, he said to ‘Butt out.’”
Francis Moore sounded more sad than angry about his broth
er’s arrogance.
“I assume that it won’t do any good to talk to him any more about some kind of friendly solution to this.”
Francis sighed. “I’m afraid not. In the end, he hung up on me when I tried to reason with him. Told me not to lecture him.”
“Do you think it would do any good to meet with him in person?”
Stephen Moore’s brother sounded embarrassed. “He wouldn’t even consider it. He’s got blinders on and sees only one way to go with this.”
After a long pause, I said, “Brett Sullivan thought we might put some heat on him through the media.”
That didn’t seem to impress Francis Moore. “I don’t think the USGA wants to take sides by mounting a media campaign. It doesn’t really fit our image. Besides, I’m not sure my brother cares about what the media thinks. He only sees the money—and maybe the prospect of gaining some kind of revenge against me.”
I knew what that meant. “It may come down to our last resort, then, and that’s suing him to stop the sale.” I braced myself for a negative response. It wasn’t unusual for people to talk bravely of “suing the bastards” only to get cold feet when it came time to take action.
I could hear him take a deep breath and exhale on the other end of the line. “I can be in Atlanta tomorrow. Can you see me then?”
We made an appointment for the following afternoon.
I called Moonlight and gave him the news. He was disappointed that we didn’t have a quick solution but pleased that Francis Moore was apparently a man of his word.
He surprised me by offering to drive over for the meeting. Although Moonlight had been reluctant to meet Dr. Stephen Moore, he seemed much more comfortable with the thought of meeting his brother, who was sympathetic to our cause. I suspected that their common link to Augusta National helped.
I thought it would be a good idea. If nothing else, Moonlight could be a cheerleader in case Francis needed motivating.
After we hung up, I went over to Paul Watkins’s office. His head was buried in a disorganized pile of law books spread across his desk. While most of the lawyers in the firm did legal research on the computer, he preferred holding real books in his hands and turning their pages. I stood at his doorway for a moment, waiting to see if he looked up. I didn’t want to disturb him otherwise.
The Greatest Course That Never Was Page 21