I looked over at Moonlight. He had been enjoying himself, sipping on a Rolling Rock and watching me act like a kid in a candy store.
“We need to call Brett Sullivan at Golf House. This will make a terrific exhibition, and we can reproduce these pictures for a Golf Journal article.” I winked at my friend. “I bet they’ll want to take your picture and put it in there, too.”
He winced.
“You deserve the recognition,” I hastened to assure him. “Besides, they’ll have to interview you about how you acquired all this stuff.”
Moonlight started to protest, but I waved my hand at him. “Don’t give me that. There’s no way around it. Look, you wanted me to help you get the story out, and this is part of it. We can’t tell the story without you.”
I could tell that it still hadn’t dawned on Moonlight that his own story was inextricably bound together with the story of Bragg’s Point. It would have to be told as well. I started to say as much, but thought better of it. If he was spooked at the thought of explaining how he acquired this stuff, there was not telling how he might react to that. When he gave me a resigned look as if he understood that further protest was futile, I let it go at that. There was plenty of time later to break the rest of it to him gently.
I don’t recall how we got on the subject, but at one point we talked about the prospect of the golf course becoming a permanent site for the U.S. Open. Moonlight cackled at the thought of the best golfers in the world vying for our national championship at “the Point,” as he often called it. “When the wind starts blowin’, especially on all the shoreside holes, you’re gonna see some strange goin’s on.”
I remembered how the scores had ballooned in the ’92 Open at Pebble Beach under similar conditions. “If it’s anything like it gets at Pebble Beach, it’ll be a real test.”
Moonlight finished his beer. “Ya’ just don’t know, lad. We caught the old girl on a good day. Ya’ remember that little threat of a cloud ya’ got so worked up about? I’ve seen a few a’ those blow through so hard ya’ can’t do anythin’ but grab the grass an’ hold on.”
He laughed and continued. “You’ll see some funny things on the greens. I remember one day, we were on 8, an’ Mr. Roberts made his caddie lean against him so he could stay still enough to putt. Mr. Jones let him do it an’ then put two strokes on him. Mr. Roberts squealed ’bout it the rest a’ the round, but Mr. Jones stuck by it. Said there was no special exception in the Rules a’ Golf, not even for Cliff Roberts.”
As we talked more, Moonlight seemed more and more content with the notion of the USGA becoming the steward for Bragg’s Point. As he put it, “Now I know it’ll always be used in the right way.”
I told Moonlight that Francis Moore said he had something to tell us about Bragg’s Point that we didn’t know. He cocked his head to the side. “Like what?”
“I honestly don’t know. He didn’t want to tell me anything on the telephone. He said he’d tell us when he’s here next week.”
Moonlight seemed a little disappointed that a small cloud had appeared on the horizon, especially as we were just now basking in our good fortune. “People usually deliver bad news in person. Ya’ don’t think he’d turn on us, do ya’?”
It was only a hunch, but I didn’t think that was the case. “Now don’t start worrying about it, okay? It won’t do any good anyway. He didn’t say anything about changing his mind, so let’s just wait and see what it is.”
I spent most of the next week barricaded in the library trying to complete a couple of briefs that unfortunately fell due within two days of each other. One case addressed the law governing an attempt to pierce the corporate veil of a subsidiary owned by a big company we represented. The other concerned the proper remedy for misrepresentations made to a client who sold his business to another corporation in return for stock that turned out to be worthless. Commercial litigation was pretty dry stuff for most people, but it was exciting enough for me. As a result, the time flew by.
Not so for Moonlight, who had nothing to do but obsess about the whole thing. I wasn’t taking calls while I was down in the library, so my desk usually contained several messages from him when I returned at the end of the day. Moonlight seemed almost panicky at the thought of anything causing his dream to unravel when we were so close to the end.
When I returned his calls, our conversations mostly consisted of my repeatedly warning him against blowing things out of proportion. This hand-holding usually lasted no more than ten minutes, but it required several sessions over the week before Francis Moore’s visit.
The day for our meeting finally arrived. I had come to feel that nothing Francis had to say could possibly be as bad as what I had been through over the past several days.
Our benefactor arrived punctually, and we met in the same conference room as before. I had told him earlier about Moonlight’s impressive collection, and he was anxious to hear more about it from the curator himself. I could tell that the last thing Moonlight wanted to do at the moment was talk about his souvenirs, but he politely described everything he had.
Moore eventually sensed our anxiety over his announcement, however, and got to the reason for his visit. Looking at Moonlight, he said, “I guess Charley told you I had something to tell the two of you about Bragg’s Point that I was certain you didn’t know.”
Moonlight looked grim. He appeared to have convinced himself that our friend was bringing bad news.
Moore turned to me and said, “Charley, do you remember when I told you not to comment anymore about Jones ‘rolling over in his grave’?”
I nodded.
“Well, it was more than just a matter of good taste.” He paused, and it appeared that he was deliberating carefully over what to say next. He then looked at each of us in turn and said evenly, “You see, one of the things that my father did for Bob Jones was to arrange for his secret burial at Bragg’s Point.”
It took a moment or two for that bit of news to register. Although my mind quickly raced through an endless list of questions, all I could do was stammer, “But, but, uh, I never saw a grave anywhere…” I then looked over at Moonlight, and he was shaking his head in agreement.
Our benefactor smiled patiently. “I knew it would be something of a shock. Most everyone thinks that Mr. Jones is buried here in Atlanta. But the marker here has nothing underneath it. His body is resting in his favorite place on earth, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.”
I was still dumbstruck. “But where…”
“Right beyond the 11th green, almost at the edge of the property. In fact, if you had looked, you would have noticed special bulkheading there to make certain there was no erosion.”
Moonlight and I sat there and looked at one another, still unable to say much of anything.
Moore continued to smile at our apparent confusion. “I know it comes as a surprise, but it really makes sense when you think about it. As Moonlight surely knows, Mr. Jones wanted solitude more than anything. He worried about his gravesite becoming a curiosity or, worse still, being desecrated by souvenir seekers. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it an obsession, but some of the people who knew him will tell you he had very strong feelings about it.”
Our patron got up and walked to the window. Turning back to us, he said, “Let’s face it, Bob Jones wouldn’t have retired at the age of 28 if he really enjoyed public attention or being in the limelight. The fact is, he didn’t. He just wanted to be with his friends at his own club. Unfortunately, you can’t do that these days without being ‘politically incorrect.’” With a trace of anger in his voice, he added, “You know, people can’t just talk about his great golf or his other accomplishments any more. Now they have to criticize him for not single-handedly changing the world that existed back in his day. They can’t leave the man alone even when he’s been dead for 30 years.”
I had finally regained control of my vocal cords. “Who knew about this?”
“His family, of course, my father, who used his
medical connections to transport the body there… and Cliff Roberts.” He paused. “That was about it.”
“The people who take care of the property don’t know?”
He shook his head. “Not really. There’s a small marker but no real inscription. They know it’s a grave and treat it respectfully as such, keeping it from being overgrown. But they don’t know that it’s where Bob Jones is buried.”
Moonlight finally spoke. “Now I understand why ya’ stayed so close to the property an’ had people take care of it. It wasn’t for the golf; it was for Mr. Jones.”
Moore was slow to answer. Finally, he said, “Well, yes and no. I have to admit that preserving the grave was most important, but that old course meant a lot, too. It’s all part of the same thing, you know?”
Moonlight nodded his understanding and said, “That must’ve been expensive over the years.”
Moore smiled. “Not really. Mr. Roberts paid for it while he was alive, and then he left a lot of money for Dad to use when he died in 1977.”
He gave us both a look that indicated he had more to say. With a slight hint of a smile, he said, “That’s not all. There’s more than one grave out there.”
I leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“Where do you think Cliff Roberts is buried?”
Moonlight exclaimed, “I should’ve known. No one ’round the club ever knew what happened to Mr. Roberts after he shot himself down at the pond on the par-three course. They said he was cremated, but no one ever saw the ashes.”
Moore smiled at Moonlight and said gently, “Well, now you know. He wasn’t cremated at all. He was placed to rest next to Jones, just as he requested in the note he left.”
“Is the grave marked?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes, but with nothing more than initials. Just something to let you know that there’s a grave there.”
So now we knew what Francis Moore had waited to tell us. Bobby Jones and Cliff Roberts were buried at the Point.
Chapter 37
FRANCIS MOORE WAS a decisive man. Now that he had wrested control of the Point from his brother, he wanted to move quickly with a plan to transfer the property to the USGA. But he knew that the USGA wouldn’t take on an asset like this without careful study. Besides, the idea of having a permanent site for the national championship was pretty radical.
He also believed that we should all visit the place together. He described it as kind of a brainstorming session on-site. He wanted to talk through his ideas with us before putting together a proposal to submit to the Executive Committee.
When he brought it up in our meeting, I expressed my reluctance at leaving work again so soon. He reminded me, however, that he had the Lear at his disposal and proposed that we fly down on Friday after work and return on Sunday.
Moonlight was immediately apprehensive. “How big is this plane a’ yours, Mr. Moore?”
I said quickly, “Moonlight’s not real fond of air travel. Our trip to California was his first flight.” Chuckling, I added, “I damned near had to sedate him to get him on the plane.”
Moore laughed and turned to our frowning friend, who did not appear to enjoy my joke. “Moonlight, we have one of the most modern jets made. It has all the latest equipment, and our pilots are the best.” He thought for a moment. “And I don’t fly in bad weather. That’s one of the advantages of owning a plane. It only leaves when I want it to leave.”
Moonlight said nothing more, but he still seemed a little unhappy at the prospect of making another cross-country flight while the unpleasant memory of his first experience was still fresh in his mind. In the end, however, he agreed to leave with us that Friday.
In the meantime, I finally got to talk with my friend Cheatwood. I called him from the office and caught him at work. We had a lot of catching up to do. Because he was a golf history buff, he was especially intrigued by the story of Bragg’s Point.
It was fun talking with him about it, because it helped remind me of what a special story it was. And if Cheatwood’s reaction was any indication, the story would shake the golf world when it was finally told.
“How on earth did they keep this such a secret?”
I laughed. “You’re gonna start asking all of the questions I’ve been asking Moonlight since we first met. And the answer, when you think about it, is pretty obvious. They kept this secret the same way they’ve always kept most things about Augusta National secret. People only know about Augusta National what the club wants them to know: the Masters and the golf course. The rest of it’s a mystery.”
He agreed.
I added, “And remember, they weren’t playing a famous tournament every year at the Point. So it wasn’t like Augusta. The media never descended on the place or had any reason to write about it.”
My friend reminded me that there were a number of ultra-private golf clubs with terrific layouts that were relatively unknown. “Remember what I told you once about Garden City Golf Club?”
I said that I vaguely recalled hearing the name.
“It’s a great course out on Long Island, rated in the top 100 all the time. Very old. I played an amateur tournament there during my college days. Hosted several U.S. Amateurs in the early part of the century. But it’s one of the best kept secrets of the golf world.”
He paused briefly. “If Garden City can be forgotten by the media—which by the way suits its members just fine—I guess it shouldn’t seem so strange that places like Bragg’s Point can go unnoticed.”
After he let his point sink in, he added, “And that’s not an isolated example. There are a lot of great courses that virtually no one has ever heard of.”
What Cheatwood said certainly made the secrecy surrounding Bragg’s Point less difficult to understand. Besides, there was no one in all of golf more respected than Bobby Jones. And as Moonlight has told me more than once, anyone who played the Point was carefully screened beforehand. Simply put, they were the people who wouldn’t dream of ruining the great man’s last refuge. Besides, as much as the players loved Jones, they feared Cliff Roberts. None of them wanted to jeopardize his annual invitation to Augusta. Frank Stranahan, a great amateur, was banished from Eden for violating Roberts’s self-imposed rules about practice rounds. Everyone who played in the Masters understood from the outset that their participation was not a right, but a privilege—and a fragile one at that. It wouldn’t have been hard to foresee how violating Jones’s confidence about Bragg’s Point would have meant immediate and permanent exile from Augusta.
For some reason, I didn’t tell my friend about the graves. In retrospect, I suspect that I already had reservations about bringing the U.S. Open to Bobby Jones’s gravesite. Whatever the reason, I wanted to be very careful with that last bit of information.
After hearing my description of its physical beauty, Cheatwood asked me a question I knew was coming. “Okay, I can’t stand it—when do I get to see the place?”
“I honestly don’t know, Ken. But I hope you get to see it soon. You’re going to love it; it’s one of a kind.”
We continued to talk for more than an hour. For one thing, my buddy wanted me to replay my round at Bragg’s Point shot by shot. While I could vividly recall all the holes in great detail—not to mention the stories that went with them—I was surprised to find that I didn’t remember quite so much about the golf. Cheatwood then asked me a hundred questions about Moonlight, and I was happy to tell him all about him.
I had forgotten how much fun it had been to share the Beau Stedman story with him—and how valuable his instincts and insights had been as we pieced the whole thing together. I knew that my friend would instantly understand and appreciate Moonlight’s passion for the game and for what Bragg’s Point meant.
The best news from our conversation, though, was that Cheatwood had decided to limit his clerkship to one year (even though he had been offered a second year by the judge) and that he had informed Emile Guidry that he would be starting his career at Butler & Ya
tes the following July. Until then, I hadn’t been certain that he was really coming, but now it was official.
I talked with Moonlight again on the evening before we left. I had to reassure him again about the flight. I told him how Lear jets were well-known for their reliability and safety, but I’m not sure he was convinced. It was pretty clear he was going to need a drink or two before getting on the plane.
Just as we were signing off, he said, “Charley, what do ya’ make a’ the news ’bout the graves?”
I wasn’t sure what to say, probably because I still didn’t know what to make of it all just yet. “I don’t know, my friend. Maybe that’s why the place has such a spiritual feel to it, you know?”
“I was thinkin’ the same thing. It’s like they was walkin’ the course with us.” Before I could say anything more, he added a short postscript for emphasis. “I just knew there was magic there. An’ I told ya’ that, didn’t I?”
I laughed. “Yeah, Moonlight, you told me. You certainly did.” After a fashion, I added, “You also told me that Jones had never left the place. Sounds to me like you may have known about the graves all along.”
He was quick to answer. “No, Charley, I swear I didn’t. I was talkin’ ’bout his spirit, ya’ know? I just didn’t know how right I was.”
Neither of us said anything for a while. Then Moonlight spoke again. “Ya’ know, I always had a funny feelin’ ’bout that hole. At least now I know why.”
After we hung up, I finished packing.
We had agreed to meet Francis Moore at a small FBO at the west end of Hartsfield Airport at four o’clock Friday afternoon. That was early enough to avoid the worst part of the afternoon traffic.
Moonlight was waiting for me when I got there. He was pacing around inside the small lobby and looked very nervous. As I walked up to him, he greeted me with a complaint. “Ya’ didn’t tell me there wouldn’t be a bar here.”
“Well,” I said, turning my palms up, “it’s not like the main terminal.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small packet. “Here. It’s Dramamine, the same stuff I gave you before the last trip. This’ll take care of you.”
The Greatest Course That Never Was Page 25