He took it from me, but grumbled that he would have preferred to chase it with Scotch rather than the soft drinks that were sitting on the table against the wall. I explained to him that most of the people who frequented the FBO were pilots of private aircraft and that, thank goodness, most of them didn’t drink and drive.
He looked at me sharply and said, “Whaddya mean, most of ’em?”
I was getting exasperated. “For Chrissake, Moonlight, calm down, will you? It was a joke, okay? These pilots are very serious about what they do. They do not, I repeat, do not drink before flying anywhere. They’d lose their license if they did, and they’d never get another job flying a plane.”
At that point, I was rescued from any further participation in our ludicrous debate by the arrival of Francis Moore.
Smiling as he approached us, he said, “You guys all set?”
I grinned back at him. “One of us is.”
He looked over at my forlorn friend and said, “ Moonlight, you’re not still worried about the flight, are you?”
Before Moonlight could start over again about the dangers of air flight, I interceded to spare Moore his diatribe. “I think he was hoping to have a drink before we took off to calm his nerves, and he’s a little upset that there’s no bar.”
Moore turned again to the diminutive Scotsman. “Not to worry, Moonlight. We have a well-stocked bar on the plane. Believe me, you’ll enjoy the flight—one way or the other.”
He looked at his watch. “The flight plan we filed calls for us to leave in about ten minutes. You guys got your bags?”
I pointed over to a corner. He said, “Great. I’ve already given mine to one of the pilots. Grab yours and come with me.”
We walked outside on the tarmac and saw the plane for the first time. It was a beauty and looked brand new. I whistled in appreciation. Francis turned to me and said, “Glad you like it. We’ve had it for almost a year now. It’ll spoil you real quick. With all the meetings I have to go to, I don’t know what I’d do without it.”
It was as plush inside as it was pretty outside. As we walked on, Moore introduced us to his chief pilot, David Boyer, and his co-pilot, Ed Gallaugher. It was comical to watch Moonlight look them over. I half expected him to try to smell their breath. They apparently passed inspection, however, because he continued on board and sat down next to me.
The plane had eight seats arranged in a way that allowed generous space for the passengers. Toward the rear was a table for eating, working, or playing cards. On the back wall was a refrigerator and bar.
Pointing to the back, Francis said to Moonlight, “There’s everything you need back there. If you’re hungry, we’ve even got some sandwiches in the fridge.”
Moonlight wasn’t looking for a meal. He opened the bar, pulled out a bottle of 15-year-old Macallan single-malt scotch, and poured himself three fingers’ worth, “neat.” Then he quickly slammed it against the back of his throat.
I looked at him. “I thought the Scots believed in savoring their favorite drink.”
He gave me an almost scornful expression. “Most Scots are too smart to get on one a’ these contraptions.”
He quickly poured himself another drink, but took a little more time with this one. By that time, the pilots had completed their preflight checklist. Gallaugher turned back to us and said, “Everybody buckled in? We’re ready to go.”
We settled in as the plane began to taxi down the runway. The Lear was true to its reputation as a powerful and smooth-flying aircraft. The takeoff was hardly noticeable, and Moonlight was asleep within ten minutes of finishing his second drink.
That left Francis and me to talk. The conversation was as pleasant as the flight. He wanted to know how I got involved in the Stedman story and how it was connected to my joint venture with Moonlight. He also seemed genuinely interested in my career in law, as well as my golf game. After I had satisfied his curiosity, I said turnabout was fair play and asked him to tell me about himself.
Francis was apparently comfortable with himself. He explained in an easy manner how he had grown up as a child of privilege, with a father who was a successful physician, and that he was taught early in his life to appreciate his good fortune. It had made an impression on him, as had most of the lessons his parents tried to teach their sons.
In particular, he talked about one piece of advice his father gave him that he had never forgotten. “He said that a father should have a reputation his children will want to live up to… not one they’ll have to live down.” It was an interesting comment that made me think of my own father, who always believed he could teach me more by example than by sermonizing.
Francis became sad as he explained that, for some reason he never really understood, his brother reacted very differently to the same upbringing. He didn’t know why, but Stephen Moore, who was two years younger, never seemed to have enough.
Looking down, Francis said sadly that he sometimes felt his brother entered medicine only because he thought it might give him an advantage over his sibling in attaining his father’s favor. “A rather curious reason to pursue a career, don’t you think?” he asked rhetorically.
Francis fell in love with golf at a young age and was inspired by Bobby Jones, who was a friend of the family and someone his father openly admired. He still remembered when his father was invited to join Augusta and how he wanted to play the course with him.
But his father had refused to bring him to Augusta at the time, telling him that he was too young to play the course. He told Francis he would have to wait until he was two years older, but the young boy negotiated a different deal that foreshadowed his later business success: would his father take him to Augusta when he was able to break 90 at East Lake three times in a row?
Francis laughed as he told the story. “At the time, I hadn’t ever broken 90. Hell, I was all of 11 years old. Dad must have thought that was the safest bet he ever made.”
“How long did it take you?”
He took a sip of the bourbon he had poured earlier. “I started practicing every day after school. I’d hit balls, chip and putt, and then play a few holes after the members were finished until it was too dark to see. On weekends, I’d stay out there all day. I shot an 89 within three months. When I brought him the scorecard, he said it didn’t count because I had played part of the round alone. He said the score wasn’t ‘attested.’”
I chuckled at the thought of his father squirming over his son’s rapid improvement. “So he pulled the old rulebook on you, huh?”
“Yeah, and it made quite an impression. I made him show me the rule. I remember it to this day. Then I asked him to give me a rulebook of my own, and I started reading it at night. I wasn’t going to be trapped again.”
He took another sip and continued. “Anyway, I was gettin’ real confident, even cocky. You know, the way only a kid who doesn’t know any better can get. I was convinced that I’d never shoot more’n 89 again. And damned if I didn’t start gettin’ better and better.”
He looked out of the window briefly and turned back to me. “It just goes to show you what a mental game golf is. I believed I was good, so I was good. My next two rounds, with a couple of friends as witnesses, were 86 and 88.I showed my father the cards, all properly signed.”
He laughed again at the pleasure of recalling his favorite childhood memory. “Anyway, he says to me, ‘Those boys are liable to sign anything. I’ll accept these scores, but you’re gonna play the third round with me.’ So he dropped out of his regular Saturday game that week, and we went off the first tee late in the afternoon after all the members had teed off.”
I was leaning forward in my seat, like a child listening to a favorite bedtime story.
He continued. “Well, it unnerved me a little. It was my first real exposure to pressure on the golf course. I could play in front of my friends, but under the stern eye of my father, well, that was another thing. I made a double bogey on the first hole, a wobbly bogey on the second, anothe
r double on the third, and a triple on the fourth. I was hittin’ it sideways, and I was so upset that I started to cry. So then my Dad said, ‘That’s okay, Francis, there’s always tomorrow.’ He was writing off the round, already assuming from my lack of composure that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of breaking 90.”
He raised his glass again and took another drink.
“Well, for some reason, that really burned me up. I got mad; so mad, in fact, that I wasn’t nervous anymore. I hit every shot with a determination that I had never had before. You know how they talk about Arnold Palmer just willin’ the ball into the hole when he was in his prime? That’s kinda the way it went the rest of the day. I started attacking the ball, and I parred the next three holes, made a bogey, and then parred four more. And the whole time, I wasn’t talkin’ to my Dad. ’Course, he’d laugh, and that would make me mad all over again. I made a stupid double bogey at the 13th hole when I hit it into a hazard and then parred 14 and 15 before making a bogey at 16. Then I made another bogey at the 17th when my ball landed in a divot.”
He looked at me and suddenly seemed embarrassed. “I hope I’m not borin’ you with this. You know, I can’t remember much about my career best round—I once shot 68 at Augusta —but I can still remember every detail of that round with my Dad.”
I assured him that I wasn’t bored and wanted him to finish. The truth was, I couldn’t wait to find out how it ended.
“We’re on the 18th tee. I still hadn’t spoken to my Dad. I guess he figured I had it made, so he tried to break the ice and make sure we walked off the course on friendly terms. ‘Well, Francis,’ he said, ‘you can make a quadruple bogey on this last hole and still break 90.I don’t think there’s any way you can fail now, is there?’ Now, here I am, an 11-year-old, and I think he’s trash-talking with me—only they didn’t call it that back then. Well, it disarmed me. I don’t know why, but I stopped being mad. I got nervous again, and I topped my drive. It went all of 50 yards. Then I topped my 3-wood, another 50 yards. Now I’m getting into a panic, and my backswing is so fast you can’t see it. It’s the kind of self-inflicted disaster that can only happen on a golf course. I top my 3-wood again, another 50 yards or so.”
Francis finished his drink and looked at me. He could tell I was hanging on his every word.
“I looked at the green, and it was still 200 yards away. Hell, it seemed like 200 miles. I had to squint to see it in the setting sun. I looked over at my Dad, and his face showed the pain. He really didn’t think there was any way I could fail, but the way I was goin’, it looked like I might not even finish the hole. I know now that he would’ve given anything at that moment to take back what he had said, but he couldn’t, of course. He looked at me and said, ‘Why don’t you try another club?’ I’m too stubborn even to consider such a thing, so I said, ‘No, I’m gonna hit this damned thing if it kills me.’ I’d never before uttered a single cuss word in front of my Dad. In fact, I don’t even know where the word came from at the time. He didn’t say a word. So I hit the 3-wood again. Another cold top, about another 50 yards.”
Francis was starting to enjoy my eagerness at hearing his story. He decided to drag it out a little for dramatic effect by getting up and pouring another glass of bourbon. I thought about telling him he was describing what Cheatwood called “pulling a Van de Velde,” but said nothing.
As he stood at the bar in the back of the plane, he continued. “Now I’m lyin’ four with about a 150 yards to the green. And I’m still tryin’ to hit that damned 3-wood. I get up to my ball, and I take another big swing and, thank God, I connect on this one. The ball ends up in the back fringe of the green.”
He smiled at the memory of the shot.
“Now I’m five. All I have to do is 3-putt. I’m about 30 feet away, so it’s no cinch, not the way I was unraveling. But I gave it a rap, and it’s on line. If I hadn’t hit it so hard, it might’ve gone in. As it was, it hit the hole, popped up in the air and stopped four feet away.”
He paused, forcing me to ask, “So, what happened?”
He looked at me hard, almost as if he was angry that I had asked. Then he broke into a big grin and said, “I made it for an 88.”
We both laughed, he in glorious recollection of a wonderful day and I in relief at the story’s happy ending.
Finally, I looked at him and said, “So the 3-wood came through for you on that last shot.”
He grunted sarcastically. “Hell, the first thing I did when I got home was throw that damned thing away.”
We both laughed again. Francis looked at his now-empty glass and said, “There’s something about bourbon that has the worst effect on my language. I got kinda carried away tellin’ that old story, didn’t I?”
“No, not at all,” I assured him. “I enjoyed every second of it— and it wouldn’t have been as good without the punctuation you gave it.”
He laughed appreciatively. “Anyway,” he said, “that’s how I was able to play Augusta before my 12th birthday.”
Chapter 38
FRANCIS MOORE HAD taken care of everything for the entire trip. Our hotel accommodations were at a place called the Andover Inn. It was a small hotel, with not more than 30 rooms or so, which sat atop a high bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The view, of course, was spectacular. From what we could figure, we weren’t more than ten miles from the Point.
As we checked in, Moore said, “This place was recommended by a friend of mine. He told me it’s owned by a couple who retired and bought the property several years ago.” Looking around, he said, “From what I can see, it’s everything he said it would be.”
I didn’t know what Moore had been told, but it was certainly a nice place—definitely a cut or two above our previous lodgings. I glanced over at Moonlight, and he was rubbernecking the place with a look that told me he hadn’t stayed in many places like this, either.
After we settled into our rooms, our patron summoned us to the lobby for dinner. I had a feeling that, as long as we were in Francis Moore’s company, we were also going to eat better than we were accustomed to.
He took the wheel of our rented Cadillac (again, his treat) and drove 30 minutes or so to the south, toward Santa Rosa. We eventually arrived at a white stone manor with a small sign that read “Maisie’s.”
Although dress was casual, the place had a somewhat formal atmosphere. It was quieter inside than the diners that Moonlight and I had frequented—another reminder that Francis Moore traveled in a different class from us. The lights were low, and the main source of illumination at the tables was candlelight. As we were ushered to our table, Moore told us that the place was particularly noted for its seafood, especially its lobster. I saw Moonlight wrinkle his nose slightly; he rarely ate anything but red meat.
After we were seated, we were asked for our drink orders. Francis requested a wine list. As the waiter handed it to him, Moonlight said, “I’ll just have a Rolling…”
Before he could say more, I suggested we try whatever wine Francis recommended. Moonlight gave me a look of disappointment, but I suspected that our host was just as expert in wine selection as he seemed to be in most other things.
And I turned out to be right. He ordered a white wine from Sonoma County with a name I didn’t recognize (hardly a surprise there) that was light and deliciously dry. Even Moonlight grudgingly admitted that it was good. I felt a small measure of satisfaction in having exposed my friend to something new and different. While teaching Moonlight about wine wasn’t exactly a fair trade for what he had taught me, it was a start. When it came time to order our food, however, Moonlight was through with his adventurous ways for the night. He insisted on a rib eye despite several subtle suggestions by our waiter about the salmon.
I could tell that Francis Moore was quite comfortable in these surroundings. He never looked at the menu, preferring instead to ask the waiter for his recommendations. He ultimately chose prawns in a wine and butter sauce. I had the salmon, which came in a light barbe
cue and horseradish sauce that was misrepresented to be “Cajun style.”
As we began to talk about our impending visit to the Point, Francis asked if we had any thoughts about what the USGA should do with the burial sites when it took over the property. “The first thing we have to decide,” he said, “is whether we should reveal who’s buried there.”
I told him that I didn’t know how we could expect it to remain a secret.
He pursed his lips. “I guess you’re right. We’ve got to let the USGA know that there are two graves on the property. I can’t withhold that information from the Executive Committee if I’m going to propose that they take title to the property. The obvious question they will ask is who’s buried there. We’ll have to tell them, and the USGA won’t be in a position to keep that a secret, at least not for long.”
I ventured a suggestion that perhaps we could just say that two unknown caddies were buried there and leave it at that.
Francis shook his head. “What if someone learns the truth? Can you imagine the stink? There’s no way we can justify lying about it. It would ruin the USGA’s credibility.”
In that event, it seemed to me that we would have to secure the area where the graves were located. “Well, we can’t just leave the graves as they are now. Once people find out who’s buried there, we’ll run into all kinds of problems. There are crazy people everywhere, but California has always had more than its share. There’ll have to be a fence and some kind of decent security.”
Moore seemed confident that the property could be secured. “There’s really only one way in or out. The fence around the property can be reinforced. And we’ll put another fence around the grave sites. That’s a small expense compared to the value of what the USGA will be getting. We can make that a condition of the donation.”
I noticed that Moonlight hadn’t said anything. I looked over at him and could see a hint of trouble in his otherwise impassive demeanor. I suspected that he was harboring feelings about this that he preferred not to share at the moment, so I didn’t press him about it. Francis didn’t know Moonlight as well and apparently took his silence to indicate agreement with what he was saying. I suspected otherwise but said nothing.
The Greatest Course That Never Was Page 26