We entertained ourselves for the remainder of the evening by talking about how the course might defend itself against the world’s greatest players if it became the site of the U.S. Open. The first question was whether the course had the length necessary to test players under today’s conditions. Thanks to improved physical conditioning and rocket-science equipment, players routinely drove the ball over 300 yards and hit wedges into greens where Jones and company hit 5-irons. Thus, Francis wondered aloud whether the Point was long enough at present to be an Open site or perhaps required changes to make it more suitable for our national championship.
I reminded my table mates that Merion was considered a fair Open test as late as 1981, and it was only 6,500 yards. Moreover, I thought the great virtue of the Point as a test of golf was its demand for accuracy under difficult shoreside conditions. It was a course that didn’t have to be long in order to expose the weaknesses in a player’s game. That, it seemed to me, was just the thing that the USGA sought in its Open venues as the best way to identify our national champion.
We talked about the dramatic Opens at Pebble Beach and how the Point would provide much the same examination of golfing skills. Francis agreed that the most demanding holes at Pebble Beach under Open conditions weren’t the lengthy holes but the ones that were open to the shifting winds that whipped up and down the California coast. Those conditions were duplicated, I said, at the Point.
Francis finally noticed that Moonlight had been quiet. He turned to him and said, “Moonlight, you’re the expert on all this. What do you think?”
The old man stared at his wine glass for the longest time. Finally, he looked up at the new custodian of Bragg’s Point and said quietly, “It was the most wonderful place for golf I’d ever known. An’ I wanted to make certain that it wasn’t lost forever. That’s why I contacted Charley here. But I didn’t know Mr. Jones was restin’ there…” His voice trailed off. We waited for him to say more, but he didn’t look up again.
I could tell that he had said something Moore didn’t want to hear. He quickly tried to assure Moonlight that he felt Jones’s grave would be well fortified and that the world’s greatest player would continue to rest in peace. “Besides,” he said, “I’ve got a feeling that Mr. Jones would be delighted to see others enjoy his favorite place.”
Moonlight only shrugged his shoulders.
After an awkward moment, I tried to change the mood by talking about the holes that I thought would give today’s top players the most trouble if the Open were contested at the Point. Francis had his own ideas about that, and we had a lively discussion about how Tiger Woods, David Duval, Ernie Els, or Vijay Singh might play this hole or that. We debated about whether Justin Leonard, Lee Janzen, or Mark O’Meara might have an advantage there over the longer hitters because of their control of the ball. Francis even speculated about whether the Executive Committee might award special exemptions to Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus into the first Open played at the Point so that they could return to the scene of their first head-to-head match.
It was delicious, every bit of it, kind of like a fantasy tour. We continued to play our version of “Let’s Pretend” on the ride home. At one point Moonlight’s mood seemed to brighten, and he even interjected a thought or two about the best way to play certain holes.
When we reached the hotel, we said our goodnights and agreed to meet for breakfast the next morning. My room had a small balcony, and I opened the glass door leading out on it. The sound of the surf crashing below combined with the smell of the sea air immediately reminded me of what it felt like to be at the Point.
I pulled a chair from the room out onto the balcony and intended to sit for awhile and watch the shaft of white light that was cast by the moon’s reflection upon the ocean, which was otherwise black because of the night. I had just sat down when I heard a knock at my door.
It was Moonlight.
“What a coincidence,” I joked. “I was just getting ready to enjoy the very thing you were named after.”
He gave me a curious look. I pointed outside, and he caught on. “Oh.”
“You want to join me?” I could tell that he had something on his mind.
“Yeah, if ya’ don’t mind.” He seemed a little uncertain of himself and added, almost apologetically, “I won’t be long.”
I stepped back and held the door open. “Nah, come on in. It’s not every day we can sit and listen to the ocean pounding on the beach.”
I grabbed the remaining chair in the room and set it beside mine on the balcony. Moonlight sat down uneasily.
He didn’t take long to get to the point. “I feel kinda funny tellin’ ya’ this. Ya’ know, I got ya’ involved an’ all. But I trust ya’, an’ I know ya’ got a good heart.”
He stopped and looked as if he were deciding whether to say more. I encouraged him by saying, “Moonlight, I trust you, too. So if you’ve got something on your mind…”
He nodded, indicating that he was going to continue.
“When this started, I felt pretty sure ’bout things. Some of us had talked a few years ago. We wanted the world to know ’bout this place. Ya’ know, it just didn’t seem right to let it die without tellin’ the story.” He was watching me, gauging my reaction.
“Anyway, then the story a’ Beau Stedman came out. We thought we knew what to do, an’ that was to give the story to you.”
I bowed my head slightly to acknowledge the compliment he was paying me.
“We didn’t think we would be doin’ it so soon, but when I was the last one left, I knew it was time.”
“And that’s when you sent me the notes,” I said gratuitously.
“Right. Well, I’ve been so sure ’bout this thing for so long. But now…” His voice trailed off again.
I thought I knew what he was trying to say. “It’s about the graves, isn’t it?”
He nodded his head quickly. “Yeah. It’s been botherin’ me. I had no idea that I’d be disturbin’ Mr. Jones’s final restin’ place. I don’t want to be doin’ nothin’ disrespectful, ya’ know what I mean?”
I was touched by his sensitivity and gentle spirit. “Yeah, Moonlight, I think I do know what you mean. And I wouldn’t want to do anything disrespectful, either.”
I paused and looked at him closely. “But, tell me, why do you think bringing out the story of Bragg’s Point will be disrespectful to Jones’s grave? You heard Mr. Moore say they could provide security.”
He pushed his lips out and frowned, in a thoughtful rather than dramatic way. Then he said slowly, “It’s kinda hard to describe. I just don’t think Mr. Jones would like it. Ya’ know, people’ll start makin’—whaddya’ call ’em?—ya’ know, where people have to visit someplace?”
“Pilgrimages?” I interjected.
“Yeah. Pilgrimages. Mr. Jones came to Bragg’s Point just to get away from that kind a’ thing. People’ll start comin’ to the Point just to see his grave. An’ Mr. Roberts’s, too.”
I told Moonlight that I didn’t see Jones’s grave being treated like a snake farm along the side of the road, with a carload of gum-chewing, camera-toting tourists in Hawaiian shirts unloading every few minutes so that Junior could pose in front of the tombstone. To the contrary, I said, what I expected was that only Jones’s genuine admirers would come to Bragg’s Point and, when they did, they would find the perfect place to pay their respects to the great man.
He didn’t seem convinced. After awhile, he just stopped talking and sat there staring out at the ocean. I decided that this was no time to make a closing argument on the subject and instead let him think it through on his own.
Not long thereafter, Moonlight stood up and bade me good night. I told him I’d see him at breakfast and let him out.
I had trouble sleeping after his visit. Moonlight had given me an awful lot to think about.
Chapter 39
THE ANDOVER INN did not provide room service, so all meals had to be taken in the dining room. It was a small i
nconvenience, however; the room had a number of large windows providing an ample view of the hotel’s principal attraction.
Unfortunately, there was a generous amount of fog shrouding the place when we came down the next morning for breakfast. In fact, when I looked outside just as I was leaving my room, I could barely see the property’s edge, much less the ocean.
Francis was waiting for us in the dining room and had already secured a nice table next to one of the windows. He was deep into the morning newspaper by the time Moonlight and I appeared and was pouring himself what appeared to be his second or third cup of coffee.
His face brightened when he saw us. “Ah, good morning. I hope you two slept as well as I did. Must be something in the air here.”
I just smiled and commented that Moonlight had been up for his customary “mornin’ constitutional” since 5:00 A.M. despite the fog.
Francis pointed at our server and said, “They tell me it’s often like this around this time of year. But it’s supposed to burn off before too long.”
Moonlight nodded in agreement. “We used to see this all the time.”
While Francis stuck with coffee and a Danish, I ordered a California-style omelet and Moonlight had his usual fare of eggs, hash browns, toast, and bacon. Although all three of us talked excitedly about seeing the Point again, no one broached the subject of the gravesites.
We took our time eating breakfast, and, as a result, the fog had dissipated considerably when it came time to leave. The ride out was quiet. Each of us had drifted into our own reverie. Francis was no doubt still fantasizing about what a U.S. Open would be like at the Point. I figured Moonlight was continuing to wrestle with his self-imposed moral dilemma of destroying Jones’s postmortem privacy. And I was wondering if there was some way to accommodate them both.
When we arrived at the security gate, Francis produced a badge of some kind, and we were waved through. The Cadillac was larger than the car we had rented on our previous trip, making passage down the road leading onto the property more difficult. I wondered why Francis had never had the path trimmed back by his caretakers.
He shook his head and asked rhetorically, “Wouldn’t that make the road look more inviting to the curious?”
I had to agree. By leaving the road barely passable, it suggested that there was nothing at its end of any use to anyone.
“Besides,” he added, “with so little traffic, it would’ve grown back soon anyway.”
We passed through the gate and drove around to the clubhouse. As soon as we got out of the car, I noticed the crispness of the air. Although I had worn a sweater, I shivered as a waft of moisture-laden sea air penetrated its meager protection.
Before anyone could say anything, Moonlight asked Francis to show him the gravesites. Francis didn’t seem surprised at his request and gestured for us to follow him as he began to walk toward the sea.
We crossed the eighth tee and then turned down the 18th fairway, working back toward the tee. When we reached it, we continued past it and walked toward the cliff’s edge around to the 11th green. According to what Moore had told us, Jones and Roberts were buried just on the other side of the 11th green.
The land here sloped down toward the ocean, and as we got closer the white noise of the surf grew progressively louder and more insistent. I wondered whether it was a warning of some kind.
We walked across the 11th green. At that point, the land began to rise again here to a bluff above the ocean. There was only a small stretch of land beyond the green, perhaps a half acre or so. I immediately saw why Francis Moore’s father had chosen this spot to put Jones and then Roberts to rest.
This summit was perhaps the most majestic point along the boundary of the property at the water’s edge and offered the most striking of all of the spectacular views at Bragg’s Point. There was an outcropping of rocks beneath us that had been polished smooth in places from the steady pounding of the surf. The water would crash against the crags and then withdraw, leaving a white foam swirling in its wake before renewing its assault with another resounding collision.
There was an amazing peace about the place in the midst of the fury being generated below. Perhaps it was a recognition by the human spirit inside us of how powerless we were in the face of nature’s might. Maybe there was an inner voice telling us that resistance against a force of this magnitude was futile.
Francis walked ahead of us and stopped. He pointed to the ground and said, “Here they are.”
We looked down. There were two small bronze plates in the ground. One read, “R.T.J.” and “RIP;” the other read “C.d.R.” and “RIP.”
None of us said anything for the longest time. The three of us just stood there, pants flapping as the wind whipped us with the salty mist of the Pacific Ocean.
I hunched my shoulders and turned my back as if to protect myself from the cold air, but it appeared to shift and come from different directions no matter which way I turned. I shivered audibly, and the sound seemed to break the spell that had gotten hold of us. Francis looked up and said sympathetically, “I don’t ever remember it feeling quite this raw out here.”
Moonlight nodded solemnly. “I believe the elements are talkin’ to us.”
Francis Moore gave him a curious look. “What do you think they’re saying, Moonlight?”
Moonlight fixed his eyes directly on our benefactor and said, “They’re tellin’ us the place is sacred.”
Francis laughed, and Moonlight’s reaction immediately told him it was a mistake. He rushed to apologize. “I’m sorry, Moonlight. I didn’t mean to make light of what you said.”
Moonlight appeared to be more sad than angry. “That’s okay, Mr. Moore. I don’t expect ya’ to have the feelin’s ’bout this place that I do.” With that he turned and began walking back toward the clubhouse.
Moore looked at me. “I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted was to offend Moonlight.”
I took it as an opening to share our reservations about opening Bragg’s Point to the world. “I think everything changed for him when he learned that Jones and Roberts were buried here. Moonlight thought long and hard about revealing the story before, mainly because this was Jones’s last place of refuge. And he decided, after a lot of soul-searching, that it was a story that shouldn’t be lost forever. Too many great players came through here, and the golf was really special.”
We started walking together, following the path Moonlight had taken. He was a hundred yards or so ahead of us. I noticed that it suddenly felt warmer.
Moonlight wasn’t likely to say much more about how he felt, so I felt I had to speak on his behalf. “Moonlight takes this as a sign that it’s wrong to do this. You know, he’s been pretty insistent about what he calls the ‘magic’ of this place. And he believes that Jones brought the magic here.”
I watched Moore closely for a reaction, but he said nothing.
After we walked a bit more, I said, “Moonlight believed in Jones and everything he stood for. Jones gave Moonlight his identity and treated him as a member of this club, on equal footing with everyone who came here. Heck, he even allowed him to live here.”
I could tell by his silence that Francis was carefully considering everything I was saying. We continued to walk back toward the clubhouse and watched Moonlight cross the eighth tee and sit down on the porch of the clubhouse.
Finally, he spoke in a soft and thoughtful tone. “If we open this place up, Moonlight will feel that he’s betrayed Jones, won’t he?”
I nodded and said slowly, “Yes, he will.”
Francis looked up at the clubhouse and saw Moonlight sitting on the edge of the porch with his head drooping down. He was quiet as we walked a few more steps and then said in a sensitive and sad voice, “I can understand that.”
Chapter 40
DINNER THAT EVENING was quiet and subdued, as each of us sorted through a wide range of emotions.
In a way, our feelings about the Point were not altogether different. All three of
us loved the place and embraced what it stood for. We might not have called it “magic,” as Moonlight had, but the difference was more semantics than anything else.
Part of it was perhaps nostalgia. Bragg’s Point symbolized the romantic past that we had convinced ourselves was more noble and less complicated. Historians have repeatedly tried to debunk the myth of the “good old days,” reminding us that life has never been better than it is now. But human beings believe what they want to believe, and they want to remember the past as something grander and more glorious than it perhaps was.
There was more than nostalgia at work here, however. Bragg’s Point was a monument to the greatest golfer who had ever lived, a place created by people who loved him, just so he could have peace. And the fact that it remained hidden away from the public for all these years was testimony that men of the past and present could maintain a code of honor based on nothing more than their respect for that man.
There were plenty of other reasons to celebrate Bragg’s Point in a public way. The place had incredible physical beauty, easily on a par with Pebble Beach and Cypress Point. It would be a fantastic test of golf, one that was unquestionably worthy of the U.S. Open.
Too, transferring the Point to the USGA and making it the permanent site for the Open would give its owner total control of playing conditions. Under the present system, tension inevitably resulted as the USGA essentially took over a host club for several years leading up to the championship. During that time, the organization dictated everything from course design to agronomic practices. Every change was supposedly “negotiated,” but it was always clear who had the final say, and the process took its toll on both sides. As a result, most insiders said that the host club and Golf House were usually glad to be rid of each other by the end of the event. That would no longer be the case, at least for the Open, if the USGA had its own site.
The Greatest Course That Never Was Page 27