The weather in northern California was a real plus, too. The Open is traditionally held during the third week in June. Most of the country is uncomfortably warm at that time of year, but it’s sweater weather on the northern California coast all year round. And unlike the early part of the year, what little rain occurs there during the summer months is rarely severe enough to warrant any halt in play.
There was only one negative to weigh against all those positives, but it was a big one. The fact that Bobby Jones was secretly buried there and that it was done at his request to escape the public attention that dogged him during his lifetime was a ponderous consideration.
As a result, we kept dinner conversation on the light side. Francis engaged Moonlight with questions about his days at the National, and the two shared stories about various characters, both members and caddies, who had been a part of the place in years past. Moonlight’s mood grew a little brighter as he shared his memories, and we had a pleasant meal.
We had agreed to leave for the airport right after breakfast the next morning. By all indications, Francis was moving forward with his plans. He had apparently persuaded himself that the course could be reopened while maintaining proper regard for Jones’s and Roberts’s graves. I took the fact that he hadn’t discussed it anymore at dinner to mean that the issue was settled as far as he was concerned.
I felt squarely in the middle. The Point was a remarkable property, and it was painful to think of it wasting away instead of once again becoming a gathering place for golf’s greatest players. I found it easy to rationalize that making the place a grand and glorious venue for the most important championship in golf was something that Jones would have wanted.
At the same time, I didn’t know Jones personally. Moonlight did. And he knew firsthand Jones’s need for seclusion. To him, that was what Bragg’s Point stood for, more than anything else. It was Jones’s place of repose, first in retirement and then in death. Disturbing it now, when Jones and Roberts (not to mention Dr. Harvie Moore) were powerless to defend it, was in Moonlight’s view an act of betrayal.
Was Moonlight overreacting? That was a question I asked myself as we headed down to breakfast that Sunday morning.
Francis had beaten us there again, demonstrating that he was an early riser by habit. I was, as usual, the slacker in the group; Moonlight had to bang on my door to rouse me when he returned from his early morning walk.
There was no fog this time, and the beautiful vista of the ocean in the early morning sun elevated our mood as we gathered at our table. Our friend put down his newspaper and greeted us warmly. As the waitress poured coffee for us, he said, “I thought we’d make one last trip out to the course before we leave.” He added pleasantly, “One of the luxuries of having our own transportation is that it makes our schedule very flexible.”
Moonlight and I looked at each other. We hadn’t anticipated going out to the property again. It was a pleasant surprise, however; neither of us would ever pass up an opportunity to walk the hallowed grounds at the Point.
After breakfast, we checked out of the inn and piled into the Cadillac for the ride to the lost course. If Francis had a specific purpose in mind for this surprise inspection, he wasn’t letting on, at least not right away.
When we got to the security gate, Moore flashed his credentials again, and we were waved through. When we arrived at the locked gate at the narrow path to the clubhouse, Moonlight got out, unlocked it, and swung it open for us to pass.
After we got out of the car at the clubhouse, Francis gestured for us to follow him. He stopped in front of the porch overlooking the wonderful course and surveyed the land falling away from us to the ocean.
“I’ve been thinking about all of this. A lot.” He made a sweeping gesture with his right arm as if presenting the property to us. “You know, I’ve been dreaming of the day we would be standing on the first tee over there as they announced the players teeing off at the Open championship. The idea of the world’s greatest players walking these fairways…” He turned to Moonlight. “Maybe I’ve had the wrong priorities, believing that we can relive past glory. I understand now that there’s a difference between recapturing the past and violating it.”
Moonlight and I looked at each other. He had tears in his eyes. Francis laid his hand on Moonlight’s shoulder and said, “There’s enough money in the trust to maintain this place just like it is. If it’s alright with you, let’s leave things the way they are.”
I was stunned and quickly looked back to Moonlight. He put his head down for a moment, shuddered, and turned away. It was clear that he was overcome. I reached over and put my arm around him. He remained still for a moment and, after collecting himself, turned back to face us.
“Mr. Moore,” he said, as a single line of tears stained each of his cheeks, “that’s more than alright with me.” He took a deep breath. “God bless you.”
We took one last walk down to the bluff where Jones was resting. As we reached the gravesites, the blustering wind suddenly relaxed. The three of us stood there quietly for a time, each occupied with his own thoughts in the peaceful setting. After paying our respects, Francis and I turned almost on cue and began to walk back up the hill to the clubhouse.
Moonlight stayed behind. Before we were out of earshot, I heard him say softly, “It’ll be alright, now, Mr. Jones.”
About the Author
J. Michael Veron is a trial lawyer who lives with his wife, Melinda, and their children in Lake Charles, Louisiana. He enjoys golf and Tulane athletics, and he also serves the USGA as a committee member and occasional rules official. His first novel, The Greatest Player Who Never Lived, was published in March 2000, and was hailed by the New York Times as “golf’s literary rookie of the year.” This is his second novel. Mr. Veron hopes one day to find a cure for the yips.
A hardcover edition of this book was originally published in 2001 by Sleeping Bear Press. It is here reprinted by arrangement with Sleeping Bear Press.
THE GREATEST COURSE THAT NEVER WAS. Copyright © 2001 by J. Michael Veron. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, contact: Sleeping Bear Press, 310 North Main St., P.O. Box 20, Chelsea, MI 48118; www.sleepingbearpress.com.
BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Veron, J. Michael.
The greatest course that never was : a novel / J. Michael Veron.— 1st Broadway Books trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
1. Augusta National Golf Club—Fiction. 2. Augusta (Ga.)— Fiction. 3. Golf courses—Fiction. 4. Caddies—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3572.E763 G5 2002
813′.54—dc21
2001052899
eISBN: 978-0-307-43420-3
v3.0
The Greatest Course That Never Was Page 28