by Bill Flynn
"Jeez, Scott, it’s like boot camp. Gladstone is like a frigging marine drill instructor."
"Hang in, Matt. Look how tan and shaped up you’re getting. You’ll look great on a surf board."
After three months Scott was rewarded for his work and attitude turnaround by being allowed to play the course on Monday afternoons. Because those front teeth protruded over his lower lip Matt was called, Bucky Pearl, by the caddies and wasn’t allowed to join Scott on Mondays after he’d had a fight with the caddie who’d nicknamed him that. Anyway, Matt didn’t have the fervor for golf to match Scott’s, so his punishment wasn’t a severe one.
Scott practiced and played whenever he wasn’t working or caddying, Caddying helped to teach both boys proper conduct on a golf course and instilled the discipline so lacking in their fatherless up-bringing. But it was Matt who continued to excel at caddying, and after a year, he became the most sought-after looper at El Camino Country Club. Detective Ross checked in on them from time to time and was pleased with their progress.
By the time Scott was a junior in high school, the arthritis had worsened so severely in Sandy’s hips, that he required an operation to replace both hip joints. In the morning, before school, Scott would help him get from his apartment to his wheelchair and to the range for his lessons. Sandy could still teach golf sitting in the wheelchair. He continued to observe the student’s golf swing with those clear blue eyes focused on every move, and if he detected a swing flaw he’d coach it to correction with a few words of instruction.
Meanwhile, it was golf course maintenance and pro shop duties for Scott. Matt still maintained his zest for caddying and started working some amateur tournaments around the San Diego area. On days he wasn’t caddying he could be found satisfying his other two passions…surfing on some of the best waves colliding with one of the many San Diego beaches or attending rap concerts. But for Scott it was golf and golf only, and his token tennis sessions dwindled down to none. Throughout his teenage years, Scott did well in amateur competition under Sandy’s tutoring, but his mother refused to watch him play.
During Scott’s senior year of high school, Pepperdine University offered him a full golf scholarship, and he eagerly accepted it as a stepping stone to the PGA Tour. Matt’s being teased about his protruding front teeth caused more than one fight, until Sandy paid an orthodontist to bring them in line. When Matt graduated from high school with no desire to attend college, Sandy used his connections to get him a job as a caddie on the Nationwide Tour.
They worked their last summer together at El Camino. It was the end of August when Scott and Matt were on the practice green putting for quarters. A 21-foot putt by Scott snaked its way to the hole and dropped in. Scott loudly proclaimed victory: "I’ve won the Masters. The green jacket is all mine!"
Scott’s habit of inventing a major tournament’s final day and final putt stayed with him since he’d first held a putter. He wanted to bring that form of intense concentration with him when stroking putts on the greens of competitive golf.
"Hey, dude, that’s enough. Take my quarter and quit pretending you’re at Augusta," Matt said, as he tossed the coin to his friend.
Scott put his hand on Matt’s shoulder as they walked off the practice green and said, "some day, buddy, it’s gonna be Augusta for real."
Matt’s smile offered a rare glimpse of teeth bound with silver wires. "And when it is, I’ll be on your bag."
At his table overlooking the practice green, Sandy watched as Scott’s long putt dropped in the cup. A wide grin came to his weathered face as he recalled the day Detective Ross had brought the lads to El Camino. He waited at the table for both boys to arrive for their going-away dinner. He had their names engraved on two golf clubs as going-away gifts. The golf clubs were leaning on a chair next to him…they were 60-degree lob wedges.
They were enjoying a meal of steak, salad and French fries when, out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw his mother rushing toward the table with her tennis-pro-boyfriend trailing meekly behind her.
Diane Beckman screamed at Scott: "You think I don’t know you’ve spent all your time out here learning golf instead of tennis. You’re just like your father was. Golf, golf, golf and more golf."
Scott was embarrassed. Sandy started to rise, but sat back down when she continued her tirade.
"Now I understand you’ll play golf at Pepperdine. You’d better have a good scholarship because you will not receive one red cent from me while you’re there."
She spun around and left the table, followed by the tennis pro, before Scott or anyone else could say a word.
A DECEMBER AFTERNOON FIVE YEARS LATER
SANTA BARBARA
&
THE MONTEREY PENINSULA CALIFORNIA
Welcome to Santa Barbara, Dude…long time no see." Matt Kemp reached into the cooler and handed Scott a can of Coors. "Are we ready for the Q?"
Scott had driven from San Diego to Matt’s condominium high up in the hills above Santa Barbara. It’d been a heady time for him…graduation from Pepperdine, work and practice at El Camino, then passing through the PGA regional Q-School qualification stages. Now, it was on to Q-School with Matt as his caddie.
"I feel like I’m ready for the final test. Did okay in the regionals."
Scott took a sip of Coors. "Hope I didn’t screw up your tour schedule." "No way. I’ve been on the bag for the same guy for three years, ever since the Nationwide Tour, and after he passed at Q-School making it to the PGA."
"I followed your player on the sport page each Monday. He made a lot of money." Scott looked from Matt’s patio at the pool and view from his condo. "Looks like your share was enough to buy these digs and more."
"Yeah, we did well. My player was a little pissed when I told him I was leaving, but he understood more when I explained that you and I’d planned this since we were kids."
"Could you get back with him if I don’t make it?"
"That’s what he promised, but you’re going to make it…then the El Camino team will start its domination of the tour." Matt punched his fist on Scott’s and a wide grin showed a row of straight white teeth in a smile no longer inhibited by the braces of his teenage years. His long auburn hair was gathered in a ponytail. And Matt was the model of a California surfer, lean and brown. His zest for rap music now swung toward jazz.
"Hey, Matt, what’s with that little gold earring hanging on your left lobe?"
"Thought you’d never ask. It’s just a token of self-expression for this golf bag toting Sherpa. Matt flicked his ear lobe with an index finger. His face turned serious when he asked, "how’s your mother, the queen of mean, doing?" He thought that question sounded too harsh. "Sorry, Scott, I shouldn’t have said that."
"That’s okay, it fits. She’s busy getting richer. We don’t communicate much…never watched me play a golf match at Pepperdine. I moved to an apartment in El Cajon after college. She divorced that tennis pro who called golf, pasture pool. But the good news is she’s seeing a shrink on a weekly basis."
"Good, maybe she’ll sort out her feelings about golf and other stuff.
How did you make it four years at Pepperdine without any dough from her?"
"Golf scholarship and working summers for Sandy got me through by the skin of my teeth."
Matt’s expression showed concern for his friend’s lack of support from his mother. "Would you believe my mom married a marine major after all that anti-war stuff she was into?"
"Things have a way of changing after five years, Matt. How did it go when you looped for that lady on the European tour?"
"That’s a long story, but the bottom line is, she’s a possessive bitch and I ended up getting fired by her."
Matt obviously didn’t want to expand on the firing incident, so Scott didn’t question him further.
Later, while Matt was busy grilling steaks, Scott moved over to the railing on the flagstone patio. He looked out at the stream of lights meandering down the hillside until they reached the
pool of yellow that was the city of Santa Barbara, and he remembered a story Sandy McNair had told him about an incident during the Second World War near what’s now the Sandpiper Golf Course.
"Matt, where’s the Sandpiper course?"
Matt left the barbecue grill and ambled over to the railing beside Scott. He pointed to the western shoreline. "It’s in Goleta, right about there."
"Did you know that back in the early forties a Japanese submarine lobbed a couple of shells into a refinery next to the course?"
"No, that’s news. Who told you?"
"Sandy did."
"I guess Sandy filled you in on a lot of things besides golf stuff, Scott."
Scott thought about how Sandy would sprinkle history and even mathematics into golf talk and lessons. "Yeah, he’d teach me the history and geographical features about an interesting thing near where he’d visited a golf course. When he talked about course ratings and slopes he’d give me examples of the math to determine them. Then he’d make me work out a few hypothetical ratings."
"That’s probably why you made scholar/athlete status at Pepperdine."
"How did you know about that?"
"When I worked the tournament at Torrey Pines in the San Diego area I visited Sandy, Hard Ass Harry Gladstone and Billy McGinnis. Sandy told me how well you were doing at Pepperdine. You’re his pride and joy, dude."
"We’ve both come a long way up from when we started with Sandy and Hard Ass. Harry and Billy really helped you turn it around."
"I did show some attitude then, but…" Matt pointed to his cap that had the visor in the front and they both laughed. "Yeah, even though I didn’t do the college bit like you, Sandy shared some things about caddying on tour passed on to him by those PGA players whose golf swings he tweaked. Both Harry and Billy were tough but effective, and they’ll be my friends for life."
Scott looked back down the slope, past the shoreline and out to the lights on the oil rigs beyond. "Sandy is as good as any father could ever have been to me."
"Maybe a grandfather…whatever. Have you told Sandy that?"
"No, but I will next time I see him."
In the morning they drove along Big Sur toward the Monterey Peninsula, host for Q-School at its Poppy Hills and Spyglass Hill courses. The blue Pacific was breaking on white beach sand to their left and the Santa Lucia Mountains rose gently on the right to form a corridor of beauty. Waves crashed on the rocks below, and a white speckle of seabirds darted between the blue ocean and sky. They enjoyed the scenery but they chatted endlessly about golf.
Scott started picking Matt’s brain about the tour: "What’s this stuff I hear about guys playing in the zone? I’ve probably been there when I’m playing great but don’t recognize the feeling. The television commentators make it sound like some kind of mystical state."
"It’s media hype. Like in any sport…it’s keeping your head in the game and your ass behind you. In other words…maintaining focus and alignment just like Sandy told us."
"Yeah, he made it sound less mysterious."
Scott took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked over at Matt. "I don’t have a lot of bucks, Matt, to survive on tour unless I make some cuts."
"Let’s not think about cuts right now. Let’s concentrate on Monterey and Q-School."
"Okay, but what’s the real cost of us staying there? I’ve heard a lot of numbers."
Matt paused for a moment before answering. "Between twenty-five hundred and three-thousand a week for travel, motels, entry fees, food and incidentals. Plus, you’re going to need to buy a different outfit for every day of play, including sweaters and rain gear. A clothing company won’t endorse you until you’re among the top fifty players or so."
"More bucks than I thought. Lot of motivation to make cuts and be around on Saturday."
"Any sponsors?" Matt asked.
"Only one. Some of the members at El Camino volunteered, but I didn’t want any one else."
"Who’ve you got?"
"Sandy," Scott answered.
"Old Sandy McNair has the bucks. I’ll never forget him paying for my braces." Matt beamed his perfect smile at Scott. "See?"
Scott laughed. "Can’t call you Bucky Pearl anymore," Scott said. "By the way, Sandy is almost broke. He lost heavy on some bad investments. Even so, he insisted on giving me the regional entry fees so I could get to Q-School."
"Didn’t know that about Sandy. How about you getting a loan from your mom?"
"Forget it. We hardly speak and there’s no way she’ll subsidize my golf ‘fling,’ as she calls it."
Matt looked over at him with concern. "Okay, let’s do Q-School and face the money problem when and if we have to."
Q-School was the yearly examination prescribed by golf officialdom, the Professional Golfers Association (PGA), to graduate deserving new members into the highest competitive level of golf, the PGA Tour. It also gave those tour members who’d flunked the criterion to stay on tour a chance to get back. The initial Q-School agenda included classroom participation. It was later canceled by popular demand, but the "school" title remained.
After two practice rounds, the real part of "Hell Week" started for Scott at Spyglass Hill. It was the first of six days in the tension-packed Scott at Spyglass Hill. It was the first of six days in the tension-packed foot putt could cause failure to qualify. It was a grueling six rounds, consisting of 108 holes that were a test of golf skills like no other, and the odds for survival were not favorable. Just 140 players from the thousands worldwide had passed the regionals and made it on to Q-School. And only those players who scored within the top 30, including those that tied that number, would qualify to join the PGA Tour. The others would receive the ‘minor league’ Nationwide Tour status or a conditional status on the same tour.
On the practice range, Scott started working up through all thirteen clubs in his bag, beginning with the wedge.
Matt handed him his lob wedge. "This one was paid for by Sandy?"
Scott laughed and said, "It’s the legal one."
Scott stroked a few putts on the practice green until he was called to the tee. He shook hands with the official starter and was introduced to the other players of his threesome. One member of his group was a returning PGA Tour veteran. Bob Bray’s game had degraded beyond 125th on the tour’s list of money earned. He’d lost his PGA card, or his license to play a tournament without getting an exemption from a tournament sponsor. Matt knew Bray and set up a practice round between him and Scott. During the match Bob shared a few tips on tour play with Scott.
Scott was nervous during the introductions. Last-minute whispers transpired between he and Matt. The thought of being on the first tee, starting the first round of golf to begin what’s known by the players as "Hell Week" was getting to him. Scott felt the nerve filaments making his arms and legs shake, and the butterflies buzzing around in his stomach seemed large as hummingbirds.
The first at Spyglass was a 595-yard-par-5 hole. A 14-mph wind was in the players’ faces, and none would try reaching the green in two. Bray was first to tee off. The five-foot-eight Tom Watson lookalike completed his pre-shot routine, stepped up to his address position and hit a drive 278 yards down the middle of the fairway. Bray caught Scott’s eye with a wink, and a smile of relief as he picked up his tee. His facial cast seemed to carry the hope this first shot was an omen to follow him in the week ahead…a chance to regain his livelihood.
It was Scott’s turn. Those in the gallery watched as the PGA Tour candidate took his driver from Matt and placed his ball on the tee. They saw a handsome six-foot-three golfer with most of his long blond hair gathered by a visor, and the rest left free to move in the wind. His shoulders were broad, stomach flat and hips narrow.
When Scott was introduced he sent a smile toward the crowd’s polite applause. Then his face changed to a grim expression of serious purpose as his eyes focused on a spot far out on the fairway. His pre-shot routine brought him behind the ball with the driver in his rig
ht hand. He set-up in his stance. When he looked down at the ball his nervousness of before subsided. He gripped the club with his left hand turned inward so he could see three knuckles there and wiggled the driver a few times. His eyes narrowed in on a tree in the distance standing straight and tall, well beyond his intended target. Matt’s yardage book dictated that the ball must carry 270 yards and catch a down slope to the left before rolling 15 yards to an ideal position for the second shot.
Scott placed his driver head behind the ball, took a deep breath, and made his back swing. At the top of it, his club hesitated for a second. The driver started down in a smooth accelerating motion that peaked to a speed of 118 miles per hour when it made contact with the ball. His swing was still in the process of follow-through when he heard the oohs and ahsof the gallery followed by their applause. The ball landed 20 yards beyond the place Matt had designated.