by Bill Flynn
A three-iron and the legal lob wedge got him on the green where he sunk a six-footer for a birdie to start "Hell Week"
Scott played the first five holes of the Spyglass course at three under par and finished the first day two under. After checking the leader board he knew he was still in the hunt.
Scott’s next four rounds went well enough to place him within the players that were still in contention for a tour card. But on the sixth and last round he encountered bad weather at Poppy Hills. The Monterey Peninsula was hit by a storm that came in from the Pacific to buffet the Linksland. It brought with it a deluge of horizontal rain driven by gusts as strong as thirty miles per hour. It was rare weather for a San Diego native to experience, but not enough cause, without accompanying thunder and lightning, for the officials to suspend play.
The storm could’ve washed Scott out of Q-School if not for Matt’s experience with these same conditions when at British Open venues in England and Scotland. Matt had checked the forecast earlier and made his golf bag ready for it. Out on the course he continually wiped down the grips, handing Scott a dry glove on every other tee and kept an umbrella over his player between shots and putts. Scott finished with a 76.
They walked toward the locker room "What do you think about our chances, Matt?"
"Well, no one has made par for the round yet." Just then a gust of wind blew away a towel draped over his shoulder. After chasing it, Matt said, "the wind is getting worse. The guys out there now are going to play hell staying out of the 80s."
They left the cold, rain-swept course and drove back to town not knowing if today’s 76, placing Scott’s total for Q-School at five under par for the six rounds, would be enough to qualify.
Exhausted and chilled from over five hours of wet, battering gusts, they sought the warm welcome of the motel Jacuzzi. It would be another hour before all the players finished, and they’d know if their score was good enough to earn the right to play on the PGA Tour. They tried to relax in the soothing whirl despite growing more eager by the minute to know their fate.
After they left the Jacuzzi, showered and dressed, Matt fiddled nervously with his gold earring while he called the Poppy Hills locker room attendant on his cell phone. Claudio Spencer, Bob Bray’s caddie, had just finished and the attendant put him on.
"Hey, Claudio, how was it?"
"Hell, I haven’t been blown around like this since Scotland, Matt.
Everyone’s finished and my bag shot a seventy-eight."
"Did Bob Bray make it, Claudio?"
"Yeah, he squeaked into last place, tied at four under par for the six rounds."
Matt yelled, even though Scott’s ear was only six inches from the cell phone, "Scott, we’re in! Our five under made it! The El Camino kids will do the tour
together."
Scott’s grin was wide and, after a few seconds, he asked, "When, and where do we start?"
"It won’t begin for us until Hawaii at Kapalua, the second week of January."
"Not a bad place to begin for a surfing caddie, Matt."
"You’ll need some clothes, Scott. You can’t wear chinos and those faded old shirts on tour. Like I told you, it’s a different outfit for every day out there."
Scott frowned. "I didn’t figure on clothing expenses."
"I’ve got a friend in Carmel who owns a clothing store, and he’ll give me credit until we make a check," Matt offered. "You’re about the same build as Ernie Els and not in to the tight-fitting Adam Scott stuff. So we’ll go with the clothing line Els wears."
"I’m thinking, I’ll dress more like Duffy Waldorf, with tie-dyed shirts and pants."
"You’ve gotta be kidding, Scott."
Scott picked out eight shirts, eight pairs of slacks to match, and four sweaters at Farley’s on Main Street in Monterey. After they finished shopping, it was time to celebrate.
They began with a steak cooked over mesquite wood accompanied by a Napa Valley merlot. After the meal they roamed the music bars until settling in one. A jazz group’s mellow saxophones and muted trumpets were playing their arrangement of "Night Train" when two attractive women walked by and sat down at a table next to theirs.
Matt leaned toward Scott. "I’m going to ask them to join us." Scott nodded slowly. "Okay, ask them."
Both were law students from New York City in Monterey on vacation. It was a good departure from a week of intense golf to hear their slant on other things about New York City and the law.
They left the Jazz Lounge and found a place on the waterfront with live dance music. Scott was enjoying the company of Lizbeth Sweeney. She told him about her large Irish family and injected her sense of humor in the right places. At around midnight Lizbeth told him she had to leave, and explained why. She had to rise at five in the morning to make her flight to New York. Scott thought it best he got some sleep, so he offered to walk her to her hotel. Matt and his new friend stayed to dance the night away.
About halfway to Lizbeth’s hotel, the storm that’d plagued the Monterey Peninsula all day gave a parting blast in the form of a deluge. They ran the rest of the way but arrived in the hotel lobby dripping wet.
"Scott, look at you," she said. "You’re soaked. Come, I have plenty of dry towels in my room."
Later, Lizbeth came out of the bathroom wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, courtesy of the hotel. She was carrying an armful of fluffy white towels. Scott wiped most of the wet from his clothes and hair. A dry towel was left over.
"Your hair’s still wet…here, let me," he said.
Scott took the towel and started rubbing her head, noting that the raven mass of hair was even curlier wet than dry, and the color went well with an attractive face that was not impaired by a tiny cluster of freckles on each side of a slightly upturned nose. After a vigorous rub he said, "there, that’s got it."
Lizbeth looked up at him from her barefoot five-foot-seven height before their kiss. She had the largest brown eyes Scott has ever seen. His arms encircled her, and he could feel her firm body pressing hard against his own.
It was two in the morning when Scott returned to the motel. Matt was asleep in the other twin. He took a small piece of paper with Lizbeth’s phone number on it out of his pocket and placed it on the nightstand with his wallet and watch. When he did that, he noticed the red message light on the phone flashing. He called the front desk. One call was from the assistant pro at El Camino, Al Ingalls. Scott thought Al just wanted to congratulate him. He’d call Al in the morning
The phone call to Al Ingalls at eight in the morning brought sad news."Sandy dead?"
"Yeah, Scott. He passed away last evening, sometime around six, after he got a call from the head- pro at Poppy Hills telling him you’d made it."
Scott’s thoughts began in a spiral. Sandy was ninety-three and sick, but still…"What about arrangements?"
"None." Al said. "You know, he doesn’t have any relatives. It’ll probably be a quick burial."
"No way, Al. You know he saved me from trouble and helped to get me here. He got Matt on tour as a caddie and has helped many others, like you. We need to celebrate Sandy’s life. I’ll be in San Diego to make the arrangements this afternoon. Book the function room at El Camino for Monday evening." Scott paused. He recalled Sandy’s love for bagpipe music. "I’ll call the Clan Campbell bagpipers to play and contact the newspaper to announce the celebration at El Camino in Sandy’s obituary."
"Who’s gonna pay for all this, Scott? Sandy was broke."
"I am. I just won twenty-five large at Q-School, and Sandy had a lot to do with it."
"Okay, Scott, and by the way, congratulations."
More than 300 came to El Camino Country Club for the celebration of Sandy’s life. Many who’d benefited from his instruction were there, including some who’d gone on to the Champions, PGA, Nationwide and LPGA tours. On Tuesday morning, The Clan Campbell bagpipers dressed in their plaid kilts led a procession to the practice range where Sandy’s ashes were lowered in a grave marked by
a simple epigraph etched on a small marble stone:
SANDY MCNAIR 1920—2013
HE CAME FROM ST. ANDREWS TO TEACH THE GAME OF GOLF
"Could you come to my office tomorrow at nine?"
It was Frank Dyer, an El Camino member and local attorney, who caught up to Scott as he walked slowly from the grave-site blinking back tears. He stopped walking. "What’s up, Frank?"
"I’m executor of Sandy’s estate, and he left everything to you."
Scott glanced back at the marble stone for a moment without responding to Dyer.
The lawyer broke into Scott’s silence. "Sandy didn’t leave much behind. He was generous to a fault and got taken in by a crooked investment counselor. But there are some books and old golf things he brought with him when he left Saint Andrews. They’re all yours."
Scott was at the law office the next day with Matt. Attorney Dyer filled his conference table with all of Sandy’s worldly possessions. There were a few antique golf clubs, oil paintings of St. Andrews, old golf books and a bronze, Oscar-sized statuette of a nude woman swinging a golf club. A journal compiled by Hugh McNair was also in the mix. It included newspaper articles dated from the nineteenth century telling of Hugh’s various feats in golf and feathery ball making business at St. Andrews. The author of one article had spent a day with Hugh during his record round.
Scott signed some papers the lawyer put before him. Afterwards, with Matt’s help, he started packing the items he had inherited in a carton supplied by Dyer. Scott hesitated before placing a five by five inch wooden box in with the other things. He was curious about it, and studied the box for a moment before sliding the cover back along some grooves to expose the contents.
Matt looked over Scott’s shoulder and down into the box. He said, "hey, you’ve got yourself an old feathery golf ball."
Scott stared down at the almost round tan object and saw the name HUGH and the numbers 26and 78inscribed in black ink on the leather. Inside the box, next to the feathery, were two slips of paper. One was a note to Scott from Sandy and the other, on stiffer stock, yellowed with age, was Hugh McNair’s record score card with a few words written at the bottom.
The note from Sandy:
Dear Scott,
I wanted you to have this feathery used by my great-grandfather, Hugh McNair, when he set a record at the old course at St. Andrews in 1849.
Sandy.
The aged parchment contained the hole-by-hole scores of Hugh McNair’s record round. The note scribbled at the bottom read:
Played a match with Willie Dunn of Musselburgh, backed by Mr. Brown of Balgarvie, winning it, and scored a record 78. My 26 pennyweight feathery ball worked well in the calm air.
The scorecard was signed and dated July 8, 1849 by Hugh McNair, and attested by The Society of St. Andrews Golfers.
Matt examined the scorecard and the note from Sandy. "You might be able to sell this feathery golf ball for a good price."
Scott slowly slid the cover back on the box. "I’d like to keep it. I think it’s what Sandy would want me to do."
Matt gave him a look of concern and said, "hope that works out for you."
While still in the San Diego area before starting out on tour, Scott wanted to evaluate his present set of golf clubs and make any necessary changes. Sandy had bought him a set from Linksking Golf before he entered Pepperdine, and at that time he’d introduced him to Mark Breen, CEO of that club-making company. Mark had attended the celebration of Sandy’s life at El Camino, and Scott set up an appointment with Mark to have a Linksking technician make sure his clubs still matched his swing.
Scott met Linksking’s club-fitting expert, Charlie Davis. Charlie was a thin man in his fifties with John Lennon-type glasses whose hands stayed put in his leather apron pockets until they were needed. Charlie recorded Scott’s physical measurements and swing characteristics on the range. If necessary, a set of new customized Linksking clubs would be made from these data.
A golf swing analyzer called the Swing Groover was part of the test equipment used at the range. Scott swung a driver and a five iron as the Swing Groover monitored his swing path, swing speed, golf ball launch speed and ball spin revolutions per minute. (SRPM). These data would be used to select a shaft with the right kick point and flex. The contact of the golf ball at impact, relative to the perfect sweet spot, was recorded by Charlie with impact tape to determine the best loft and lie angles for Scott’s irons.
Through this testing, Charlie determined that Scott’s swing parameters would be better served with a new set of clubs. His present set didn’t perfectly match his golf swing according to the Swing Groover print-out, and Scott agreed, knowing a player on tour must strive for equipment perfection. He ordered a new set built to the test specifications measured by Charlie and his machine. He kept only two clubs from his old set—his putter and the 60-degree lob wedge Sandy had given him.
He picked up his new set of clubs from Charlie two days later. They worked out fine on the range. He attempted to pay for them, but Mark Breen had left directions with Charlie that the clubs were to be complimentary.
Scott entered Mark’s office. "Hey, Mark, thanks for the donation."
"No problem. I’d do anything to help one of Sandy’s kids." He got up from his desk to shake Scott’s hand. "Good luck on tour. If you score well using our clubs and like them, we’ll hire you to endorse them."
Scott left Linksking and went out to Torrey Pines to play a round of golf with his new clubs on the North Course there. The clubs passed his on-course trial, and he was ready to test them in the real world of golf…at the PGA Tour in Kapalua, Hawaii.
NEW YORK
Scott missed the cut at Kapalua by two strokes. Then he missed five more cuts after that. Finally, the Buick Invitational at Torrey Pines, a familiar track, earned him a check for $8,225. Out of the next twelve tournaments his earnings totaled only $22,000, and there wasn’t any other income coming in from golf product endorsements for the fledgling Q-School qualifier. He had just missed a cut at Westchester Country Club in New York, and it was another Friday evening of disappointment and was with Matt in their motel room trying to figure out what had gone wrong with his game.
"The competition out here is more than I thought. I’ve been missing cuts by only a few strokes. What can I do, Matt?"
"Make more putts."
"Sure, just like that."
Matt took the putter out of Scott’s golf bag and ran his hand down the shaft to the head, then took a sheet of paper from his wallet that had Scott’s playing statistics on it. He scanned down the playing categories before fixing his eyes on three of them. "You’re on most greens in regulation or better, but weak in birdies and eagles after you get there. The clubs you got from Linksking are working out fine. It’s your putting that’s doing you in. That old caddie saying holds true: ‘A player who putts for pars is like a dog that chases cars…he doesn’t survive.’ You need to drop more putts in for birdies and even a few eagles."
Scott took his putter from Matt and started making short strokes at an imaginary ball. "It’s the same putting stroke and putter I’ve used since Pepperdine. It got me through Q-School."
"I know, but I’ve seen a change in putters make good things happen." Matt’s eyes narrowed and he looked straight at Scott. "A player’s confidence will improve after that." Matt took the putter from Scott and put it back in the golf bag. He picked up a box with a dozen golf balls in it. "Let’s go, there’s a course with a practice green near here."
They selected five putters from a rack in the pro shop. The putter heads were of different configurations. They had shafts of varying lengths and off-sets. Matt stationed himself near a cup on the putting green and rolled the balls back while Scott stroked putts from fifteen feet with each of the putters. His stroke with one of the putters was rolling the golf ball in the cup consistently.
They bought the putter, and stayed on the practice green for two hours trying putts from various distances and contours. Most
dropped in the cup, and Scott’s confidence started back up the road to restoration.
Back at the motel, they ordered submarine sandwiches and tackled another problem.
Scott was putting into a drinking glass set down on the carpet ten feet away with his new putter when he said, "I’m almost broke. Just enough to get us to San Diego and regroup. I can’t make expenses for the next tour stop."
"Whoa." Matt took a bite from his sub and chewed it slowly while he mind-counted his assets. "I’ve got enough dough to get us through the tournament at the TPC in Maryland week after next and a little more if we need it. We’re off next week, anyway, since we’re out of the US Open."