The Feathery

by Bill Flynn

  Scott tried to put the disaster on 17 out of his mind and focused on what he had to do. He stood behind his teed ball, looking down the fairway and thought, Par four, slight dogleg right, 430 yards to the green; need a three to get in a playoff…if Yamazaki makes four. I’ve got to hit driver here. An iron won’t get it done. He hesitated and looked toward the crowd for a moment where Douglas McEwan was gesturing with his arm pointing down the fairway with a signal that meant Scott’s drive had to be a boomer in order to tuck a second shot in close to the pin for the birdie putt. But the player and his regular caddie already knew that.

  Matt handed Scott the 10-degree driver. The wind was crossing the fairway right to left, as on 17, but a safe shot here was out of the question. He set up for a fade that would cut the dogleg, hoping the fading ball would be held back by the crosswind so it wouldn’t go too far right and end up in the rough composed of high heather.

  Scott swung, and his Linksking driver head contacted the Titleist Pro V1x at 123 miles per hour with every bit of its trampoline effect kicking in. The ball streaked off the tee, took the cut at the dogleg and landed center fairway only 68 yards from the flag. It was a monster drive of 372 yards. Scott’s relatively small following emitted most of the cheering heard around the 18th tee. The Japanese entourage was silent.

  Yamazaki walked up to his ball. It was 90 yards behind Scott’s and 158 yards from the pin.

  Matt whispered to Scott, "Yamazaki is thinking he needs a three to win it. He’ll try to stick it in close, but if he’s just a little long, he’ll catch the downslope and be looking at a twenty-footer."

  Yamazaki’s high eight-iron shot looked like it was headed for the flag all the way, and in the bleachers a premature roar was emitted from his large home-island crowd. Then came a chorus of deep guttural groans an instant after the ball scooted beyond the flag. And without enough backspin it rolled slowly down the sloped green toward a collection area, coming to rest 17 feet from the cup.

  Matt handed Scott his lob wedge and some advice. "I want you to visualize this shot landing past the stick about four feet, and the backspin provided by the lob wedge should bring the ball away from the slope that grabbed Yamazaki’s ball. You’ll have a short putt to make a play-off."

  Scott gripped the club. The most important shot of his life would be made with a golf club given to him by Sandy McNair. Was it an omen? He stood behind the ball for a few seconds, envisioning the shot Matt suggested. After three practice swings, he was ready. The 60-degree lob wedge made good contact as the ball was pinched between club edge and turf. It flew high, spun rapidly counter-clockwise, then started down on a line to the right of the flag. Scott held his follow-through while watching the wind bring the ball left. It landed a little beyond the flag, and what he saw next was like a slow motion dream. The golf ball seemed to stop for a second before the backspin initiated by the grooves in the wedge brought it toward the hole, where it disappeared.

  A tremendous roar rose from the thousands surrounding the 18th. The volume and duration of the din meant only one thing…Scott’s slowmotion dream shot was real. His ball was in the cup for a two, and Yamazaki would have to sink his putt for a play-off. Scott kissed the shaft of the lob wedge on the spot where his name was inscribed. He then looked up at the cloudy sky and gave his thanks to Sandy McNair.

  The massive walking gallery rushed to stake out their position around the green. It took a number of Randal Lyle’s finest to escort the players there where a loud ovation welcomed them. Scott retrieved his ball from the cup and held it high, initiating another loud burst of cheering from the gallery as an acknowledgment for his eagle.

  It was five minutes before the crowd settled down. Yamazaki took his time, and he stared at the hole from every angle. His caddie stood behind him and gave his opinion of the proper line for the putt to travel. There was an animated discussion between them about the break. Scott stood off to the side beside Matt with arms folded. The crowd was hushed.

  Yamazaki stared at the hole for the last time and drew back his putter blade. A smooth swing of the club brought its face square to the ball and contact was made. The gallery was quiet until that inevitable loud and premature prediction heard at each golf event was exclaimed: "IT’S IN THE HOLE!" The ball was rolling ten inches away and looking good when a minuscule jump to the right spoiled that wrong prediction by the fan when a spike mark altered the ball’s course ever so slightly to make it pass over the right edge of the cup and stop three inches beyond.

  A moan of disappointment came from Yamazaki’s countrymen as he dropped to his knees and stayed there for a long time. After a while he stood up slowly, and Japan’s hope walked up to the ball and tapped it in for a par, and a second place finish in the British Open. Polite applause followed the tap in, and Japanese fan and media disappointment permeated the air over Turnberry.

  Matt confirmed Scott’s stunned realization when he met him with a hug that lifted his friend off the green. "Scott, we just won the British Open."

  Scott shook hands with Yamazaki and his caddie.

  Kuniaki Yamazaki patted Scott on the back while smiling and said, "perhaps we meet again at the Masters."

  "Yes, we’ll both be there, Kuniaki." Scott said, knowing they’d qualified for the Masters based on their Open finish.

  Then Scott was off the green, headed for the scorer’s building where he would carefully check a scorecard that included a penalty stroke and an eagle.

  Beth Sweeney, Randal Lyle, Mark Breen of Linksking, Derrick Small, Bob Bray, Claudio and both McEwans formed a corridor of congratulations on the way to the official’s building. Scott walked through the row of friends receiving a mixture of exuberant high fives, hugs and handshakes.

  A helicopter passed low over the course. Scott’s pent-up emotion of the last two days came to the surface when he thought of his father. Tears welled up and a few of them spilled onto Beth’s rain suit as he held her close.

  After the scorecards were checked and signed, Beckman and Yamazaki were escorted to the presentation ceremony. Scott inhaled deeply before looking up at a mostly gray sky just starting to show a little blue out by the dark granite outline of Ailsa Craig. The island had escaped from the clouds to once more dominate the western horizon.

  The official engraver inscribed SCOTT BECKMAN on the Claret Jug immediately after Yamazaki missed the putt on the 18th. The Royal and Ancient would retain the original Claret Jug with the names of all the Open Championship winners since 1872 engraved on it. A replica of the trophy was presented to Scott along with the winner’s check in pounds sterling…equivalent to $1,567,000. Scott accepted the trophy and the check with a short speech thanking his caddie, and then mentioned Sandy McNair, followed by others who’d helped him to get there.

  Scott’s acceptance speech was almost finished when he spied the red head of Douglas bobbing around for a better view among the adults. Scott said, "I’d also like to mention a Turnberry boy who did a great job pinch-hitting for my regular caddie. He’s standing over there, and his name is Douglas McEwan." He pointed to Douglas. The television cameras and audio pick-up devices of four major networks swung toward him. When they settled on the lad, 78 million viewers could hear his high-pitched voice.

  "That was nothing, Mr. Beckman. The best part was you beat the pants off all the others against wagering odds of two hundred to one."

  The crowd chuckled and they were most likely joined by a world full of TV viewers doing the same.

  On the way to the hotel with Beth, Scott met Sarah Covington. She offered Scott her congratulations after he handed her a check for $20,000 to pay the penalty for taking the feathery out of the auction.

  "Thank you again for the reduction," Scott said.

  "Beth is a good negotiator. Are you coming to Portpatrick tonight?" Sarah asked.

  "No, but I’ll be there tomorrow evening. I’ve got commitments with the press and other business tomorrow. And I’m planning to squeeze in the round of golf I promised the McEwa
n boy."

  "You must really love the game to play the day after such a grueling win," Sarah said. "Beth is welcome to come with me to Portpatrick this evening instead of hanging around Turnberry all day tomorrow. I’m off to London mid-afternoon and she’ll be alone only a few hours before you arrive. The weather is going to be lovely and she’ll enjoy the beach. I’m leaving for Portpatrick directly."

  Scott looked at Beth for her approval and said, "you’ll miss the celebration they’ve planned."

  "That’s okay, Scott. We’ll have our celebration in Portpatrick. I’ll go by the hotel, pack my things and go with Sarah."

  Scott started to escort them toward the car-park when Sarah put her hand on his arm and stopped walking. "I’ve confirmed the feathery has been recovered. Do you have it in your possession?"

  Scott hesitated before he answered her. "Yeah, it’s locked up in the Turnberry Hotel safe with the bronze statuette."

  "Oh, I’d love to see it, but don’t bother now. When you get to London you’ll let me have a peep."

  "Sure, Sarah."

  Scott continued walking with Beth and Sarah to the lot where Sarah’s BMW was parked.

  Sarah made another try to buy the feathery on the way there.

  "It’s not for sale, Sarah." Scott told her, once again.

  When they reached the car, he kissed Beth goodbye and said, "later, in Portpatrick."

  Beth looked up at him and the large brown eyes seemed to join with her smile. "Okay, until Portpatrick."

  Sarah abruptly turned her back to them during their kiss and was quick to get in the BMW and start the engine. After Beth was in the passenger seat, Sarah drove quickly out of the parking lot toward the hotel lobby. The British Open champion stood alone for a moment thinking about Sarah’s strong obsession to own the feathery, before he walked up the stairs to the function room..

  The celebration was in full swing when the guest of honor arrived. All welcomed him into the Turnberry Hotel function room with cheers and more hugs or handshakes. Derrick Small had ordered a catered buffet as requested and funded by Scott. The Claret Jug was filled with champagne. First, Scott took a sip and raised it high in a toast before he passed the trophy around the room for all to partake.

  Bob Bray offered his congratulations. He’d finished tied for seventh with more than enough prize money to finance a European vacation with his family. Mark Breen of Linksking requested a meeting with Scott before he returned to San Diego, wanting to discuss a European marketing thrust in light of Scott’s Open win. They arranged to meet the next day. Mark was also keen on a playing a round of golf at Turnberry with the champ.

  Douglas McEwan and his father joined the party, and Scott, to keep his promise to the boy, asked Derrick if ten in the morning would be okay for play on the Ailsa course. Even though Scott was feeling golfed out, he would play a fun round with Breen and Douglas.

  "The course is officially closed tomorrow, but I’ll make an exception for the Open Champion, only if I can join him," Derrick answered.

  "You got it."

  Douglas was a happy fourteen-year-old when he asked, "Could my dad join us Mr. Beckman?"

  "Sure. You, Mark Breen and I will take on Matt, your dad and Derrick."

  Matt was nearby and heard Scott setting up the match. "Okay, we stroke off the British Open Champ who has a handicap of plus five. That’s five better than par on the Ailsa course, folks."

  Scott was now ready to reward his caddie. "Without you, dude, I wouldn’t have won this tournament." Scott handed Matt his personal check. "This will be good after I deposit the big one."

  Matt protested after staring at the amount on the check. "Hey, that’s way over the union wage for Sherpas. I’m looking at twenty-five percent here."

  "I know, but you deserve it." Scott smiled. "Just consider the extra bucks for physical damages."

  Matt’s loud, "All right!" silenced the room. He reached in his pocket and withdrew a certified check from the Barkley Betting Shop. The check was written for a sum in British pounds sterling for the equivalent in U.S. currency of $176,130. "After what you told me about Barkley’s legal problems, Scott, I figured I’d better collect this pronto at the Barkley Betting Shop in Prestwick. Claudio and I made a fast trip there."

  A cheer filled the room and a good part of the Turnberry Hotel.

  Derrick said it. "Scott, you’re a bloody millionaire."

  It all started to hit home with Scott. He thought, In less than a year I’ve gone from being a broke dude to a rich one. And with the value of the feathery and bronze, it’s even more. I could have done without the shootings over the feathery and Matt’s kidnapping.

  Randal Lyle came forward to offer his congratulations and shook Scott’s hand. "The Open Champion seems to be deep in thought."

  "Yeah, I was thinking about Matt’s kidnapping. The reason behind it was gambling on the Open." Scott rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "This will be quite the flap for the PGA, USGA and Royal and Ancient to handle when it all gets out."

  Randal agreed. "Yes, the righteous hypocrites in golf’s hierarchy will be outraged, even though they’ve placed bets on golf at betting shops and casinos around the world."

  The room started to empty as the caterer cleaned up the little food that remained. An overwhelming weariness suddenly came over Scott. The events of the week took their toll, and he was ready for some sleep. He entered his room and crashed, exhausted.

  Scott was awakened by the phone at seven in the morning. It was his mother.

  "Scott, I’m so proud of you. I watched the whole thing on television.

  "That ace you made at the end was thrilling."

  "Mom, it was an eagle. Ace is a tennis term, and a golf term for a hole-in-one, but thanks anyway."

  "Whatever. I’m working on knowing more about golf and thinking of taking lessons. It’s part of the therapy suggested by my psychiatrist, and it could be good for business."

  "Quite a change, mom."

  "Yes, I had a few hang-ups, Scott, but I’m working on them." "They say admitting it is the first big step to recovering." There was a pause. "And, Scott, you’re a millionaire."

  "Yeah, just like you, mom."

  "Well, that’s right. Oh, Scott, I hope we can start over and rebuild a good mother-son relationship."

  "I’ll try," Scott said.

  "Good, congratulations. And, Scott, if you want to invest in some good California property, I can help. Goodnight, or is it good morning in Scotland?"

  "It’s morning here, mom. I’ll be in California in a week or so. Bye." Scott cradled the hotel phone and he lay in bed thinking about his mother. It was hard to forgive and forget her past attitude and bitterness toward him and his father about the game of golf, but he would work on it.

  Scott was in the Turnberry Hotel restaurant at eight to meet Matt and Mark Breen for breakfast. Matt placed three Fleet Street tabloids on the table. The headline of one on the back sport page read: YANK EAGLE SNATCHES OPEN WIN FROM JAPANESE.

  After Scott’s interview with Golf Magazine they joined Derrick and the McEwans at the pro shop. Douglas and his father were ready for golf and bubbling with pride to be playing a round with Scott. The wind and rain had left Turnberry, and the clouds from the day before were starting to clear.

  Scott shook hands with the McEwans. "I’m honored to play a round with the McEwans of Saint Andrew’s." He turned toward Douglas. "Let’s go, partner."

  "I’ve been practicing and broke ninety on the Ailsa before the Open, Mr. Beckman. And I’m sure with all the strokes I’ll get off you, we’ll beat the pants off them," he said, nodding toward Matt, Breen and his father.

  David McEwan looked to the sky with mock exasperation as if it was no use reprimanding his son any longer for his outspoken remarks. He shrugged and said, "it’s in the lad’s genes."

  The course was empty and Derrick authorized their six-some to play the Ailsa—a little worse for wear because of the many divots made by a week of Open play. Using s
ome of Douglas’ 25 strokes, Scott, Douglas and Breen did beat the pants off Matt, Derrick and the elder McEwan.

  When the round was finished, David McEwan invited them to his home, a short walk from the course. Derrick and Mark Breen played another nine holes instead of joining them.

  After they settled into the McEwan parlor, the conversation turned to the McNair feathery. David McEwan showed more than general interest with a flurry of questions, until he asked, "May I have a look at your feathery?"

  "Sure. It’s in the hotel safe. I’ll go get it." Scott started to get up. "Nae, Scott, relax. I’ll send the lad to fetch it."

  Scott called the Turnberry Hotel desk to inform them, and Douglas dashed out of the house. He returned in fifteen minutes with the feathery. Scott opened the small wooden box and handed it to David McEwan. David reached in a desk drawer and put on a pair of latex gloves. He read the record scorecard and carefully lifted the feathery out of the box. He turned the ball slowly viewing the 78, HUGH and the pennyweight of 26. He stared at it for a couple of minutes before he placed the feathery back in the box with the scorecard. David handed the box back to Scott and excused himself. He left for another room in the house.