The Best Golf Stories Ever Told

by Julie Ganz

  They brought their own gallery, too, Bellevue members who talked even money and flashed yellow-backed bills. The Dingbats formed a syndicate and covered all bets; but this was due to club pride rather than any feeling of confidence. We knew our boys were in for a tough battle, in which neither side would have a marked advantage.

  Four of our team players were on hand to welcome the enemy—Moreman, Bishop, Elder and Gilmore—and they offered their opponents such hospitality as is customary on like occasions.

  “Thanks,” said MacNeath with a grin; “but just now we’re drinking water. After the match you can fill the cup with anything you like, and we’ll allow you one drink out of it before we take it home with us. Once we get it over there it’ll never come back. It’s not in the cards for you to win three times running. . . . Where’s Anderson?”

  “He hasn’t shown up yet,” said Bishop.

  “He’s on the way out in his car,” added Moreman. “I rang up his house five minutes ago. He’d just left.”

  “Oh, very well,” said MacNeath, who is Number One man for Bellevue, as well as captain of the team. “Suppose we have lunch now, Bishop; and while we’re eating you can give me the list of your players and I’ll match them up.”

  In team play it is customary for the home captain to submit the names of his players, ranked from one to five, in the order of their ability. The visiting captain then has the privilege of making the individual matches; and this is supposed to offset whatever advantage the home team has by reason of playing on its own course.

  Bishop, our captain, handed over a list reading as follows: 1—Anderson; 2—Moreman; 3—Bishop; 4—Elder; 5—Gilmore. MacNeath bracketed his own name with Anderson’s, and paired Crane with Moreman, Lounsberry with Bishop, Smathers with Elder, and Jordan with Gilmore.

  After luncheon the men changed to their golfing togs; but still there was no sign of Anderson. Another telephone call confirmed the first message; his wife reported that he had left his home nearly an hour before, bound for the club.

  “Queer!” said MacNeath. “Engine trouble or a puncture—possibly both. It’s not like the Swede to be late. Might as well get started, eh? Anderson and I will go last, anyhow.”

  A big gallery watched the first pair drive off, Gilmore getting a better ball than Jordan, and cheering those who believe in omens. Then at five-minute intervals, came Lounsberry and Bishop, Smathers and Elder, and Crane and Moreman. Each match attracted a small individual gallery, but most of the spectators waited to follow the Number One men. MacNeath, refusing to allow himself to be made nervous by the delay, went into the clubhouse; and many and wild were the speculations as to the cause of Anderson’s tardiness. The wildest one of them fell short of the bitter truth, which came to us at the end of a telephone wire located in the professional’s shop. It had been relayed on from the switchboard in the club office:

  “Anderson blew a front tire at the city limits. Car turned over with him and broke his leg.”

  A bombshell exploding under our noses could not have created more consternation. There we were, with four of the matches under way, our best man crippled, and up against the proposition of providing an opponent for MacNeath, admittedly the most dangerous player on the Bellevue team. Harson, as a member of the Greens Committee and an officer of the club, assumed charge of the situation as soon as he heard the news.

  “No good sending word to poor old Bishop,” said he. “He’s the team captain, of course; but he can’t do anything about it. Besides, he’s already playing his match, and this would upset him terribly. Is there any one here who can give MacNeath a run for his money?”

  “Not unless you want to try it,” said I.

  “He’d eat me alive!’’ groaned Harson. “We might as well forfeit one match, and put it up to the boys to win three out of four. Oh, if we only had one more good man!”

  “Ye have,” said MacQuarrie, who had been listening. “Ye’ve overlooked young Mister Phipps.”

  “That kid?” demanded Harson. “Nonsense!”

  “Ay,” said Dunn’l; “that kid! Call it nonsense if ye like, sir, but he was under eighty twice yesterday. This mor-min’ he shot a seventy-seven, with two missed putts the length o’ your ar-rm. He’s on top of his game now, an’ goin’ strong. If he’ll shoot back to his mor- min’ round he’ll give Mister MacNeath a battle; but the lad has never been in a competition, so ye’ll have to chance his ner-rves.”

  “Ambrose!” I exclaimed. “I never should have thought of him!”

  “Of course ye wouldn’t,” said MacQuarrie. “Ye’ve never played with him—never even seen him play.”

  “But he’s such a little rotter!” mumbled Harson.

  “Ay,” said Dunn’l; “an’, grantin’ ye that, he’s still the best ye have. He’s in the club house now, dressed an’ ready to start, once the crowd is out of the way.”

  “And he really did a seventy-seven this morning?” asked Harson.

  “With two missed putts—wee ones.”

  I looked at Harson and Harson looked at me.

  “You go in and put it up to him,” said he at last. “I can’t talk to him without losing my temper.”

  I found our little red hope banging the balls about on the billiard table, carefree as a scarlet tanager.

  “Young man,” said I, “your country calls you.”

  “I’m under age,” said Ambrose, calmly squinting along his cue. “Don’t bother me. This is a tough shot.”

  “Well, then,” said I, “your club calls you.”

  “My club, eh?” remarked the redhead with nasty emphasis. “Any time this club calls me I’m stone-deaf.”

  “Listen to me a minute, Phipps. This is the day of the big team match and we’re up against it hard. Anderson turned his car over on the way out and broke his leg. We want you to take his place.”

  “Anderson,” repeated Ambrose. “Ain’t that the squarehead who calls me Little Poison Ivy? Only his leg, eh? Tough luck!”

  “You bet it is!” I exclaimed, ignoring his meaning. “Tough luck for all of us, because if we can’t dig up a man to take Anderson’s place we’ll have to forfeit that particular match to MacNeath. We’d set our hearts on winning this time, because it would give us the permanent possession of the team trophy that we’ve been shooting at for twenty years——”

  “Let your voice fall right there!” commanded Ambrose. “Trophies are nothing in my young life. This club is nothing in my life. Everybody here has treated me worse than a yellow dog. Go ahead and take your medicine; and I hope they lick you and make you like it!”

  I saw it was time to try another tack. Ambrose had used one word that had put an idea into my head.

  “All right,” said I. “Have it your own way. Perhaps it was a mistake to mention MacNeath’s name.”

  “What do you mean—a mistake?” He fired up instantly.

  “Well,” said I, “you must know Mac by reputation. He’s one of the best golfers in the state and a tough proposition to beat. He’s their Number One man—their star player. He shoots pretty close to par all the time.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” asked Ambrose.

  “Why, nothing; only——”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, they all said yon wouldn’t want to go up against such a strong player.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Oh, everybody. Yes; it was a mistake to mention his name. I’m frank enough to say that I wouldn’t tackle him without a handicap. MacNeath is hard game.”

  “Look here!” snapped the redhead. “You’re off on the wrong foot entirely. You’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s not because I’m afraid of this MacNeath, or anybody else. I licked that sour old Scotchman this morning, and I guess you’ll agree he’s not soft picking. It’s just that I don’t feel that this club ought to ask a favour of me.”

  “A favour! Why, man alive, it’s a compliment to stick you in at Number One—the biggest compliment we can pay you!”

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bsp; “Well,” said Ambrose slowly, “if you look at it in that light——”

  “I most certainly do. . . . But if you’d rather not meet MacNeath——”

  Ambrose dropped his cue with a crash. “You don’t really think I’m yellow, do you?” he cried.

  “If you are,” said I, “you’re the first redhead that ever got his colour scheme mixed.”

  The little rascal grinned like a gargoyle. “Listen!” said he confidentially. “You’ve used me pretty well—to my face, anyhow—and I’ll tell you this much: I don’t care the snap of my fingers for your ratty old cup. I care even less for the members of this club—present company excepted, you understand; but I can’t stand it to have anybody think I’m not game. Ever since I was a runt of a kid I’ve had to fight, and they can say anything about me except that I’m a quitter. . . . Why, I’ve stuck round here for nearly five months just because I wouldn’t let a lot of old fossils drive me out and make me quit—five months without a friend in the place, and only MacQuarrie to talk to.

  “If I’d been yellow it would have shown that first Saturday when everybody turned me down so cold. I wanted to walk out and never come back. I wanted to; but I stuck. Honest, if I’m anything at all I’m game—game enough to stand the gaff and take the worst of it; and I’ll prove it to you by playing this bird, no matter how good he is. I’ll fight him every jump of the way, and if he licks me he’ll have to step out some to do it. What’s a licking, anyway? I’ve had a thousand of ’em! Plenty of people can lick me; but you bet your life nobody ever scared me!”

  “Good kid!” said I, and held out my hand.

  After an instant’s hesitation Ambrose seized it. “Now lead me to this MacNeath person,” said he. “I suppose we ought to be introduced, eh? Or has he been told that I’m the Country Club leper?”

  It was a sorely disappointed gallery that welcomed the substitute—disappointed and amazed; but the few Bellevue members were openly jubilant. They had reason to be, for word had been brought back to them that Lounsberry and Crane were running away with their matches. Between them and the cup they saw only a golfing novice, a junior member without a war record. They immediately began offering odds of two to one on the MacNeath-Phipps match; but there were no takers. The Dingbats held a lodge of sorrow in the shade of the caddie house and mournfully estimated their losses, while our feminine contingent showed signs of retreating to the porch and spending the afternoon at bridge.

  MacNeath was first on the tee—a tall, fiat- muscled, athletic man of forty; and, as the veteran was preparing to drive, Ambrose and MacQuarrie held a whispered conversation.

  “I’d like to grab some of that two to one,” said the boy.

  “Don’t be foolish,” counselled the canny Scot. “Ye’ll have enough on your mind wi’out makin’ bets; an’ for pity’s sake, remember what I’ve told ye—slow back, don’t press, keep your head down, an’ count three before ye look up. Hit them like ye did this mor-min’ an’ ye’ve a grand chance to win.”

  MacNeath sent his usual tee shot straight down the course, a long, well-placed ball; and Ambrose stepped forward in the midst of a silence that was almost painful.

  “Mighty pretty,” said he with a careless nod at his opponent. “Hope I do as well.”

  “Ye can,” muttered old Dunn’I, “if ye’ll keep your fool mouth shut an’ your eye on the ball!” As Ambrose stooped to arrange his tee he caught a glimpse of the gallery—a long, triple row of spectators, keenly interested in his next move—expectant, anxious, apprehensive. Something of the mental attitude of the audience communicated itself to the youngster, and he paused for an instant, crouched on one knee. When he rose all the nonchalant ease was gone from his manner, all the cocksureness out of his eyes. He looked again at MacNeath’s ball, a white speck far down the fairway. MacQuarrie groaned and shook his head.

  “Never mind that one!”he whispered to himself savagely. “Play the one on the tee!” Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. He seemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward to the ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenly stiffened in every muscle and joint—gone tense with the nervous strain. He did manage to remember about the back swing—it was slow enough to suit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just long enough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realised this, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at the ball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turned it sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error was a wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until it reached the bunker.

  “Well, by the sweet and suffering——”

  This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had a gallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeath followed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was just the thin edge of a smile on the veteran’s lean, bronzed face.

  Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and began to drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quite enough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment:

  “No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks. Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead was a fizzer—a false alarm.”

  “Can’t understand why they let him play at all!”scolded Daddy Bradshaw. “Might just as well put me in there against MacNeath! Fools!”

  MacQuarrie obstinately refused to quit his pupil.

  “He boggled his swing,” growled Dunn’l; “he fair jumped at the ball, an’ he looked up before he hit it. He’ll do better wi’out a gallery. Come along, sir!”

  I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buried in the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie, an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactly what his lunacy deserved—a much worse lie than before, close against the bank—and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half his audience.

  “What, not going already?”asked Ambrose after he had played four and picked up his ball. “Stick round a while. This is going to be good.”

  I said I wanted to see how the other matches were coming on.

  “Everybody seems to feel the same way,” said the redhead, looking at the retreating gallery. “All because I slopped that drive! I’ll have that audience back again—see if I don’t! And I’ll bet you I won’t look up on another shot all day!”

  “If ye do,” grumbled MacQuarrie, “I’ll never play wi’ ye again as long as ye live!”

  “That’s a promise!” cried Ambrose. “One down, eh? Where do we go from here?”

  IV

  Our team veterans did not lack sympathetic encouragement on the last nine holes, and all four matches tightened up to such an extent that we wavered between hope and fear until Crane’s final putt on the seventeenth green dropped us into the depths of despair.

  Gilmore, setting the pace with Jordan, gave us early encouragement by maintaining a safe lead throughout and winning his match, 3 to 2. First blood was ours, but the period of rejoicing was a short one; for the deliberate Louns- berry, approaching and putting with heartbreaking accuracy, disposed of Bishop on the seventeenth green.

  “One apiece,” said Doc Pinkinson. “Now what’s Elder doing?”

  The Elder-Smathers match came to Number Seventeen all square; but our man ended the suspense by dropping a beautiful mashie pitch dead to the pin from a distance of one hundred yards. Smathers’ third shot also reached the green; but his long putt went wide and Elder tapped the ball into the cup, adding a second victory to our credit.

  “It’s looking better every minute!” chirped the irrepressible Doc Pinkinson. “Now if Moreman can lick his man we’re all hunky-dory. If he loses—good-a-by, cup! No use figuring on that red-headed snipe of a kid. MacNeath has sent him to the cleaner’s by now, sure!”<
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  The gallery waited at the seventeenth green, watching in anxious silence as Crane and Moreman played their pitch shots over the guarding bunker. Both were well on in threes; but the Bellevue caddie impudently held his forefinger in the air as a sign that his man was one up. Moreman made a good try, but his fourth shot stopped a few inches from the cup; and Crane, after studying the roll of the green for a full minute, dropped a forty-foot putt for a four—and dropped our spirits with it.

  “That settles it!” wheezed Daddy Bradshaw.

  “No need to bother about that other match. . . . Oh, if Anderson was so set on breaking his leg, why didn’t he wait till to-morrow?”

  “Then he could have busted ’em both,” remarked the unfeeling Pinkinson, “and nobody would have said a word. Might’s well pay those bets, I reckon. We got as much chance as that snowball they’re always talking about. If it didn’t melt, somebody would eat it.”

  He turned and looked back along the course. Two figures appeared on the skyline, proceeding in the direction of the sixteenth tee. The first one was tall, and moved with long, even strides; the second was short, and even at the distance it seemed to strut and swagger.

  “Hello!” ejaculated Pinkinson. “Ain’t that MacNeath and the kid, going to Sixteen? It is, by golly! D’you reckon they’re playing out the bye holes just for fun—or what?”

  “It can’t be anything else,” said Bradshaw. “The boy couldn’t have carried him that far.” Somebody plucked at my sleeve. It was a small dirty-faced caddie, very much out of breath.

  “Mister Phipps says—if you want to see—some reg’lar golf—you’d better catch the finish—of his match. He says—bring all the gang with you.”

  “The finish of his match!” I cried. “Isn’t it over? You don’t mean that they’re still playing?”

  “Still playin’ is right!” panted the caddie. “They was all square—when I left ’em.”

  All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The various groups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of the clubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. All square? Nonsense! It couldn’t be true. A green kid like that holding MacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of the doubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movement backward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as an objective point.