Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  Craig yelled louder, “Stan!” This time it worked. Stan was looking right at him. Craig was waving his arms, motioning him to come over.

  “Sir, you’re gonna have to keep it down.” An official had heard Craig as well and stood directly between him and Stan. Craig moved from side to side, ignoring the official. He continued to wave his arms but did not say anything else.

  Stan finally put down Chet’s bag and walked over to the gallery. Chet stood in the fairway and looked at his yardage book, determining how far away his next shot was.

  As Stan got closer, he told the official it was okay, and he walked away. “What is it?”

  “The pin positions,” Craig said. “I went ahead to the seventeenth and eighteenth and did my best to write them down.” He handed Stan the two pieces of paper.

  Stan looked down at the paper and back up at Craig. Without saying a word, he jogged back to Chet and showed him the sheets. They compared them to what their sheet said and realized that Craig’s sheets were different. Both men looked back at Craig and nodded their heads. Chet hit his second shot to twelve feet and walked towards the green amidst the applause of the gallery.

  Craig and Lori followed the group to the green and watched Chet sink the putt for birdie, moving him back to within two strokes of the lead.

  “I sure hope they appreciate what you did, Craig,” Lori said.

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Maybe they’ll invite us back over to their house tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  They walked up the eighteenth fairway and looked at the large leader board behind the green. Hitchens and Garnier were still tied at seven under, and Walker was just two back at five under. The wind was really starting to pick up, and the sky was darkening. Chet and Stan were in the left-hand rough and far away from Craig, who was on the right side. He saw them discuss again the piece of paper he had given them and also their own sheet. He saw Stan put their sheet back in his bag and look again at Craig’s sheet before selecting a club from his bag. Unfortunately, Craig’s sheet did not help Chet on this hole. Chet hit his shot too high and it got caught in the wind, sending the ball splashing into the right hand bunker.

  As was tradition at the Masters and all PGA tournaments, the crowd appreciated each player as he approached the eighteenth green. There were no bleachers on the eighteenth green, but each patron stood and applauded the players as they approached the green. Chet tipped his cap and walked into the bunker to survey his next shot. He took a sand wedge from Stan and splashed out of the bunker onto the green. The hole was cut close to the right side, and Chet had no chance of stopping the ball near the hole. It took one hop and rolled back towards the front of the green and stopped some twenty feet away.

  Mike Jackson chipped up to just inches of the hole and tapped in for his par. Chet and Stan looked at the putt from all angles. “Looks right-edge,” Chet said.

  “Make it a ball outside and remember its uphill,” Stan replied.

  Chet made the last of his practice strokes and addressed the ball. Suddenly a huge gust of wind came from nowhere, and Chet backed away from the ball. If the wind were to move the ball as he addressed it, it would have been a penalty. Chet took no chances and waited for the wind to die down. He went back to the ball and stroked it firmly. The ball started exactly where he intended and it traveled up the hill. Chet kept his head down until the ball was only five feet away from the cup and watched as it curled in the right side of the hole.

  The crowd roared, and Chet raised his putter into the air as he walked to the hole to retrieve his ball. He took off his hat and shook the hands of Jackson and his caddy. He put his arm around Stan and walked off the green backwards, staring at the scoreboard. He was still only two strokes from the lead.

  “Nice!” Craig said to Lori. They high-fived each other and walked towards the scoring tent, where Chet was signing his card.

  “Whew!” Lori said. “That was intense. I’m not even playing, and I was getting goose bumps on that putt.”

  “Imagine how he felt,” Craig replied.

  “Hey, Craig!”

  Craig turned around and saw Stan walking towards him on the other side of the ropes. “I just wanted to thank you for helping us out on the last two holes. We could’ve used you earlier in the round.”

  “No problem. So the pin position sheet was wrong again?” Craig asked.

  “Only on about six holes, but we couldn’t be sure. Listen, Chet wants to have you two over tonight. To talk again about what you know.”

  “Serious?” Lori asked.

  “Very. Don’t eat either; we’ll have dinner there.”

  “Um, okay. What time?”

  “Chet’s going back to the practice range for a few hours, so not until about 7:30.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “No, guys,” Stan said, “thank you.”

  Stan walked away, and Lori was the first to speak, “See! Told ya they’d invite us back.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Craig said.

  Brewster and Stumps knew they had screwed up royally as they watched Craig and Lori walk away from the caddie. There was nothing they could have done in front of ten thousand spectators. They had to report back to Hank and tell them that Craig had spoken to Stan both on the course and after the round. They weren’t sure who they should fear most, Humphrey or Hank.

  Chapter 23

  Hank caught up to Archie on the eleventh hole, a 490-yard par-four that had an uphill tee shot and a downhill approach shot with water left. Pat Hitchens was hitting first and the wind was beginning to howl in every direction. Playing Amen Corner, holes eleven, twelve, and thirteen, in these conditions, would test both a golfer’s skill and nerve. The name, Amen Corner, came from a Sports Illustrated writer in 1958 who coined the phrase. Hitchens hit a towering drive down the right-hand side of the fairway but had a long way in to the well-protected green. Hank and Archie followed the group down the fairway.

  “See the kid finish today?” Archie asked.

  “Yeah, I saw it,” Hank replied.

  “I’m glad I didn’t get to see him; I would’ve been a nervous wreck. Hitchens is playing all right for you, though.”

  “In this wind?” Hank said. “He’s playing outstanding. If he can only hold out for the back nine, we’ll be in great position tomorrow.” Hank looked up at the sky. “I’m not sure if I want it to rain or not.”

  “Augusta usually doesn’t let them play if it rains hard enough. He may get a break and get to finish in the morning.”

  “Or it rains just a little, and he shoots a forty on the back nine,” Hank exclaimed.

  They walked towards Hitchens’ tee shot and waited for his playing partner, Garnier, to play his second. The wind was blowing straight at them, and Garnier used a fairway wood to reach the front edge of the green. Hitchens took out a long iron and played a low, stinging shot that kept the ball under the wind. The ball bounced twenty yards in front of the green, climbed over the small mounds that protected the putting surface, and rolled all the way to the back edge.

  “At least he’s dry,” Hank said.

  The two men trailed behind Hitchens’ group as they made their way through the next couple of holes. Hitchens made par on the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth before bogeying the fourteenth. Sven Garnier was not as lucky, as he dropped to four under par for the tournament. Hitchens was still holding a one-shot lead when the first few drops of rain started falling from the sky.

  “Oh shit,” Hank said. They both looked up at the sky as clouds completely covered what was left of the sun. Umbrellas went up, and the patrons headed for the exit. “They gotta call this soon.”

  “I haven’t heard any thunder yet,” Archie replied. “They won’t delay this round with only four holes remaining.”

  Hank watched Hitchens’ caddie hand over an umbrella to his player, and they both walked down the fifteenth fairway. Hitchens put on a waterproof jacket, and his caddy threw a cover over the
top of the clubs. Fortunately, for the remaining golfers on the course, the rain never gained momentum through the next couple of holes. Hitchens’ next slip up came at the par-four seventeenth. He played a great tee shot down the middle of the fairway but left his approach shot well right of the hole. His first putt was a good fifty feet, and he lagged it to eight feet but missed it for par. He was now tied for the lead with Chet Walker.

  “Damn!” exclaimed Hank.

  “Tie ball game, my friend. You better hope he pars eighteen. You know what’ll happen if Walker has the lead going into the final round.”

  Hitchens did just that. He made par on eighteen and set up a final round pairing with Walker. Afterwards he criticized tournament officials for not delaying the round until the rain had passed.

  Red Maitland was in the back of the press tent cursing Hitchens under his breath for not playing well enough to hold onto the lead. He had to go into a full court press now that Walker was back in the hunt. He was not going to allow him to win. Not if he could do something about it.

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  All of the news on ESPN was focused on the match-up of two of the world’s best golfers going head to head the next day for the green jacket. Craig arrived back at his hotel and tried to take a nap while watching Hitchens finish up his round. Lori called him around 6:30 and told him she’d pick him up at seven to go to Chet’s house. He showered, dressed, and told Hank he was going out with Lori.

  Craig didn’t know who to trust anymore, and he didn’t dare inform him that they were going to the golfer’s home for dinner. He knew either Hank or Uncle Red would send the same men that roughed him up the previous night to follow him and Lori.

  They arrived at the rented house promptly at 7:30.

  “Thanks for coming, come on in,” Stan said, opening the door.

  Both Craig and Lori felt more comfortable in the house than they did the previous night. They were invited guests and felt honored to be sharing a night with one of the world’s best golfers.

  Chet was once again in the basement watching the tapes of his round earlier that day. “Hi guys, sit down.” Chet was dressed casually with a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt.

  Stan opened a bottle of wine and poured three glasses. He handed one to Lori and Craig and kept one for himself.

  “You don’t drink wine, Chet?” Lori asked.

  “Not during a tournament, I’m afraid. Stan won’t let me.” He smiled. “Thanks again for getting me those pin placements on seventeen and eighteen, Craig. It really helped me out.”

  “You played great today, you’re back in this thing.” replied Craig. He was in awe of the great golfer. He was fumbling for words and didn’t know what to say. This was a guy he idolized!

  “We’ll see what happens tomorrow,” Chet responded. “I wonder what these guys will try and do to screw up my round.”

  “What else can they do?” Lori asked.

  “Who knows? They already tampered with my clubs, slashed my tires, and gave me a bogus pin sheet. I can’t wait to find out who’s behind all this.”

  Lori looked around the room and noticed how empty it felt. “Where’s your family and friends?” she blurted out. “I mean, I’m sorry, it’s just…”

  “Don’t worry about it. My parents and brothers used to stay with me here, and so did my best friend from home. It got to the point where I felt that maybe they were a distraction. This is the first year that I told them to stay home. I kept the same house, but felt I’d be better off if they weren’t here.”

  “Oh, gotcha,” Lori said. She nudged Craig, who was sitting beside her, hoping he’d bail her out.

  It suddenly hit Craig that he was sitting next to a professional golfer, one of the greats of today. Granted, Coldridge represented Walker, but he never came to their office and he never met him before. His dad had always taken him to sporting events, charity carnivals where local athletes signed autographs, and baseball card shows, but he had never spoken to an athlete on a personal level. Craig was sitting next to Chet Walker, pro golfer, and talking to him like they had known each other for years. Lori tapped Craig harder this time to get his attention.

  “Craig?”

  “Huh?”

  He realized everyone was staring at him. “I was wondering, shouldn’t we try and think of all the possible angles these people could do to damage your game? I mean, let’s look at all the ways that they can fix this tournament and try to prevent them from happening.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Stan chimed in. “They’re not going to fix his clubs anymore because they’re sitting next to me at all times. I even slept with them last night.”

  Chet looked over at him cautiously and raised an eyebrow.

  “Hey, man, gotta do it.”

  “Okay, what else.” Lori said, clearly wanting to be part of the guys.

  The room was eerily quiet as all three men stared in opposite directions. Craig leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs. Stan scratched the stubble on his face. Chet stretched his arms high and wide. Lori looked at each person before saying, “Guys?”

  Stan was the first to respond. “Lori, it’s not that easy to fix a golf tournament. So far it looks like they want Chet to lose. It would be even harder to make someone win.”

  “Why?” Lori asked.

  “Do you golf?” Stan asked.

  Lori was afraid to reply, but she knew that Craig knew her answer. “Yes, occasionally.”

  “Ever stand over an easy three-footer that was uphill and had no break?”

  “I guess so,” she responded.

  “Ever miss?” Stan asked.

  She laughed, “More than I make.”

  “There you go,” Stan said. “You can’t force a guy to make putts. You can’t keep a guy from duck-hooking his drive into the woods. You can’t control if he hits it near the flag all day. What they’re trying to control is how a golfer can miss putts, can duck-hook, and can miss hitting his approach shots. Which, I don’t have to remind you, they already did.”

  “So what we have to figure out is how else they are going to mess with Chet’s round, and keep that from happening?” Lori responded.

  “Exactly,” Stan smiled.

  Chet was listening to their conversation and finally got his chance to speak. “What if they gave Pat Hitchens an illegal club?”

  Stan looked over at Chet. “You’ve known Pat for a long time; you think he’d do this to you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. They could slip an exact replica in his bag tomorrow without him knowing it, and he could blow it thirty yards by me off the tee.”

  “Wouldn’t this attract some unwanted attention?”

  “I guess,” Chet replied.

  Golf clubs in the past few years had been made longer, stronger, and harder, especially the driver. Companies made these clubs for the weekend golfer, hoping he’d get an extra twenty yards off the tee. An example of an illegal club was somewhat like a tennis racket. When the ball hit the racket, the strings folded inward and provided a spring-like effect that makes the ball come off the racket with more speed. This happened with golf clubs as well. The ball would hit the enlarged face of a driver, force it to concave a little more, and the effect would send the ball of the club with more velocity.

  “Besides,” Craig finally jumped in, “this goes against the argument that they cannot force another guy to win. Even if Hitchens had an illegal club, doesn’t mean he won’t slice it in the woods or make more putts.”

  They all nodded their heads in agreement and continued to discuss other obstacles that Chet may be facing. Around 8:30, their dinner finally arrived. Lori was not impressed as a delivery kid showed up with brown bags of various shapes and sizes. Stan noticed her disappointment and finally explained that dinner came from the best restaurant in town, Larkin’s. It was a smorgasbord of steak tips, steamed clams, large Gulf shrimp, broiled scallops, and chicken Florentine. They took a break from their discussion and feasted on the huge amounts of food.


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  Brewster and Stumps sat in their car about a block away from Chet Walker’s house. They followed Craig and Lori to the house and waited patiently outside for them to return to their car. Stumps had a six-pack of Miller High Life by his feet and opened his third beer of the night. He could tell that Brewster was getting annoyed, but he didn’t seem to mind. He took one large swig of the lukewarm beverage and wiped his mouth with his hand.

  “Ah, Miller time,” Stumps said.

  Brewster leaned up against the window and stared off in the direction of the house they were watching.

  “I told you to get some,” Stumps said.

  Brewster couldn’t ignore him. “What if you’re too drunk to take care of them tonight?”

  “Shit, man, it’ll take more than a six-pack of beer to get this guy drunk,” Stumps replied, pointing a thumb at his chest. “Besides, that kid in there is a weasel. You could handle him yourself. And the girl…” He turned his head out the window.

  “Don’t even think it,” Brewster replied.

  “Oh, I’m allowed to think it. I just can’t touch it. And boy, would I love to touch it.” The alcohol was settling in, and his words were loud and echoing inside the small car. Stumps tilted the beer to his lips and drained another third of the bottle.

  “Well, don’t get any ideas. You know we can’t lay a finger on her.”

  “I know, I know, settle the fuck down.”

  Brewster looked at his watch and couldn’t wait for the night to end, let alone the entire trip. Suddenly his cell phone buzzed incessantly. He picked it up before Stumps could get a hand on it.

  Stumps finished High Life number three and listened to the conversation.

  “Yeah, we’re still here,” Brewster could be heard saying. “About ninety minutes…No, not unless you count the delivery guy from some restaurant. Really? Okay…Yeah…Fine…All right, we will…See ya.”

  He put the keys in the ignition and started the car.

  “Where are we going?” Stumps asked.