Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  Seven years earlier, golfer Scott Hoch bogeyed the 17th hole to get into a playoff with Faldo. On the first playoff hole Hoch had a two foot putt to win and he missed it, the ball never even hitting the cup.

  That was the pressure a golfer faced on the final round of a major. That was the pressure that both Chet Walker and his caddy, Craig Waltrip, were about to experience.

  Having earned the title “The Best Golfer to Have Never Won a Major”, Chet had been in similar situations in the past. Most notably was the year before at St. Andrews in Scotland for the British Open. He was tied for the lead going into the seventeenth hole when his second shot found the infamous “Road Hole Bunker”. This was a bunker that you needed a stepladder to get out of. He was up against the front of the wall and took three shots to finally get the ball on the green. Fifteen minutes later he walked off eighteen, losing by three shots, and he was suddenly called a choker.

  One mistake and the tournament was over. One drive out of bounds, one iron shot into a water hazard, one three putt and you fail to finally catapult oneself to the echelon of a great golfer. Years may go by before you had another chance to wear the green jacket or hoist the Claret Jug. Craig knew that this was an opportunity that he was not going to let Chet Walker slip by. If he had any influence over Walker and his game, he would try to be as positive as possible.

  A caddy’s role was not as minimal as some people might think. He or she did more than carry a bag for eighteen holes. There’s also more than raking a bunker or cleaning his clubs. Caddies must know the yardage to the hole by the yard. In today’s game, players know exactly how far they hit each club within two yards. Being off a few yards could spell disaster for the player. A caddy must also be supportive of the players’ decisions and not criticize them for making mistakes.

  On the putting green, never should a caddy say, “Make sure you hit it hard enough.” But instead, a caddy should simply imply that the putt is uphill. He or she should never tell a player that there is water to the right, or out of bounds left. This would only instill negative thoughts in the player’s mind and ultimately send his ball in that bunker or water hazard. Craig had read a lot of golf books in his life, both fiction and non-fiction, and tried to dwell on those stories to get a sense of what lay ahead of him.

  One thing he had decided was to only give advice when asked. Chet played this course many times, and Craig never walked the full eighteen, let alone played it. The only reference he had was the countless hours he spends every April watching it on TV.

  As they arrived at the course in Chet’s courtesy car, Craig carried the large golf bag, which was heavier than he thought it would be, to the men’s locker room. He set the bag down and waited for Chet to change into his shoes. They both agreed to never let the bag out of their sight. A few minutes later, they walked through the gallery of spectators and towards the driving range.

  Craig could not believe he was on the other side of the yellow ropes. Not only was this his first trip to Augusta, but he was actually going to caddy in the final round. He smiled to everyone who thrust out their hand. There were kids, parents, and even grandparents waving programs, hats, pictures, all trying to get an autograph. Chet simply apologized and said that there’d be no autographs today. Autographs and pictures were only allowed during the practice rounds and occasionally after a round.

  Pretty soon, as they made their way to the driving range, the cheering slowly subsided. There were still many people shouting and waving as they walked down the small hill, but the further they walked, the calmer it became. Craig noticed that instead of pointing at Chet, the fans were starting to point at him. The group of spectators were whispering to each other and pointing at Craig as if to ask, “Who is this guy?”

  Craig, the smile now gone, lowered his head and followed Chet to the range. When they got there, Chet found his name on a small piece of wood and started to stretch. Craig put his bag down and looked around at the other golfers warming up. All of the famous faces he had seen on TV were right there in front of him. At the far end of the range was Chet’s playing partner, Pat Hitchens. He was slightly older than him, probably in his late thirties, and chasing his first major victory as well. From what Craig remembered, this was the closest he’s ever come to winning.

  Craig saw a tournament official with a green jacket walk towards them.

  “Hi, Mr. Whitley,” Chet said.

  “Good day, Mr. Walker. I just came over to make sure everything is all right. I noticed that you have a new caddy.”

  Chet was holding a club over his head and leaning his body far to the left, then back to the right. “Yeah, Stan’s not feeling well.”

  Mr. Whitely looked surprised, “Oh, I see.”

  Chet set up in his golf stance and started to take a few practice swings as if he was left-handed. Swinging the club the opposite way he usually did was a great stretching technique and one implored by more and more golfers. “I’m sure this isn’t a problem,” Chet said.

  “No, no, of course not. What is this young man’s name so I can inform the others?”

  “Craig,” Chet said.

  Mr. Whitely jotted down his name on the clipboard he was carrying and waited for Chet to finish. Chet had stopped swinging and realized that he had no idea what Craig’s last name was.

  Craig noticed the uncomfortable silence and quickly said, “Waltrip. Craig Waltrip.”

  “Very well, thank you. Good luck today, Mr. Walker.” Mr. Whitely walked back to his small kiosk and radioed inside the news he had just acquired.

  “Thanks. I guess I should know my caddy’s last name,” Chet said.

  “I guess it’ll be all over the course now. ‘Chet Walker has some schlep as a caddy.’”

  “Who cares? Now let’s hit some golf balls.” Chet pulled some balls from the pyramid of practice balls towards him and got into position. “What Stan and I have been working on is my alignment. I need you to stand behind me and tell me if I’m aiming where I think I am. Remember too that I play a draw, so I’ll always be aimed a few feet right of the target. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Craig moved behind Chet and watched him approach the ball.

  “Yellow flag,” Chet said.

  Craig looked out into the driving range and found the yellow flag. He traced an imaginary line back to Craig’s ball and found a perfect match. Just as Chet took the club away from his ball to swing, Craig said, “You’re lined up perfect.”

  Chet stopped in mid-swing and looked back at his new caddy. “Only if it’s incorrect do you say something. I can’t have you interrupting my swing every time I’m lined up right. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  Again, Chet lined up for the yellow flag and Craig found it again to be an ideal match. This time he kept his mouth shut and watched Chet’s graceful yet powerful swing blast through the ball and send it flying towards its target 175 yards away. Craig didn’t know whether to compliment him on the good shot or keep quiet. He decided on the latter and watched Chet hit a few more balls towards the yellow flag. Chet handed Craig the club he had been using and grabbed another from the bag.

  “Blue flag,” he said.

  Craig had the club in his hand and stood behind Chet. Craig wasn’t sure what to do now. Wash the club or watch him swing? He stood behind him as Chet lined up and for the first time noticed that he was a few feet left of his target. He had to say something.

  “You’re not aimed correctly,” Craig quickly blurted out.

  “Well, tell me where I’m aimed.”

  “Move to your right a little,” Craig said and watched Chet shuffle his feet and look down at the blue flag. “Yeah, that’s better.”

  “I don’t need perfect silence on the range, Craig. You can clean that club you’re holding.”

  “Oh, okay.” Craig grabbed the wet towel that was draped over the golf bag and cleaned the club so well like he was going to eat off of it, vigorously scrubbing any speck of dirt that was clinging to the steel.

 
; The practice session continued for almost forty-five minutes, finishing with full drivers into the trees in the distance. They walked back up the hill towards the clubhouse and stopped on the putting green. The spectators surrounding the large green were gathered three or four deep, watching the professionals stroke three- and four- and even fifteen-footers into the cup. Craig followed Chet onto the putting green with his bag slung over his shoulder. As Chet turned to Craig, he finally had to laugh out loud.

  “Craig, no need for the bag, just the putter.”

  Craig looked around at the green and saw others staring at him and smiling. He walked to the side of the green and laid the bag down in the grass near the other golfer’s bags and went back to where Craig was standing.

  Chet laughed again and so did most of the people nearby. “Putter?” he said.

  Craig felt his face turn red and he smiled to himself. He trotted back to the bag, grabbed the putter, and handed it to his boss. A few of the caddies embarrassed him even further by clapping. Craig acknowledged them by playing along and tipping his hat.

  “You okay?” Chet asked.

  “Just a little nervous, I guess.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I should be the one who’s nervous.”

  “Are you?” Craig asked.

  “A little,” Chet responded. “I’m nervous that someone is going to try and take away something that I’ve wanted for a long time. I’m nervous about slicing my driver into the crowd on the first tee. I’m nervous about chunking my chip shot into Rae’s Creek. But I can’t think about that, Craig. One shot at a time is what my father always said.”

  “Your dad was a golfer?” Craig asked.

  Chet had grabbed a few balls from the bag before Craig had set it down and dropped a few of them onto the putting surface. “Yeah, remind me later to tell you that story. I like to talk on the course to keep my mind distracted from thinking ahead. Another one of my dad’s little tips.” Chet walked behind the three balls and lined up his six-foot putt. “Same drill here,” he said to Craig.

  Craig just realized he was standing on the putting surface of Augusta National’s practice green. He looked around the huge oval green and watched four or five golfers, with their caddies and even some instructors watching, stroke putts into the holes. He knelt down to the ground and brushed his hand across the grass and watched it turn light to dark. He got into position behind Chet and watched him swing the putter head as if it was attached to a pendulum. He had a slow, rhythmic motion that allowed him to accelerate slightly through the ball. Chet stroked all three balls into the center of the cup.

  <><><><><>

  Hank walked into the small bar just a few miles from Augusta and sat down in the small booth by the window. Archie had been waiting a while and had already finished two Coronas. The waitress came by when Hank sat down, and he told her to bring him the same.

  “Well, here we are,” Archie began. “Weeks of anticipation have brought us here to this very moment. Can’t you feel the excitement, Hank?”

  “Oh yeah, I can feel it. I can feel my company go down the tubes if fuckin’ Chet Walker pulls this off.”

  “Well, you better hope he doesn’t,” Archie said. He reached into the booth, brought out a manila folder, and laid it on the table. “Here it is.”

  “What?” Hank asked.

  “Our wager. The bet that brought us to this booth today.”

  “I know what the hell the bet was, Archie.”

  The waitress came and brought the Corona, asked for their food order, and was quickly waved away by Hank. “You really brought that here to Georgia with you? Why? You don’t trust me? You think I would stiff you?”

  “No,” Archie replied. “I know your word is good enough for me, but I brought this here in case we forgot what exactly we were betting, or who our players were or what happens in a tie. Things like that. Like, do you know that if neither Hitchens nor Walker wins the bet is off?”

  “Yes and no. We still have our other players. If I recall, I have Hitchens, Furley, and Britt. I think Britt missed the cut; how’s Furley doing?”

  Archie reached for the sports page of the newspaper that was sitting next to him and looked up the name Matt Furley. “Minus one. Still in it, but pretty much a long shot. I also had that stiff Gin Pak Ho miss the cut, and I think McCall is around even. It all boils down to Hitchens and Walker. For the company.”

  “For the company,” Hank softly repeated. “Yep, this should be a pretty good day, huh?”

  “Are you having second thoughts?” Archie asked.

  “Hell no! You know I would never welsh on a bet. How long have you known me? Back out of a bet? You must be crazy.” Hank leaned back in the booth and grabbed his fresh Corona. He squeezed the small piece of lime into the bottle, and then dunked it down into the neck with his finger.

  “I’m just saying you’re risking a lot with this bet. Your whole company. How are you going to explain it to your employees?”

  “Arch, my company’s in the shitter anyway. Walker wins this green jacket and we’re fucked.”

  “Huh? He’s your client. You’re his freakin’ agent, his sponsor. How could it be bad for you if he won?”

  Hank leaned in close and turned his head left and right. “Walker wins today and we owe him a five million dollar bonus.”

  “How?”

  “We set it up in his contract six years ago. We knew he was good, but not this good. There’s no way we can pay that. We’re struggling to meet ends as it is. Only reason Walker is still with us is that contract.”

  “Wait a second,” Archie began, surprise overwhelming his face. “You expect me to pay that if he wins, don’t you? Of all the dirty fuckin’ tricks you could ever pull on your best friend!”

  “Settle down, Arch. I would never do that. Our merger won’t happen until after all of this has blown over. We will either file bankruptcy or find some way to pay him.”

  “How are you going to come up with five million dollars?” Archie asked.

  “I’ll find a way,” Hank said, and a smile crept over his face. “Besides, Chet Walker isn’t winnin’ this tournament.”

  Chapter 28

  The sun was reaching its crest for the day as it finally found a way to climb above the tall trees that surrounded the Augusta National fairways and greens. Chet had gone back inside the men’s locker room to change shirts after his putting session. He was wearing light stone pants with a black and white striped shirt and a black hat. He came back outside and found Craig talking to Lori by the caddy room.

  “Good luck today, Chet,” Lori said.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “Anything new and exciting out there that I don’t know about? Snipers in the trees, alligators in front of the twelfth green, poison water coolers?”

  Lori smiled and said, “Nothing I know about. But just to be safe, please drink bottled water, okay?”

  “Will do,” he replied.

  “Where’s Hank and Robert—at the tent?” Craig asked.

  “Robert’s there, but I haven’t seen Hank yet. Probably sleeping one off, don’t ya think?”

  Craig knew otherwise but still replied, “Yeah, probably.”

  “Hey, Lori!” All three of them turned towards the main building that housed the tournament officials and the Masters committee. They saw an older man wearing a green jacket stroll towards them. Craig knew immediately that it was Red Maitland.

  “Hey Uncle Red,” Lori exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

  “Been busy, dear.” He looked first at Craig then at Chet. “Well, well, you didn’t tell me you had such famous friends. How are you, Mr. Walker? Excited for today? I think it will be a wonderful experience for you.”

  Chet smiled and said, “Yes, sir, only a few minutes before I tee off. Thanks for the hospitality this week. You sure put on a fantastic tournament.”

  “And this is Chris, right?” Red said, looking at Craig.

  “Craig, Uncle Red
,” Lori corrected him.

  “Yes, Craig, we met the other day and I don’t recall you wearing the caddy jumpsuit. A souvenir from our gift shop?”

  “Actually,” Lori said, “he’s caddying for Chet.”

  Uncle Red’s eyes bulged out so far they looked like they would fall out and roll right to the ground. “Really,” he managed to say. “What’s wrong with your caddy, Mr. Walker?”

  “He came down with a nasty bout of a stomach virus or food poisoning. He’s laid up at home.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Red said. “We have a handful of excellent caddies here, Mr. Walker. Some have been around since the days of Nicklaus and Watson. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to do a loop for you. Besides, no offense Craig, but I think they have a little more experience walking the course.”

  Craig kept quiet and just stared at the old man. He wanted to blurt out right now that he was fixing the tournament. But there were reasons behind it, and he had to figure them out first. Craig also didn’t want to ruin the final round for Chet. Most of all, he wanted Lori to believe him when he finally broke the news. She would have a hard time trusting him when he accused her uncle of fixing the Masters.

  “I considered that, believe me,” Chet said, “but I’ve played this course many a time, and I trust that Craig will be sufficient in carrying my bag. But thanks.”

  Red seemed perturbed, and his whole demeanor changed at that very moment. “Very well,” he managed to utter. “I’d rethink that if I were you.”

  Lori changed the subject by asking, “Can we have that lunch now, Uncle Red?”

  Red’s thoughts were elsewhere, and Lori repeated the question. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry. Being this is the final round, I do have to get going. Tomorrow, most definitely, hon.” He leaned in and gave Lori a peck on the cheek. Red turned towards Chet and his caddy Craig and said a final good luck before heading back inside to the clubhouse.