Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  “He okay?” Chet asked.

  “I guess so,” Lori replied, “but something doesn’t seem right. I’m sure he just has a lot on his mind.” She looked over at Craig, who seemed to follow Red through the clubhouse and continued to stare in his direction. “Craig?”

  A few seconds went by before he replied, “Huh, what?”

  Lori shook her head and said, “Maybe there is something in the water, Chet. I wouldn’t touch it if I were you.”

  “Good idea,” Chet said and put his arm around Craig. “Let’s go, caddy. We have a few more drivers to hit, then it’s off to the first tee.” He released his arm as Craig turned towards Lori.

  “You be careful out there,” Craig said to Lori. “Anything—and I mean anything—that seems strange to you, you scream for help.”

  “Craig, I’m not going to scream in the middle of the golf course. I could ruin someone’s shot.”

  “I’m serious. If you see someone staring at you, or a stranger talking to you, you get outta there right away. Okay?”

  “Sure.” She reached up and put her arms around him and gave him a short kiss on the lips. She did the same for Chet, but his kiss was only on the cheek. They said their goodbyes and Lori promised to be watching every shot by their side. Craig picked up the golf bag, hurled it over his right shoulder, and followed Chet to the driving range. He looked at the large scoreboard near the putting green as they walked. No one was going low today. It would only be a contest between Hitchens and Walker. And of course, Red Maitland.

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  The Budweiser tent was not as crowded as the first three days of the tournament, which did not surprise Hank as he arrived. Earlier he had left Archie, and they had decided to meet up on the back nine and watch the tournament together. He made sure to avoid bumping into Red and walked straight to the tent, where he saw Robert already filling his enormous plate with pasta, chicken fingers, and a salad of tomatoes and mozzarella cheese. Hank sat down next to him after stopping at the bar and grabbing two draft beers.

  “You gonna stay in this tent all day,” Hank began.

  Robert lifted his head up and stopped chewing for a moment to respond. “There you are. I thought you were going to skip the tent and go right to the course.”

  “In due time. The last tee time is still a few minutes away. How about yourself? You venturing onto the course today?”

  “Yeah, I’ll make it out there. Have you seen your pal Craig or Lori?”

  “No, I haven’t. Craig was already gone this morning before I left. I’m sure the lovebirds are off on the course already.” Hank took a sip of his beer and felt a bead of sweat drip down his back. It was a warm afternoon, and sitting under the tent was not helping him keep cool.

  “So, is Walker finally going to shake that monkey off his back and win this one?” Robert asked.

  “He played pretty well to get himself back in this tournament.” Hank would’ve loved to make another wager with his new friend and bet him thousands that Walker wasn’t going to win. But the less people that knew about his involvement, the better. Hank thought about all the things they’d done to try and prevent Walker from winning. He hoped it was enough.

  “Word around here is that Walker has a new caddy today,” Robert said.

  “Really? Who is it?” Hank asked.

  “No one knows. Some new guy. Not a regular tour caddy, that’s for sure. I hope that doesn’t mess him up.”

  Hank sure hoped it did. “Well, I’m sure Walker could play this course without a caddy if he had to.”

  Roberts busied himself with his chicken fingers, dipping them into a barbeque sauce that he had drizzled on his plate. There was sauce dripping from his fingers as he shoved one after another into his wide mouth. Sloppy fingers and all, he still managed to pick up his beer and wash it all down. The two men sat in silence and stared at the television over the bar. They had a clear view and could see an announcer turn towards Chet Walker, interviewing him on the practice range. The volume was turned down, but Hank could see Walker was answering questions and smiling. As the camera panned back to the announcer, he saw someone familiar in the background. He wasn’t sure, but the person reminded him of his employee, Craig Waltrip, wearing the traditional white overalls of a caddy.

  Chapter 29

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, from Fort Worth, Texas, Chet Walker now driving!”

  The crowd erupted in applause. The tee-box was surrounded by patrons as Chet tipped his cap, stuck a tee in the ground, and placed his Titleist number one on top of it. Taking his practice swing next to the ball, Chet started his normal pre-shot routine. He walked behind the ball and visualized his tee shot on the first hole, a nice easy draw over the bunker on the right-hand side. He stepped up to the ball, took one last look down the fairway, and the crowd hushed in silence. In a split second, Chet’s clubface impacted the Titleist and sent it soaring into the air exactly where he had intended it. The crowd applauded and Chet picked up his tee, looking back up the fairway and seeing the ball bouncing in the fairway.

  “And from Newark, Ohio, Pat Hitchens now driving!”

  The gallery clapped and gave their approval, but it was clear who it was they were rooting for. Hitchens drove his ball straight down the fairway with a little fade that stopped along the right-hand side. Both golfers and their caddies walked down the fairway to chase their balls. The final round of the Masters was under way.

  Minutes before, when both golfers had entered the tee box, they gave each other the customary handshake and well wishes for a great round. Craig was introduced to Hitchens and his caddy, Winger, an older man with a goatee streaked with gray. Neither Hitchens nor Winger asked about Stan, Chet’s caddy. Word had gotten around pretty quickly that he was ill and could not make the trek.

  Craig saw Lori in the gallery, smiled and nodded his head. He chased after Chet, who was walking ahead and eating a granola bar he had gotten from his golf bag. It only took a few seconds to catch up, but Craig was already out of breath. Of course they could walk much faster, he thought, they weren’t carrying a forty-pound bag. He looked next to him and saw Winger carrying it with no problem. Craig, on the other hand, was constantly moving the strap left and right, up and down, trying to figure out how the bag would best fit his small shoulder.

  “Ever hear of the dual strap?” he asked Chet.

  Chet chuckled before saying, “No one on tour uses them, Craig. They’re for hackers, guys like you.”

  “Would’ve made this a lot easier, let me tell you.”

  “You’ll manage.” Chet finished the granola bar and handed Craig the wrapper to put in his bag. “So, you wanted to know about my father,” he asked.

  “Yeah, was he a good golfer?” Craig asked.

  “You first,” Chet responded.

  “Huh?”

  “You fill me in on your dad or something interesting about your family. I’ll fill you in afterwards.”

  “My dad? My dad was not a good golfer or into playing sports. I don’t have that much to tell you.”

  “Sure you do. Everyone at some point in their lives or their family’s lives had a unique and unexpected experience. Even you, Craig.”

  He thought for a good minute or two as they approached Chet’s tee shot. He set the bag down and walked to the nearest yardage marker and counted off six paces. He looked over at Chet and said, “One fifty-six.”

  “Really? Now you took into effect the pin position, right? And we can trust the yardage book and pin positions on this hole? Any great disparity would be pretty evident since the green is pretty flat.”

  Craig flipped through the book he was given on the first tee and found that the pin was set forward of center by four yards and only six paces from the right side. “Looks like one-fifty two,” he said.

  Walker grabbed a nine iron from the bag and took mini practice swings while looking at the green. “How far to the front edge?”

  Craig took a few seconds and figured out that the green was thirt
y-two yards deep, the pin was four yards from the middle, so therefore it was, “One-forty to the front.”

  Walker had his own small yardage book and said, “Exactly what I got.”

  Craig wondered why he had even asked but didn’t bother to bring it up. He thought he should say some encouraging words but instead moved the bag out of the way and waited a few yards away. They both looked back as Hitchens hit his approach to the middle of the green on the left side, leaving him a long putt.

  Chet went through his routine and hit a towering shot that started right of its intended target but this time failed to draw and slammed into the mound on the right side of the green, causing the ball to kick further away from the hole.

  “Damn,” Chet said under his breath. “A damn nine iron. Big mishit.”

  Craig thought he had to say something now. “Don’t worry about it; get up and down and make your par.”

  “So,” Chet said, handing the club back to Craig, “think of anything yet?”

  Craig grabbed the club and started cleaning it off with the wet towel while walking after Chet. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Don’t forget the divot,” Chet said.

  “Shit,” Craig said, putting the bag down and racing back for the two-by-four-inch piece of earth that was fifteen yards in front of the divot. He replaced it with care and caught up to Chet by the green, who was surveying his lie and the approach shot he was going to use. The ball was sitting in the very short rough about twelve yards from the green. The problem with this shot was that the pin was only six paces from the edge, meaning there was hardly any green to work with. Chet grabbed his sixty-degree lob wedge and walked up to the green. He looked at the hole, then back at his ball. He even got down close to the surface and tried to read the break of the green.

  Chet went back to his ball, and it appeared to Craig that he was aiming well left of his target. He was going to say something, but in an instant Chet took a huge graceful swing that lofted the ball twenty feet in the air and came down just inches past the fringe. The ball took one small hop then began rolling towards the hole, stopping just a foot away. The crowd cheered for Chet and he tipped his hat again and handed the club to Craig.

  “Nice shot,” Craig said.

  Chet said nothing and just marked his ball with one of the three dimes in his pocket. Moments later, he tapped in for par, as did Hitchens, and they were on their way to the second hole.

  “I’m still waiting for your story,” Chet said.

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  Stumps and Brewster had taken up their normal position on the other side of the fairway. They found out on the first tee about Chet’s new caddy but decided against running and telling Hank. The less the three of them were seen together, the better.

  “I still have no idea why we’re here,” Stumps said.

  “Me neither,” replied Brewster. “I mean, it’s totally out of our control what happens. If he wins, he wins. We did everything we could do.”

  “There she is,” Stumps pointed out, across the second fairway. They had walked ahead to get a better position and now saw the one person they were looking for, Lori. She was directly across from them, staring back at the tee box, waiting for Chet and Craig to arrive.

  “Appears to be alone,” Brewster said.

  “Even better,” Stumps replied.

  “But again, what are we going to do in front of all these people?”

  “I’m sure they have it all figured out.”

  “Speaking of, where the hell is Hank?” Brewster asked. “That fucker and his coffee. I would’ve loved to knock him out right there.”

  “We should’ve. Taken his money and gone the hell back home,” Stumps said. “He’s probably yuckin’ it up with some big-wigs, drinking some fancy scotch or champagne. Meanwhile, we’re stuck out here in this heat, watching this stupid game.”

  “You really want to get out of here?” Brewster asked.

  “I think we should, don’t you?”

  “Let’s wait until the first few holes are over, and then let’s leave. If we don’t hear from Hank by then, we’re on the first plane back to Philly.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” came a low hoarse voice from their back.

  They both turned and saw an old man with sunglasses on staring down the fairway.

  “Excuse me,” Brewster said.

  The old man took off the glasses and both men realized it was Red Maitland without his customary green jacket.

  “You heard me, boys. You’re not going anywhere.”

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  After Chet’s tee shot on the second hole landed in the fairway, the men walked after it and Craig decided to speak.

  “Okay. According to my mom, my Great-Aunt Helen was on the Titanic,” he said.

  “Really?” Chet turned to him incredulously.

  “Yep, I did some research on it in college and found out that Helen Redfield, her name at the time, was from England on her way to America. Unfortunately, she didn’t survive, but she was the only family member on the ship. Her brother was the next one to try and come over, and he made it. He married someone over here who became my grandmother who then had my mom.”

  “Wait, what?” Chet asked.

  “Basically, my grandfather’s sister was on the Titanic. I never knew my grandfather because he died when I was three. But my mom says all this was true and Aunt Helen died on the Titanic.”

  “Wow, good stuff, Craig,” Chet said. “I told you, everyone has something interesting to tell.”

  They reached his tee shot on the long downhill par-five. The big hitters could reach this green in two, and Chet was going to give it his best. They discussed the yardage and decided it was 248 to the front of the green and 275 to the pin, which was tucked over the bunkers near the back right portion of the green.

  “Let’s go with the deuce, Craig.”

  “Good call,” Craig said, trying to be supportive. He grabbed the two iron from the bag and handed it to Chet. Hitchens, who was not as long as Chet, laid up about fifty yards short of the green. It was Chet’s turn, and he took a big swing at the ball, sending it well left of the green. The ball hit the putting surface once, then tumbled over the left side and down the slope.

  “Was I lined up right, Craig?”

  Craig didn’t answer and was fumbling for words.

  “Don’t answer,” Chet said and tossed the club to Craig.

  Craig didn’t know if he should apologize or not. Chet had given him one job and he had failed. He vowed not to fail again. There was no divot with the two iron shot, so the two of them walked down the fairway together.

  “My dad, Craig,” Chet began, “was not a famous golfer, but played the game as good as anyone. My grandfather, well he was a great golfer but only renowned for the briefest of moments.”

  “Really?” Craig asked. “What was his name?”

  “You wouldn’t recognize it unless you knew the history of golf and the history of this tournament. His name was William Walker, and in 1956 he was as famous as you could get around here. He didn’t win the green jacket, but he sure made an impact on the tournament that year.”

  The two men had reached Chet’s shot, and he had a simple pitch and run that he left only six feet from the cup. Hitchens played his third shot to about ten feet and was the first to sink the putt. To remain tied, Chet had to sink his putt. They lined up the putt from both sides of the hole and decided it was a ball outside left, meaning it would break to the right. This time, Craig stood behind Chet as he lined up his putt, and seeing that he was aimed correctly, walked away as Chet struck the putt into the hole. The two golfers remained tied at six under par.

  “You the man!” “Go get ‘em, Chet!” “Do it for Texas!” The gallery was cheering from both sides of the ropes as they made their way to the third tee. Each golfer hit their tee shots around the tall pines on the short par-four, and both had less than a hundred yards to the green.

  “It happened on the fifteenth hole her
e at Augusta,” Chet said. “My grandfather was playing in the second-to-last group and basically shot himself out of the tournament by throwing up a forty on the front nine. The guy he was playing with was still in it, and he drove his ball into the trees on the left-hand side.”

  “Who was he playing with, the eventual winner?” Craig asked.

  “No, he didn’t win, unfortunately.” Chet got to his ball and this time was playing behind Hitchens, who had hit a driver off the tee as opposed to his three-wood. Craig walked off the yardage, looked at his pin sheet, and something didn’t seem right.

  “Chet, I think this sheet may be wrong,” Craig said. Before he could answer him, Craig took off in a sprint towards the green, stopped twenty yards short, surveyed the pin, and went running back to Craig.

  “Yep, pin sheet says it’s over the hill on the left at fifteen paces. Looking at the green, that pin is tucked near the back edge, only about four or five from the fringe. I’d say you’re looking at ninety yards as opposed to eighty-four.”

  Chet looked at him and lightly shook his head before saying, “If you say so.” He grabbed the sand wedge from the bag and took an abbreviated swing at the ball. They couldn’t see exactly where the ball landed on the green, but from the gallery’s applause, it had to be close.

  “Nice ball,” Craig said.

  “So anyway,” Chet said, “this guy tees off in the woods and he and my granddad go try and find it. They find it alright, in-bounds and with a decent lie. The guy punches out, pitches onto the green, and makes birdie. No one could believe the great shot this guy just made. The crowd was going crazy. My dad was just an infant at the time, so he wasn’t there, but my grandmother was, and she told me all about it.”

  As they walked up to the green, the gallery applauded the great shot Chet had hit, and they could see that the ball had stopped just three feet from the hole. Hitchens had pushed his shot right of the hole and had a tricky downhill putt which he had missed, but he had left himself a tap-in par. Chet barely read the putt but instead walked up and smacked it in the center. Walker now led by one.