Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  The long downhill par-three fourth hole was playing at its full yardage of 215 yards. Chet was first to hit and chose a five iron that started just right of the green, but this time it drew too little, and the ball landed on the right side of the green and trickled to the back edge, some fifty feet from where the hole was cut. Hitchens played it safe to the center of the green, leaving himself an easy two-putt par and a reasonable chance at birdie.

  Chet finished up where he left off in the story. “Walking to the sixteenth green, my granddad asked him if he was sure he had found the correct ball. He later told my grandmother that he had noticed on the fifteenth green that the ball appeared to be a different brand. Before he could say something, the guy putted out for birdie and pocketed the ball. Well, the guy was irate with his question. He couldn’t believe that he was being accused of such a thing as cheating and playing the wrong ball. All of the commotion caused a tournament official, who was walking with them, to come over and ask what all the fuss was about.”

  Chet again tipped his hat to the appreciative gallery and went to survey his long bid for birdie. He paced it off and saw that he was looking at a fifty-sixty-foot putt that would be all downhill and break severely from left to right.

  Craig tried to think of the right thing to say as Chet lined up the putt and said softly, “Remember to hit it firm.” He went to the flagstick and held it for Chet to see.

  Chet did hit it firm and the ball went sailing by the hole a good ten feet. He didn’t bother to look at Craig, who now felt a little embarrassed that maybe he had influenced the putt. They both watched Hitchens lag his putt to two feet and tap in for par. Craig stood to the side as Chet approached his ten-footer and watched as that one, too, went by the hole. He tapped in for his bogey and tossed the putter in Craig’s direction. Craig, already holding the flagstick, fumbled them both while trying to catch the putter and ended up dropping them both on the green.

  They walked through the crowds in silence, and Craig watched as Chet blasted his tee shot on the long par-four fifth into the rough on the right side. He flipped the club to Craig and walked quickly down the fairway, making Craig chase after him in the process. Craig saw Lori in the gallery and just shrugged his shoulders.

  “So anyway,” Chet said, “the official asks him to check the ball in his pocket, and they realize it’s not the ball he was playing. My grandmother said by the look on the guy’s face that he knew he played the wrong ball and tried to get away with it. My granddad did the right thing, you know.”

  “Sure,” Craig agreed, “he’s not only looking out for himself, but all the other golfers on the course.” For some reason, Craig was beginning to think that he had heard this story before, but he couldn’t figure out where.

  “Exactly,” Chet said. “So, the official assessed him a two-stroke penalty and the guy lost it. He lost his temper and even worse, his game. He proceeded to splash one on sixteen, got par on seventeen, and double-bogeyed eighteen. He finished five shots behind the eventual winner. The newspapers were all over him, accusing him of cheating. They praised my granddad for pointing it out to the official. But the aftermath was the worst.”

  Craig walked off the yardage and it appeared correct. He stood back and watched as Walker hit a nice high seven iron to the middle of the green, about fifteen feet from the hole. Craig was amazed at how he could keep his concentration on the tournament and tell this story at the same time.

  “Neither golfer was ever the same. My granddad even received a few death threats after the tournament was over. He played poorly the next few months and was tragically killed in a car accident over the winter.”

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” Craig said, slowing his pace.

  “Thanks, but it happened years ago. My grandma doesn’t bring it up much, and I don’t either. It’s just one of those things, ya know.”

  “What happened to the other guy?” Craig asked.

  “He failed to earn his PGA Tour card the next year and was never heard from again. He certainly didn’t try and play golf again. I guess the whole thing at the Masters really got to him.”

  “What was his name?” Craig asked.

  “I can’t recall his first name. Like I said, you pretty much had to know the history of the Masters to know about this. Taylor or Thomas, something like that. But his last name was Maitland.”

  Chapter 30

  In 1931, Alister MacKenzie undertook the project of creating Augusta National golf course with Robert “Bobby” Jones and Clifford Roberts. MacKenzie had great qualms about creating an exclusive country club for the rich and famous just after the Depression. Roberts and Jones thoroughly convinced him that this course, Augusta, would be greatly dissimilar to the courses in the North and West. It would be both golfer-friendly and have the most challenging greens golfers would ever see. This is evident in the back nine. A par-three of only one hundred and fifty yards and two par-fives that stretched less than five hundred yards certainly proved that the golf course could not be beaten by average men.

  More than once, television and newspapers would say that the Masters doesn’t truly begin until the back nine on Sunday. By the eighth hole, Robert and Hank had had enough of the excitement on television and decided to go outside and experience it for themselves. One last check at the scoreboard showed Pat Hitchens at seven under par and Chet Walker at eight under. Both golfers were playing extremely well, but anything could happen on the back nine.

  They caught up to Archie on the eighth green just as Hitchens had pitched up to within six feet for his birdie. Chet was already on the green in two and had a reasonable putt at eagle.

  “There you are,” Archie said. “Thought you’d be drinking inside all day.”

  “What are we looking at here?” Robert asked.

  Archie whispered as Chet approached his putt, “Eagle try for Chet.”

  “What in God’s name is he doing out there?” Hank asked, referring to Craig. “I thought I was seeing things when I saw him on TV earlier.”

  “That’s your little protégé isn’t it, Hank?” Robert asked.

  “That’s him all right,” he replied.

  Chet’s eagle putt slid by the hole, and he tapped in for birdie. Hitchens, meanwhile, missed his birdie try and had to settle for par. The lead was now at two in favor of Chet. As they walked to the next hole, Robert saw Lori and waved her over.

  “Hey, what is your boyfriend doing out there?” Robert asked her.

  Lori gave him a playful slap in the shoulder and said, “He’s not my boyfriend. It’s weird; Craig knew his caddie as some long lost friend or relative or something,” she lied, “so we’ve been talking to him for a couple of days. Then Chet’s caddy got the flu this morning and couldn’t make it, so he called Craig. Isn’t it exciting?”

  “He better not screw up,” Robert replied.

  “Oh, he won’t. Chet’s leading by two strokes with only nine holes to play. I wonder what Craig is feeling right now. Think he’s nervous?”

  “He better be nervous! He’s caddying for the golfer who’s this close to winning his first major. One screw-up and this tournament could be Hitchens to win. Craig just better know what he’s doing.”

  Hank and Archie were standing nearby and listening to the conversation. Hank realized now that if he couldn’t get Chet to screw up, he could get Craig to screw up. “I’ll meet you on ten or eleven,” he said to Archie. He walked briskly away up the tenth fairway towards Brewster and Stumps.

  <><><><><>

  Craig thought he had put it all together by now. He remembered back to the day in Philadelphia when a man from Augusta had to come to Coldridge to meet with his boss, Hank Fredericks. The man, Red Maitland, had told Hank that he had a vested interest in seeing Chet Walker lose the Masters. When Hank had pressed him for more information, Red basically tabled the discussion and said that he needed some retribution for something that happened some time ago. William Walker, Chet’s grandfather, played in the 1956 Masters with Tucker “Red�
� Maitland. Now, some fifty years later, Red was going to get his revenge one way or another and Chet just happened to be the victim. If Red couldn’t win the Masters, no Walker would win it either.

  It had taken Craig a few holes to put this together, but he didn’t dare let on to Chet for fear of distracting him. He started to feel a little distracted himself, and he realized that Chet needed his full attention during the next nine holes. Walker and Hitchens got par on both the tenth and eleventh holes and found themselves standing on the tee box of one of the most famous holes in golf.

  At one hundred and fifty-three yards, the twelfth hole was as simple as it gets. Just hit a nice straight shot towards the center of the green, two putts, and move on. But unless you had played this hole numerous times, one could not tell the hidden problems that awaited the slightly mishit golf ball. For starters, the tee box was elevated, so you had to take off some yardage. The wind was also a factor. Golfers used to say that you could turn back towards the eleventh green and see the flag blowing in a completely different direction than what you were seeing on the twelfth. The green sat in a pocket of trees, and the wind would just swirl in different directions.

  The putting surface was shaped like a giant lima bean. It was narrow in the middle and fat on both ends. It was framed by both a bunker in the front and two bunkers behind the green. Any shot over the back bunkers could be lost in the azaleas. Any ball short of the green, well, that would be in Rae’s Creek. The twelfth hole was the shortest on the course, yet one of the most demanding.

  “What do you think?” Chet asked. “I’ve played a soft eight here all week but I’m feeling a little amped up right now. I’m afraid my adrenaline may send this ball over the green.”

  “Hit a good nine,” Craig quickly responded.

  Chet looked at him and said, “That’s the first time you’ve been that decisive all day.” He grabbed the nine-iron out of the bag and set up for his shot. The pin was positioned on the right-hand side, near the front of the green. A good shot would be basically anywhere on the green.

  Chet did just that. He started the ball right at the pin, and the ball drew slightly left and stopped about eighteen feet left of the hole. The crowd applauded, and both Chet and Craig allowed a smile. Hitchens knew he had to make a move and it showed in his golf shot. He hit a nine iron very hard and it went directly over the pin, took two bounces, and spun backward. The crowd gasped. The ball was not moving particularly fast, but the educated spectators who had been sitting in the stands all day knew that the ball could continue to roll down the hill, right into the creek.

  As the ball approached the end of the green, it seemed just for a second that it was gaining speed and would tumble over the edge. Hitchens watched anxiously as the ball hit the fringe and came to a sudden stop. The crowd applauded and Hitchens grabbed the bill of his hat and lowered it on his face. The golfers and their caddies walked the short distance around the creek towards the twelfth green. It took a moment, but Craig finally realized he was standing on Hogan’s Bridge, dedicated to famed golfer Ben Hogan in 1958. For the first time that day, Craig dismissed all of his problems for one brief moment and allowed himself to relish in the experience. Craig couldn’t help but smile, and Chet noticed it.

  “Pretty sweet, huh?” Chet asked.

  “You have no idea,” replied Craig.

  “What do you mean? I was just born yesterday? Granted Craig, my life is good. I make millions of dollars, play golf at the best courses in the world, and get treated like royalty wherever I go. But it wasn’t always like this. I had to go to college just like you. I had to spend hours upon hours hitting balls and making hundreds of three-foot putts. I spent almost two years on the Nationwide Tour, traveling by car and eating McDonald’s.”

  They walked onto the green, and Chet marked his ball and threw it to Craig to clean.

  “Take it all in, Craig,” Chet said.

  They both looked back at the tee and saw the thousands of spectators watching the action they were providing.

  “Sure is something,” Craig said.

  “What’s your handicap, Craig?”

  “About a ten,” he said. “maybe a twelve.

  “Better keep your day job,” Chet laughed. He grabbed the ball from Craig and watched as Hitchens putted onto the green and left it just inches short. He tapped in for par and banged the putter against his head in frustration. Chet and Craig agreed the putt would break sharply from left to right, and Chet hit it perfectly. As the ball got two feet from the hole, Chet raised his putter high in the sky, and the crowd roared when the ball went in. He walked over to Craig, gave him a fist bump, and they moved onto the thirteenth. The lead was now three.

  <><><><><>

  Red Maitland stormed out of the member’s viewing area inside the clubhouse and got into a golf cart that was located just outside. One of the other members asked him where he was going, but Red ignored him and sped off in his cart. Cursing under his breath the entire ride, he arrived near the thirteenth green and parked the cart near a concession stand. The crowds were overwhelming and being as short as he was, it was tough to see over the people and get a view of the man he was looking for. He hopped up onto the back of the cart and looked near the green.

  It didn’t take long for Hank to spot the old man in the green jacket towering over the crowd and scanning in his direction. Once they made eye contact, Red got down and waited for Hank to arrive. Hank excused himself from Lori, Robert, and Archie and went over to the concession stand to meet up with Red. As Hank approached, Red walked around the back, expecting Hank to follow him.

  “What the hell is going on?” Red began. “First you let your own employee caddy for him, and now he’s leading the tournament by three.”

  Hank was sick of hearing himself be berated by the little old man. “Listen, I didn’t have anything to do with that. What am I supposed to do, walk out there and tackle the kid in front of all of these people?”

  “Hank,” Red said quietly. “I know you have a lot at stake here—”

  Hank cut him off. “A lot more than you, I might add. All you have is a little revenge for something that happened years ago. Speaking of which, how the hell did you become a member of Augusta when you were accused of cheating?”

  Red’s face turned the color of a tomato. He took off his hat and rubbed his hands through his hair. “Keep your fucking voice down. Let’s just say money goes a long way around here.” He thought for a minute, and both men calmed down. “Do you want Walker to win this tournament?”

  “What do you think?” Hank replied.

  “Then do something about it,” was all Red said as he walked away.

  Hank did have a plan, but it was one he definitely could not tell Red about. He turned and walked out in front of the concession stand and saw that Stumps and Brewster had been waiting nearby.

  “Just the men I was looking for,” Hank said.

  Chapter 31

  The par-five thirteenth was birdied by both golfers, and Chet still remained up by three strokes with five holes remaining. Hank caught up to his group and watched the twosome tee off on fourteen. He persuaded Archie and Robert to follow him to the beverage tent and vowed to catch up with Lori on the green and bring her a beer.

  Lori was all smiles as she walked up the fairway. She decided to take a bathroom break at the Porta-Johns between the two fairways. When she exited the stall, Stumps and Brewster were there waiting for her.

  “Lori Halpin?” Brewster said.

  Lori was caught off-guard and turned to walk away before being grabbed by Stumps on the arm. “Who are you?” she said.

  “We’re from the office,” Stumps replied.

  “Which office?” Lori tried to release her arm from his grasp and could feel a sharp pain in her shoulder as the man gripped harder.

  “The director’s office. Could you please come with us?” Stumps said.

  “No thanks, I’m watching the tournament.”

  “Please, this will only
take a moment.”

  Lori looked around for help but could not find any. By this time, most of the spectators had moved further up the fairway and no one was in sight. She felt the instinct to kick and scream and run as fast as she could away from the two men.

  “It’s about your uncle,” Brewster said softly.

  “My uncle?” Lori stopped struggling. “What about him?”

  “I’m afraid he’s become ill and he asked us to send for you.”

  Lori didn’t know whether to believe them or not. The grip on her arm was becoming more relaxed, and she thought that this was as good as time as any to run far away from them.

  “Please,” Brewster said, “there’s not much time.”

  The two men looked at her with solemn eyes. Lori could not turn her back on her aging uncle. She glanced at her watch before saying, “Okay.” She followed the first man through the maze of bathroom stalls while the other man trailed behind her. In less than a minute, they were clear of the gallery and heading back towards the clubhouse.

  <><><><><>

  The fourteenth green was one of the largest on the course, and Chet had hit his golf ball on the left-hand side of the green on top of a mound that fed towards the back. The pin was a good twenty feet away, and he had to feed the putt down the hill and judge the speed perfectly or else the ball could go well right and into the center of the green. Hitchens was the first to putt and lagged up to within three feet. He was going to make par. Chet and Craig agreed that the putt would be quick, but they miscalculated just slightly.

  The ball barely crept down the hill and started to roll away from the pin. The crowd hushed as the ball rolled a good ten feet by the slope he had needed to hit; Chet would now have a long putt to salvage par. The tentative first putt made Chet hit it even harder on the second try, and he missed that one as well. Both golfers made their next putts, but Chet’s was for bogey. His lead was cut to two with four holes to go.