Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  “A full seven and I can’t hit it one fifty?” Chet said softly.

  “That was some pretty deep rough, Chet. Don’t worry about it. Let’s get up and down and finish this damn tournament. This bag is getting heavy.”

  Chet turned and smiled at him. “You’re such a wuss.”

  They walked onto the green and saw that Hitchens had a tricky left-to-right putt of about thirty feet. Chet’s bunker shot would be uphill and into the slight breeze that had started on the tee. He wanted to land it about eight feet short and let it release up the hill to the hole. Chet was the first to play, so he walked into the bunker and stared down at his ball in the sand. The lie looked good except that it was sitting in a rake mark so that it was a little lower than the sand right behind the ball.

  Craig stood outside the bunker with the rake in hand, ready to clean up. This was Chet’s first attempt out of the sand today, and Craig hoped he was comfortable hitting the shot. He watched as Chet made one last practice swing and put the club behind the ball, careful not to touch any sand. He took the club back three-quarters of the way and sent a huge splash of sand into the air. The ball popped out onto the green, well short of his eight-foot target.

  “Heavy,” Craig said under his breath. He watched as the ball barely crept up the hill and came to rest a good fifteen feet from the hole.

  Chet climbed out of the bunker showing no emotion whatsoever. He tossed the club on the ground next to his bag, grabbed his putter, and walked to the green, removing his glove. Marking his ball, he stole a glance at the putt Hitchens had for birdie and knew he was not possibly going to make it. And he didn’t. Hitchens lagged up to around four feet and left himself an uphill putt for par. Hitchens asked if his marker was in Chet’s way, and Chet just shook his head.

  Craig finished raking the sand trap and walked with Chet around the back of the hole to look at his line.

  “Gosh, I don’t see anything, Chet,” Craig said.

  “Shit, it’s gotta do something. You don’t get straight putts around here.”

  “Hit it solid right at the center. It’s not going to move outside the hole.” Craig was firm in his convictions.

  “Can’t hit anything hard at Augusta. Next thing you know I blow it by ten feet to the fringe.” Chet got up from his crouch and walked to his ball. “No, I think left edge with just a little speed.”

  “Sounds good,” Craig confirmed. Although he disagreed, he knew his place at this moment was to see eye to eye with Chet.

  Chet got into his putting stance and sent the ball on its way. The ball rolled end over end towards its destination, the left edge of the cup, just as Chet had intended. Craig watched intently from behind as the ball stayed directly on its path. It never moved to the right. The ball had just enough speed left when it hit the edge that instead of dropping in the hole, it curved around the back of the lip and finished two feet to the right.

  The crowd groaned in disappointment. Chet took his hat off and covered his face. It took a few seconds for him to muster up the courage to tap in his bogey putt and the gallery clapped lightly. Moments later, Hitchens nailed his four-footer in the center of the hole. The tournament was tied going into the eighteenth hole.

  Chapter 33

  Over the years, the eighteenth hole has provided more drama at the Masters than any other major. In 1997, Tiger Woods made a six-foot par putt to set the all-time scoring record at eighteen under par. 1998 had Mark O’Meara sinking a twenty-footer for birdie and a win, marking only the second time in Masters history that a player birdied the final two holes to win. Mike Weir won in a playoff in 2003, sinking a tough eight-footer on eighteen to secure a tie. Most recently, and perhaps most memorable, was Phil Mickelson’s dramatic birdie putt on eighteen to win the Masters in 2004, making it his first major victory.

  The hole was cut through dense trees and dog-legged to the right, up a hill to a large undulating green. In the past few years, the hole had been lengthened to almost four hundred and eighty yards. There were bunkers that were in play if you hit a straight drive that ran through the fairway. A golfer had to shape his drive from left to right and hit it far enough to turn the corner.

  Hitchens was first to tee off and did just that. His ball started at the bunkers and faded just enough to land in the left hand side of the fairway. Not as long as Chet, he was a good one hundred and eighty yards from the green.

  Chet told Craig that he had enough and wanted to end this tournament right here. He was not going to blow a three-stroke lead on the final four holes. Craig wanted to tell him that he already did blow the lead, but restrained himself. Chet grabbed the driver without a second thought and teed the ball high. His thoughts turned to his caddy in the hospital, and he remembered practicing the fade before the tournament began. He unleashed a wicked swing and maneuvered the ball perfectly from left to right. His ball sailed over Hitchens’ ball in the air and came to rest some thirty yards closer to the green.

  As they chased after the ball, Craig again scanned the gallery on both sides of the fairway, looking for any sign of Lori. She was not there, and he hadn’t seen her since the fourteenth hole. He was not going to tell Chet about the note now. He was tied for the lead at the Masters. Craig had an emotional rollercoaster in his stomach, his mind, and his heart. He fought back every urge to ruin this tournament for Chet in order to save Lori. Chet counted on him, and he could not let him down.

  Craig was all smiles as they walked up the fairway towards Chet’s ball. He would have to worry about Lori after this hole. Yes, his shoulder was killing him, his legs were starting to cramp, and his back had more knots in it than a fishing line, but this was a thrill of a lifetime. Caddying in the final round of the Masters with one of the best golfers in the game was more than he could ask for. The fans had no idea who he was or where he came from; all they knew was that he was Chet Walker’s caddy.

  Craig came back to reality as they reached the ball, and he knew if he gave him one last yardage and one good read on the green, Chet Walker could leave with the green jacket.

  “One fifty-seven,” Craig said. “Pin is middle-left.”

  “Damn, same yardage all day and I’m not getting anything close.”

  They turned and watched Hitchens hit his approach shot. From their vantage point, they could not see the surface of the green and had to judge from the reaction of the crowd if the shot was good or not. Hitchens waited for the noise up above and heard polite clapping. He couldn’t tell if he was on the green or not.

  “Nuke a nine,” Craig said.

  “Nine? You sure?”

  “Trust me,” Craig said. “Fly it to the middle of the green and it’ll check up. I’ve seen this shot a hundred times on TV and the ball will stay on the middle shelf.”

  Chet looked at him awkwardly. “On TV, huh? I’m not going to call you crazy because I think nine is the club, too.”

  “Then hit it close and let’s get out of here so I can ice my shoulder,” Craig said.

  They both smiled and Chet got up to the ball. He stared at the green for what seemed like an eternity. The only sound on the golf course was coming from the blimp a thousand feet in the air. That is, until Craig blurted out, “Stop!”

  Chet was still over the ball and stepped away. He re-gripped his club in his hands and whispered under his breath, “What is it?”

  “What if the pin sheet is wrong again? We can’t see the green from here.”

  “I thought of that, but I seriously doubt that they would screw with the pin on eighteen. It’s in virtually the same position every Sunday. I think I would know if it was off a few yards.”

  Craig looked at him cautiously and said, “I’d feel better.”

  “So would I,” Chet responded.

  Craig dropped his bag and took off in a sprint towards the green. The gallery was in an uproar. They went from complete silence to whispers to talking and even laughing at the caddy running to the green. Craig got to the top of the hill, looked at the green and his p
in sheet, then turned and ran back down the hill to Chet.

  Out of breath, he simply said, “It’s good.”

  Chet nodded his head and got back into position. The crowd quieted, and Chet took his swing at the ball. A large divot exploded from the ground beneath him, and the ball traveled high and far to its target on the green. Instead of playing a draw that might spin off the green, Chet held his finish high and tried to take some of the spin off the ball. The crowd roared as the ball hit the green pin high, took one bounce, and stopped twelve feet from the hole.

  “Must be good,” Chet said. He gave the club to Craig and started to climb the hill to the green. All five thousand spectators surrounding the green stood to applaud the two golfers as they took their hats off with humble grace. As they reached the top, they could see that both balls were on the green, one significantly closer than the other. Chet saw his was the closer one and marked his ball twelve feet from the hole. Hitchens was behind the pin and had at least twenty five feet down the hill. The gallery was quiet as the two men surveyed their putts.

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  Hank, Archie, and Robert stood near the eighteenth green watching the action unfold. Hank was having a hard time focusing on the golf at hand. He was more preoccupied with the abduction of Lori and wondering how Stumps and Brewster were handling it. He had not seen the three of them for almost an hour and hoped that this was a good thing. Hank wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the threat against Craig was working. Walker was once three shots clear of Hitchens, and now they were tied. If Craig could give him one more bad read, they would go to a playoff and anything could happen.

  “I can’t believe Lori is missing this,” Robert said.

  “She’s not,” Hank insisted. “Look around; there are thousands of people here. I’m sure she just lost us and is watching somewhere nearby.”

  Archie whispered to Hank, “Lot riding on this putt, huh, Hank?”

  Hank just looked at him. He knew what was at stake. His company and five million dollars. Not to mention the fact that Red would blame him if Walker ended up winning.

  “I can’t watch,” he said to Archie.

  “What?”

  “This is going to a playoff anyway,” Hank said. “I’m walking back down towards ten.”

  “Hank,” Robert said, “ten is over on the other side. You’ll have to make your way through all these people while they’re putting.”

  “Shit,” Hank said quietly. His body was energized. The small amount of hair on his head felt like it was on fire. Every muscle in his body tensed up as he watched the players walk back and forth on the green. He didn’t know what to do. He thought he should go down to the utility sheds and check on Stumps and Brewster. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the green jacket.

  Red was standing inside the ropes at the far end of the green with six or seven older men all dressed in their matching green sport coats watching the action unfold. Hank had not told Red that he snatched his niece and was now holding her captive as the tournament drew to a close. He wondered if he would be satisfied that he had tried everything in his power to sabotage Walker’s performance. Odds were that he would not.

  Red had a look of intensity in his eyes as he watched Hitchens line up his putt. If only he could make this putt, Walker would have to make his in order to tie. Hitchens and his caddy finally decided on the line, and the crowd was silent. He gave one last look at the hole and sent the ball on its way. The ball crept down the hill and started to gain speed as it neared the halfway point. The gallery rose to their feet and watched the ball get closer to the hole. Hitchens kept his head down until the ball was six feet from the hole. He looked up as it missed the edge of the cup and stopped three feet away.

  Hitchens nodded to Walker and said he’d finish out, leaving the stage set for Walker.

  <><><><><>

  “This is it,” Chet said quietly. “One putt for the win.” He was talking more to himself than to Craig. “Just like every other twelve-footer you’ve made in your life.”

  “One putt,” Craig confirmed.

  The two of them crouched low from both sides of the hole and decided on a line. It was going to break slightly from right to left, the ideal putt for a right-handed golfer.

  “One putt,” Chet said again. He got behind the ball and took a few short practice swings.

  Craig stood to the side, holding the flagstick, and said to himself, “One putt.”

  One could hear a pin drop as the spectators surrounding the green hushed in silence. Craig thought there had to be millions of people watching the drama unfold on television in homes across the globe. The most famous and distinguished major was about to come down to one putt. If Chet made it, he would have his name etched in the history books as the winner of the Masters by one stroke over Pat Hitchens. If he missed, the tournament was just getting started and Craig didn’t want to know what it would do to Chet.

  No one moved a muscle as Chet settled into his stance. Hitchens was standing near the edge of the green, and his caddy had put his arm around his shoulder. The only two men on the green were Chet and Craig, and the whole world was watching. Chet took one last look at the hole and brought his putter back and through the ball, sending it quickly towards the hole. At first, Craig thought he hit too hard. And he did.

  Craig walked quickly behind Chet and watched the ball start left of the line they had agreed upon. Instead of two balls outside right, the ball started on the right edge of the cup and was traveling fast to the hole. About three feet from the hole, the ball broke just a fraction left and dove into the back of the hole.

  Chet threw both arms into the air and the crowd roared in appreciation. The sound was deafening as Craig leapt into the air, dropping the flagstick in the process. He threw his arms around Chet and they hugged like long lost friends. Pat Hitchens smiled and walked onto the green to congratulate his competitor.

  “You won the Masters!” Craig screamed in Chet’s ear.

  “I know, I know,” Chet said, smiling and laughing at the same time.

  “You won!” Craig said again.

  Chet released himself from Craig’s bear hug and walked to the hole. He grabbed his ball from the hole and kissed it for all the fans to see. In years past, he had seen players throw the ball into the gallery after holing such a putt, but this ball was staying with him. He took off his hat and shook both Hitchens’ and Winger’s hands.

  “Nice putt,” Hitchens said.

  “Thanks,” Chet responded. “You played great today.”

  “Go get your green jacket.”

  “You’ll get yours someday,” Chet said.

  Craig shook hands with both player and caddy, and he and Chet walked off the green to the standing ovation of the crowd. Reality quickly set in, and Craig’s thoughts turned to Lori. As they walked through the ropes to the scoring tent, Craig finally decided to tell Chet about Lori’s kidnapping.

  “What?” Chet said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You had enough on your mind,” Craig said. “I have to go find her.”

  “Go.”

  Craig set down the bag, took off the white overalls, and laid them on top of the bag. He walked back through the gallery towards the clubhouse but had no idea where he was going. Then he spotted them. Red and Hank were walking away from the clubhouse down a small trail towards the driving range.

  Chapter 34

  “You what?” Red said to Hank as they approached the storage sheds.

  “I had no choice,” Hank replied. “Shit! I can’t believe he won!”

  “That’s my niece, for crying out loud. If she’s hurt in any way, you and your cronies are dead. You hear me? Who gives a fuck about Chet Walker anyway? We’re the ones who lost here, Hank.”

  The two men were walking down the shaded path towards the first shed on the right. As they approached the door, Red grabbed Hank by the arm and told him to wait.

  “For what?” Hank asked.

  “My niece i
s in there, for Christ’s sake! What the hell am I supposed to tell her?” A purple vein was protruding from the side of the old man’s head. He was sweating in the heat and removed his green jacket and folded it over his arm. “Jesus, I don’t know what to say.”

  Hank cautiously approached a sensitive subject. “You think, with all she knows, it’s okay to, you know, let her go?”

  If it was possible, Red’s face turned an even bright shade of crimson and he inched closer to Hank.

  “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  “I’m just saying, Red, she knows too much. She’s seen their faces. She can tell the world what she knows.”

  Red brushed by Hank and said, “Let me in.”

  Hank walked to the door, banged loudly three times, then once, and waited. Stumps opened the door and stared at the two men. “Well?” he asked.

  “He won,” Hank replied.

  “Son of a bitch,” Stumps replied.

  “Let us in,” Red said.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Stumps replied.

  “Get outta my way,” Red replied and pushed past him into the huge room.

  Inside, he could see all of the equipment that had been stored there during the tournament. In the center of the room, Brewster was sitting on a chair that faced an empty one that he presumed Stumps was using. Leaning up against one of the trackers, he saw his niece, Lori Halpin.

  “Uncle Red!” she screamed. She got up from the ground and ran to his side. She put one arm around him and stood behind him. “These men kidnapped me! Please call the police!”

  “It’s okay, dear, I’m here now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Stumps and Hank walked back into the room and closed the heavy door. Stumps lit a cigarette and went back to his chair near Brewster.