My daughter, Davis, was lying on the couch, her eyes focused on the television set. Her brown hair was still damp from a shower, and she wore a red Huntsville High Golf sweatshirt over gray athletic shorts. For the briefest of moments, I caught a glimpse of the eight-year-old girl who had begged me to have putting contests with her in the focused gaze of the sixteen-year-old woman in front of me.
“Hey, Dad,” she said, standing and swiping the bangs out of her eyes, which were now etched with worry. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” I said, pulling her in for a hug. “I’m sorry I missed dinner.”
“It’s okay, Mom told me about Mr. Hays. I’m so sorry. I always liked him,” she said, stepping back from me and crossing her arms.
“He liked you too, champ.”
Davis had played golf with Darby and me on several occasions, and two years earlier, Darb had gotten the whole family Masters badges. Walking the hallowed grounds of Augusta National with my wife and daughter was probably the best family moment we had experienced since Graham’s death.
“You smell funny. Are you . . . drunk?” She sat back down on the edge of the couch, but her gaze was still fixed on me.
I grunted and then nodded, my cheeks flushing with shame. “Maybe a little.”
I plopped down in my brown leather chair next to the couch. On the set was the familiar sight of Augusta National Golf Club, home of the Masters golf tournament. “So what are the talking heads saying?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. One of my and Davis’s favorite things to do was to watch ESPN’s SportsCenter together, where all of the events of the day were wrapped up and highlights were shown.
“Looks like the favorite is Ballesteros, but there are a lot of others that have a chance. Langer, Faldo, Greg Norman . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Any Americans?”
“Curtis Strange and Tom Kite.”
I took a sip of water. “Did they say anything about Jack?”
“No,” Davis said. “Only that he’s trying out a new putter.”
I gave a jerk of my head. I’d seen highlights yesterday of Jack putting on one of the greens with a putter blade that looked twice the size of everyone else’s. “When a player starts trying gimmicks . . .” I trailed off.
“They aren’t giving him much chance. One reporter said his clubs are ‘rusty,’ and he should hang them up.”
I shook my head at the slight. How could anyone say something like that about the game’s greatest champion?
“You should probably check in with Mom,” Davis said. “She was pretty upset that you weren’t home to go to dinner.”
I closed my eyes, remembering the plate of food and cake in the kitchen. “I know,” I said, rising from my chair.
“Hey, Dad. Think you’ll have time to play eighteen sometime this weekend?”
I gazed down at my daughter, thinking about the plans I had laid for the morning.
“This weekend is going to be tough, champ. I’m sorry.”
She looked down at the carpeted floor. “Can we at least watch the final round of the Masters?”
I approached my daughter and leaned down and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Love you, champ,” I said.
She looked up at me. “Love you too, Dad.”
Holding back tears, I quickly turned and headed for the kitchen.
“You okay, Dad?” Davis called behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Yeah, hon. Just tired.” When I reached our bedroom, I found the door cracked. I peered in and Mary Alice was already asleep. However, as I got closer to the bed, I could hear my wife’s sniffles.
“Honey?”
She was lying on her side with her back to me. “Your dinner is on the table. We can eat the cake tomorrow.” Her voice was a low whimper, but even through the emotion, I could feel a cold edge to her tone.
“Thank you,” I managed. I sat on the bed and placed a hand on her hip. She didn’t turn toward me. “I’m sorry I ruined your plans. The cake looks beautiful.”
“Randy?” She looked at me over her shoulder. In the darkness, I couldn’t make out her eyes. All I saw was the shadow of her face. “I’m sorry about Darby. I know he was your hero.”
I blinked as I gazed at the outline of my wife.
Mary Alice had never cared much for Darby, but she and Charlotte had become close over the years. I opened my mouth to say something comforting, but no words could pass my lips. I patted my wife’s hip instead and stood.
She thinks Darby was my hero . . .
As I exited the room, I pictured Darby Hays as I remembered him best. Striding across the thirteenth fairway at Augusta, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, winking at me as he went for the green in two. It was true that I had admired the man and envied his accomplishments. But hero?
I rested my forehead on the closed bedroom door. “You don’t know me at all,” I whispered. The words sounded hollow and sad.
Maybe she knows me best of all, I thought, turning around and beginning to trudge back through the house.
* * *
—
I walked past the plate of food and the birthday cake with barely a notice, despair overtaking me. Its seed had been planted when I gave up my pursuit of professional golf. Davis’s birth and then Graham’s and the joy of my family buried it for some time, but when Graham died that seed took root. When Mary Alice and I floundered and then Dad passed on, it flowered. As debt from medical expenses continued to mount over the course of the past year, surpassing two hundred thousand dollars, despair seemed to be all I could feel. Only in fleeting moments with Davis on the golf course, and when I could let loose with Darby, someone I knew who had played the game of life and won, had the despair subsided.
And now Darby Hays was dead. And if I couldn’t pay our bills, Davis soon wouldn’t be able to play the game we both loved so much.
I’ll fix everything tomorrow morning, I thought, envisioning the dark water of the Tennessee River. When I reached the den, Davis was gone. She had left the television on, and the ESPN reporters were still talking about Augusta. I walked over to the bar against the side wall. Not bothering with a glass, I pulled out the bottle of Bombay gin, which I kept only for Darby’s visits, and unscrewed the top. I plopped down on the couch and brought the bottle to my lips. As I swallowed, and the heat of the liquor burned my throat, I squinted at the screen. Seve Ballesteros was hitting balls on the driving range. The dashing Spaniard was Mary Alice’s favorite golfer, and her infatuation had nothing to do with his golfing ability. The image on the tube shifted to Greg Norman, the Australian golfer whose whitish-blond hair was a stark contrast to Ballesteros. Then Bernhard Langer, the defending champion, was shown walking down one of the holes during his practice round, followed by a split screen of Americans, Tom Kite and Curtis Strange. Finally, Jack Nicklaus was shown. He was also on the practice putting green. When I saw the putter that Davis had mentioned, I could hardly believe my eyes. A hockey stick, I thought, taking another swig of gin. As Jack putted, a screen showed a list of all of his accomplishments. Seventeen professional major championships, two U.S. Amateur titles, seventy-two PGA Tour victories, nineteen runner-up finishes in majors, and so on and so forth. Jack’s record was both overwhelming and incredible.
But his winning days are numbered, I thought, taking another long swig from the bottle. I again saw the hard surface of the Tennessee River in my mind. I closed my eyes and felt the buzz from the alcohol. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d drunk so much in one day. Probably the beach, I thought, remembering our last trip to Gulf Shores four years ago.
My mind flashed to images of the sand. Of Davis’s jubilant face as she knocked her drive past Darby’s on the fourth hole of the Cotton Creek golf course and of Mary Alice’s black bikini. Of going up to our room after drinking a couple of Bloody Marys while Darby a
nd Charlotte played in the pool with Graham and Davis. Mary Alice had nodded toward the condo, and a few moments later, we were ripping each other’s bathing suits off.
Was that our last time? I wondered, as sleep began to take hold, and I remembered the scents of salt, sex, and vodka mingled with the sounds of the waves and our moans of pleasure. If it was, we made it count.
Before I fell asleep, the images picked up speed, moving from the beach with Mary Alice to the ball fields of Little League and the kids. Of showing Davis how to pitch a softball. Of watching her make her first birdie at Twickenham. Of our trip to Disney when Graham was two.
The last image was the one that came every night at some point. Of my boy. My son, Graham Clark, all of five years old. Lying in his bed, wearing his green Incredible Hulk pajamas and gazing up at me with his big brown eyes and asking the type of simple question that had no answers.
“Why did I get cancer, Daddy?”
Why?
Why?
I had no answers then. I have no answers now.
Why?
In my dream, my son’s brown eyes eventually turn darker. And then he’s gone. And there is only the river. From one hundred feet above.
Cold. Hard. Fast moving.
Why?
6
The voice came from the television. Or at least I thought it did.
“I’m not your hero.”
I opened my eyes and immediately felt the piercing pain of a hangover hit my temples. The television was still on, but the screen had gone blank. What time is it? It had to be three or four in the morning.
“I’m not your hero.”
Not the television. Sitting in the leather chair next to me was Darby Hays. He wore a yellow cardigan sweater over a white golf shirt and khaki slacks. “Darby,” I whispered, expecting that I would wake up from this dream any minute.
“How do I look, Randolph?” He smiled and, when his mouth creased open, two teeth fell out and hit the ground.
I leaned over the couch to vomit, but instead of the carpeted floor of the den, I spewed on a patch of matted-down weeds and torn branches.
“Gin always made you sick as a dog, Randolph.”
I stared at the weeds, coughing and willing myself to wake up. What is happening?
Slowly, I rose back to a sitting position. I sat in the passenger side of a convertible sports car. The windshield was cracked, and the smell of fuel was thick in the air.
“I’d probably get out of there if I were you.” It was Darby’s voice. But from where?
Even though I knew this had to be a dream, I fumbled for the latch. I stepped out of the car and stumbled a few steps away. The ground was uneven, and I heard branches crack as I walked. Where am I?
“You’re in the woods below Hugh Daniel Drive,” Darby’s baritone voice blared out. “That’s my Jaguar.” I peered over my shoulder at the white convertible. “I loved that car,” Darby said. Then, I heard him whisper, “Five, four, three . . . step back, Randolph.”
I did as he instructed.
“. . . one.”
The explosion rattled my eardrums, and the woods were now lit up with an orange glow of fire. I gazed past the flames that had engulfed the car and, fifty yards beyond, I saw the asphalt road.
“Were you in the car?” I asked.
“No,” Darby fired back. “I was thrown from the Jag when it started tumbling down the hill. I wasn’t wearing my seat belt. I was drunk.”
“Not smart,” I managed, bringing my thumbs to my temples.
“Follow me, Randolph.” The baritone voice felt like it was right in my ear, but when I turned, I saw that he was now thirty feet away. Almost out of sight.
“I want to show you something,” the ghost of Darby Hays whispered.
This whole thing is impossible, I thought. But, as the darkness closed in and the ghost continued to drift farther into the woods, I felt my feet begin to follow.
“I’m going to give you something.”
“What?” I rasped, stumbling over some brush as I tried to catch up.
“A gift,” Darby said. “A great and wonderful gift.”
7
When I finally caught up with Darby, we stepped out of the woods together. It was as if they just fell away. For a brief moment there was darkness, but then, gradually, night began to fade. As sunlight poured into the clearing, I saw that we were standing on the edge of a fairway.
“Recognize this place?” Darby asked, lifting his arm and pointing.
I followed his finger down the tightly manicured grass. About two hundred fifty yards ahead, a creek jutted across the fairway. Beyond the water and up a steep slope of tight grass was the green. I could see the yellow flag, which was tucked on the front right of the green. Behind the putting surface were four bunkers. Between the sand hazards were azaleas in full bloom.
“I have this portrait on my wall at the office.” I could hear the shock and awe in my voice. “The thirteenth hole at Augusta.”
Darby took several steps toward the center of the fairway and dropped two golf balls from his pocket. When he turned back around to me, he was holding a persimmon-headed wood in his hand.
I smiled. “I saw you hit this shot in the 1976 Masters.”
Darby waggled the club and placed it behind the ball. Then he set his feet and peeked at the green. Without any warning, he began his swing, sweeping the clubhead back and then cocking his wrists. As he turned his left shoulder so that his back was to the target, I saw a tiny grin on his face. For a moment, his body almost seemed to pause before his weight shifted to his left and he unwound his coiled body toward the ball. When the face of the club made contact with the ball, the resulting crack sounded like dynamite. I watched the ball ascend into the air toward the flagstick. When the ball reached its full height, I saw it drift about five yards to the left. My smile widened. Darby’s patented draw.
For a brief moment, I thought Darby hadn’t caught all of it and that the ball would splash into the water. Instead, it landed a couple feet onto the green and about twenty feet from the hole. Then, after taking a couple of short hops, it began to feed to the right, tracking toward the hole.
“There’s a speed slope on the green,” Darby said. “If you catch the incline, the ball will head to the right.” He paused. “They normally put the pin there on Sunday.”
I nodded as I thought back to the prior Masters tournaments I had watched. Putting the pin on the front right maximized the chance for a good shot and would tempt many players to go for the green in two. The thirteenth hole was a par five, so hitting the green on his second shot would give the player a chance at an eagle three. Of course, if he came up short, he’d be in the water and likely to make a bogey. That could cost a player a good round. And, on Sunday, the championship. The Masters doesn’t really begin until the back nine on Sunday, I thought, hearing the familiar refrain that the broadcasters liked to say.
Darby’s ball finally came to rest very close to the hole. From two hundred fifty yards out it was hard to tell, but I guessed it was about two feet.
“Great shot,” I said. “Do you remember hitting that same shot in the third round of the ’76 Masters?”
“I was a little closer to the green in ’76.”
“It was the best golf shot I’ve ever seen hit in a tournament.”
Darby grimaced. Then he handed me the club. “Here, you try.”
I laughed. “Darby, you know I can’t hit this shot. I can barely hit a teed-up driver two sixty, and we are at least two fifty from the hole.”
“It’s the thirteenth hole of Augusta, Randolph, and you’re talking to a ghost. Live a little.” He pushed the handle of the three wood into my hand.
I took the club and shrugged. On a good day, I could hit my three wood about two hundred forty yards, so I figured I was ten yards out of my rang
e. But if I catch it just right . . . Just then, I felt a slight breeze behind me that hadn’t been present before.
Without thinking about it, I stepped toward the ball and set the clubhead behind it. I took my stance, lining up slightly to the right of the flag. My only chance was to hit a sweeping draw. I looked one last time at the green, then began my swing. The club felt light in my hand and, surprisingly, my body was loose and nimble. When I connected with the ball, I knew I had hit it pure.
“That-a-boy, Randolph,” Darby said.
I began to walk after the ball, trying to will it across Rae’s Creek. I’ve wanted to hit that shot my whole life, I thought, peering at the ball and knowing that I had stepped directly into the portrait that adorned my office wall. I held my breath and waited as the ball reached its apex and began to curve to the left.
“You’re home,” Darby said, before the ball landed.
And he was right. It cleared the creek by a couple yards and came to rest about thirty feet to the left of the flag.
“Didn’t hit the speed slope, though,” Darby said. “But still not bad.”
“That was the best shot I’ve ever hit,” I whispered.
“No, it wasn’t,” Darby snapped, beginning to stride toward the green.
“What do you mean?” I asked, following after him and taking in the surreal scene of me, Randy Clark, walking down the thirteenth hole of Augusta National Golf Club.
“I mean that wasn’t the best shot you’ve ever hit. Hell, I’ve seen you hit one a lot better than that.”
I snorted. “Like when?”
“Remember that pro-am at Shoal Creek four years ago? We had a Nassau bet with Jerry Pate’s group. We had it in the bag, but we needed you to knock your shot on the green on the seventeenth hole. You had 148 yards, slight wind in your face, and two professional golfers watching you, not to mention six amateurs who probably all hoped you’d peel sod and dump it in the drink.”
The Golfer's Carol Page 3