“Pretty strange,” he said.
“Ten bucks, Jackie boy, that I get this one closer to the pin.”
“Go for it, man.”
It was not a bet that I could win. “I owe you ten bucks,” I said. “Do you have your iPhone with you?”
“Yep.”
“Can you do me a favor? Can you check and see if even par won money today?”
It took a minute. “Yeah. Thirteen hundred.”
“Can you check all of the first five events please while I kill that armadillo with this five-iron.”
He knew what I was getting at. And the proof was right in front of us. There were good players on this tour, some of them with full exemptions on the Nationwide Tour, and even par was still a good score. “Maybe we need a different strategy,” I said.
“I’m not playing scared,” he said.
“I know that. I respect you for that. So go for every par-5 in two, that’s fine. That’s your game. But on every other hole why don’t we just go for the middle of the green with our approach shots. Take some pressure off and collect a few pars. See what happens.”
The silence is easier to bear as well because it has no meaning, there’s nothing riding on it—you’re just out there hitting golf balls.
“Colleen e-mailed me,” I said. “I wish she could come see you play in one tournament.”
“We’ll try it in our practice round tomorrow,” he said.
He was too busy hitting balls to notice that I was smiling.
DECEMBER 15, 2011
The Forest Course at Kingwood is a spectacular layout with the kinds of golf holes that are as different as you can get from the open links land of Scotland. Until late last night, after playing a practice round there yesterday afternoon with three other guys on the tour, Jack and I were still marveling over it. I think it’s the best ground I’ve ever walked, a splendid puzzle cut out of thick woods and marshlands, with mounded fairways and old-growth trees that frame every hole. There is no flatland to be found. Most of the landing areas are artistically placed, elevated plateaus. Even the greens are complexes of hills and valleys, hollows and ridges. On nine of the greens you could easily take four putts to find the hole. I think the par-55th captures the essence of the place. You climb onto an elevated tee box, and off in the distance there is the red flag—straight out there about 900 yards across a marsh that Lewis and Clark might have crossed in a canoe if they swung through Texas. Then you turn slightly right on the tee box, and 243 yards away, over the water, in the thick woods you spy a narrow tunnel of light, which is your target. If you hit that tunnel, the ball rolls forward to a fairway 30 yards wide that forms a path around the right that will eventually take you to that red flag you saw across the marsh. The whole course is an astonishingly beautiful labyrinth with each hole hidden in the trees so that you have the feeling you are the last golfers left in the world. Jack had his “A” game in the practice round and shot three over par with two birdies to beat the other fellows there and win another thirty bucks. But today, under pressure, without the “A” game we could be in trouble. It is going to take total control and concentration to hold it together well enough to make the cut. And Jack told me he wants to make the cut just for the chance to play the course again tomorrow. He loved it. If there had been any daylight left when we finished our practice round, he was determined to go back to the 1st tee and play it again.
My knee this morning is rubbish after climbing all the hills yesterday. I’m a little concerned that I might slow things down. I’m also concerned because in my mind I can’t see the straight lines that will lead us to pars. There were too many blind shots, too many twisting fairways and doglegs for me to get a feel for the place after just one round. I’ve decided that while Jack is on the practice range this morning, I’m going to take a cart and drive the whole track, every hole from tee to green, looking for the simplest line of logic that we can impose on the course and follow through our round. I am thinking of my friend who played for the prestigious Eden Trophy in St. Andrews and wrote to me just the other day: “Don, remember what you sent me in an e-mail before I played the event? Here it is: Gordon, when you play the Eden Tournament, try something for me. It’s a new caddie approach that I’ve used with spectacular results. Break the course into pieces. You are on the tee, and you see the white stake at 150. You play that shot. Don’t try for more. Then you are at the 150 stake, and you know you can stick the nine-iron onto the center of the green from there. So you play that shot. Don’t try for more. That’s the way Mr. Watson played the third round of the Open in that cold rain. Everyone else was trying for everything and falling apart. But old Tom just played patiently and collected all pars and one of the best rounds of the day.”
This is the way that I would like us to play today. If we can break the course into pieces and conquer each piece, we have a chance. But if it is us against the whole course, we will be swept away. Yesterday my mind was so engaged just trying to find our way around the Forest Course that I forgot it was my wedding anniversary. I finally called home around eight, and the moment I heard Colleen’s voice, I remembered her standing in the train station in Winchester, England, twenty-seven years ago, an hour after we eloped there and were married before the justice of the peace. We rode the train into London late that afternoon, sneaking into the first-class compartment, then checked into a small hotel. I bought scalped tickets outside the Victoria Palace Theatre for Cats, the hottest new show in town. She asked me last night how Jack and I were doing. I said, “I wish we had a wide-open course tomorrow like the Old Course where you’ve got room to make a mistake.”
She didn’t mean about the golf, she said. “How are you and Jack doing?” she asked again.
“Fine,” I said.
I didn’t tell her what had been on my mind as I watched Jack hit his first drive that morning. We were almost halfway through the tour; it had taken me that long to understand that if a father spends enough time with his grown-up son, he sees what he’s passed on to him. With us there was me believing all my life that I was never good enough, that as a writer I would never measure up no matter how hard I worked, no matter what sacrifices I made. Jack has inherited this. And in golf, without that deep, persistent belief in yourself, you always lose, because that last poor shot is proof once again that you’re not good enough.
We are going to have to overcome this ten or twenty times today in order to play well.
Round one begins under low hanging fog and a black sky at 10:10.
Hole 1. A 371-yard par-4. Jack hits a three-wood on his first drive, dead center. Well done, I say. What I am thinking is, In the fog this puzzle of a golf course will be even more confusing today. And if we don’t have our “A” game, we won’t make the cut.
We have 17 yards left to an elevated green surrounded by deep bunkers.
He nails the wedge. We are left with a twelve-foot uphill putt. It looks as though it will break two cups left to right. His putt stops on the edge of the cup. It could fall in. But it doesn’t. A tap-in par.
Even after one hole.
Hole 2. A 425-yard par-4. He stripes the drive. It has to be out there 320 yards. He hits his wedge to ten feet. “This putt will break a cup,” I tell him.
I’m wrong. Another tap-in par. I hate missing reads. Just fucking hate it.
Even after two holes.
Hole 3. The short 522-yard par-5.
Another perfect drive. We’re left with 220 yards uphill to a narrow green. Jack takes his four-iron and lands the green. We have an eagle putt about twenty-two feet.
The ball stops short four inches. A tap-in birdie.
One under after three holes.
———
Hole 4. A 202-yard par-3.
I am trying not to think about anything but the shot in front of us, but in my mind I am thinking this is the best start we’ve ever had on the tour.
Jack hits a seven-iron right at the flag. It looks perfect from where I am standing.
/> We are left with twenty-two feet uphill to the hole. “What do you think?” he asks me.
I am sure of this one. “Just lay it up on the right edge,” I say, “and it might fall in.” It does. Birdie. Our second birdie in four holes.
Two under after four holes.
Hole 5. A 530-yard par-5.
Now the rain is falling hard, and I am thinking, Good, this is very good for Jack. The only golf we could afford to play when I was teaching him the game was when we could sneak on the course, when the weather was bad enough to drive away all the members. But they call a rain delay. Apparently, they don’t believe in fucking playing golf in the rain in Texas. We have to sit at least an hour. This could work against us. And here we are an hour later on this mysterious hole. You have to hit the narrow tunnel of light between the trees off to the right. Jack takes a three-wood and nails it, right up the slot into the mayor’s office. We’ll have a shot at reaching this par-5 in two. But there is water all along the left side of the green. And Jack takes a very aggressive line, starting his three-wood out over the marsh and counting on it to cut back and fall to a back-left pin. It does. We have another eagle putt, about a forty-footer. We get it up there short by five damned feet. Not a good putt.
“What do you see?” he asks me. I tell him I am sure of this one—inside the left half of the cup, Jack. He drains it. Another birdie. And for the first time since we started this tour two months ago, we are working together. Actually working together! I’m so excited that I’m scared I’m going to do or say the wrong thing. I’ve never been this nervous before out caddying. Never even close.
We are now three under par after five holes.
Hole 6. A 158-yard par-3.
Water up the left side and behind the green. No room for error. And the pin is up there back left. I just want to go for the middle of the green, but I say nothing. Jack goes right at the pin. He flies past the pin, and the ball disappears. I can’t see it. It has to be in the water. “Too aggressive,” Jack says. “We’ll see when we get up there,” I say. And the ball is sitting on the wood plank at the edge of the water. He makes a two-putt par from there. “We just dodged a bullet,” I tell him.
Three under par after six holes.
Hole 7. A 478-yard par-4.
The big par-4. Another tree-lined, narrow fairway. He nails his drive to 141 yards. He takes his wedge and goes right at the pin. We have only five feet left for birdie. The putt sits on the edge. A tap-in par.
Three under after seven holes.
Hole 8. A 414-yard par-4.
Jack has a bounce in his step now, and as I watch him, I am thinking, At this moment my son is not me. He is not his father. He expects to be playing this way. He believes in himself. It is the first glimpse of this that I have had on the tour. And it makes me smile. Hell, I could cry.
Another monster drive up the center. A 138-yard wedge to eight feet.
We miss the birdie and tap in the par. Jack isn’t happy. He says, “I should be five under right now. I’m missing all these birdie chances.”
“We’ll have more,” I tell him. So far we have hit every fairway and every green in regulation. We have three birdies and five tap-in pars. Golf doesn’t get any easier, I am thinking.
Three under after eight holes.
Hole 9. A 426-yard par-4.
A 248-yard carry over water to safe ground. And it’s a narrow chute from the tee through the trees. Jack nails it. He doesn’t even look like the golfer I’ve been walking beside these past two months. He hits his wedge to twelve feet, and he drains the birdie putt.
Four under after nine holes.
Hole 10. A 510-yard par-5.
A good hole for us. The rain has stopped. The sun is breaking through now.
Jack is relaxed, talking with the other two players. One of them has won money in every event so far. We’re beating him by four strokes. Jack hits a perfect drive. Another dead-center fairway. Not as far as usual. We have 234 left to the hole. Uphill, water left of the green. A worrisome shot. We are on the green with another eagle putt. About thirty-seven feet. We leave ourselves a tricky four-foot putt for our fifth birdie of the day. The ball stops on the lip again. These greens aren’t breaking, Jack says. He’s not happy.
And I am thinking that right now we are probably in first place. I want to call Colleen and tell her. And then I’m kicking myself for getting ahead of what is happening here. We have miles to go.
Four under after ten holes.
Hole 11. A 210-yard par-3.
He lands the green, twenty-two feet from the hole. And here’s my punishment for allowing myself to step out of the moment. We make our first bogey. A stupid three-putt. What a dumb ass, Jack says to himself. Be careful, I am thinking. Stay in the moment.
Three under after eleven holes.
Hole 12. A 433-yard par-4.
“Hit a good one, Jackie boy,” I say as I hand him his driver.
He nails it. His best drive of the day.
We have only 106 yards left but to a dangerous green that falls away to the left and the right. He hits his wedge a little left, and it kicks left and falls into a bunker. Our first missed green in twelve holes.
We’re in a bunker that is filled with water and sand as heavy as concrete.
He looks worried. But he gets it up and out. We face a downhill putt, fifteen feet. I tell him, “This one will be fast.” He hits it poorly, and we’re six feet past the hole. Another bogey. Damn. Our second bogey in two holes.
Two under par now after twelve holes.
Hole 13. A 369-yard par-4.
A short but dangerous hole. He hits a bad three-wood. It goes right and lands behind trees. It feels like a stake right through my heart. Ever since I thought about calling Colleen to tell her that her little boy was leading this tournament, we have played like yellow dogs.
We make our third straight bogey. We’ve given away three of our four strokes in the last three holes. There is a point like this in every match under competition. I know this. We just have to play through it.
One under after thirteen holes.
Hole 14. A 150-yard par-3.
I say to Jack, “Fight hard, man. We’ll get back in this.”
He doesn’t say anything. But he makes a good swing and lands eight feet from the hole. A missed birdie. A tap-in par. “Good par, Jackie,” I tell him.
One under after fourteen holes.
Hole 15. A 473-yard par-4.
A wicked hole from the tee with water up the left, right in our landing area. I hand him his three-wood instead of his driver and remind him that we hit three-wood from this tee yesterday in our practice round. He takes the three-wood and nails it up the right side. Good. Good.
One hundred and fifty-four yards left to a green that slopes right to left, with big bunkers up the right. Jack takes a nine-iron and hits it straight at the flag. The ball never moves off the flag the whole way. I hear one of our playing partners yell, “Wow!” I run up the hill to have a look. It looks as if it’s two feet from the hole. It’s not. It’s one foot. An easy birdie. We are back! “That’s how you fight back, Jackie,” I tell him.
Two under par after fifteen.
Hole 16. A 392-yard par-4.
And Jack is thinking now; he takes a four-iron on this short par-4. Right up the center. I want to calm him down, so I start talking about Teddy again. How since we canceled our telephone landline to save money, there’s no longer an answering machine, and I always thought that when Teddy was left home alone, he must have loved hearing the voices on the answering machine—his beloved Cara saying, “We’re not home right now to take your call …” Jack makes a solid par here. He looks good.
Two under par after sixteen.
Hole 17. A 602-yard par-5.
“We are going to get there in two,” Jack says as he takes his driver. He nails it a mile. We have 237 left. I want him to hit a four-iron and let it run onto the green. But there’s wind in our faces, and he wants the hybrid.
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br /> He hits it too far; it flies the green. A bad mistake. We don’t even know what is over there behind the steep mounds and the bunkers.
It’s not good. It’s the worst ground we’ve been on today. Soaking wet. I hand him his wedge and say, “Just get it on the dance floor, Jackie.”
He leaves it short. Then two bad putts and we throw away a stroke.
He is steaming mad at himself now. And I’m just trying to hold on. Hold on.
One under after seventeen holes.
Hole 18. A 455-yard par-4.
Into the wind, but I still hand him the three-wood. There’s water left and woods right. He nails it right onto the plateau, the only flat good ground out there. Here we go. A simple 167-yard nine-iron to the last green. We have hit every fairway off the tee but one. And every green but two.
He flies a beautiful shot, but when it hits the green, it has too much juice on it and spins off thirty feet down a hill.
I feel the bogey coming. And it comes. We lose another stroke and our chance of shooting an under-par round.
Even par after eighteen holes.
I am thinking, Two months ago in our first tournament we shot a 90 in round one and didn’t make the cut. Today for about an hour we were four under par through ten holes, and no one on this tour was playing any better.
But Jack is just miserable. “I can’t believe I pissed away a great round like that,” he says. And he doesn’t say another word. I want to sit and have a beer with him at the bar outside the clubhouse where they shot the movie Tin Cup.
He wants to get out of here. So off we go. Speeding all the way back to the hotel. Bruce Springsteen at top volume. Not a word between us.
But here’s the deal. Jack will no longer wonder if he belongs on this tour. I’m just going to let him figure out how to feel. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so tired in my life. We might have a new lesson to learn now: how to play when you’re on fire and leading the tournament. I have no experience with that, so I’m going to have to turn to some friends for advice.
Walking with Jack Page 26