The Legend of Bagger Vance: A Novel of Golf and the Game of Life

by Steven Pressfield

  “You’re a damn liar!” I shot at once.

  “If I’m lying I’m dying!” Garland grabbed me by the shirtfront and pulled me tight to him, shook me hard so I’d know he meant it. “Hagen was so cat-nervous he couldn’t even hold down his breakfast. I know cause I looked after he left, and there was eggs and toast bits in that stall, sprayed over on the seat and the floor too.”

  This was more than I could endure. “Now I know you’re lying, Garland. The Haig never eats nothing for breakfast but oysters and French champagne!”

  Garland’s lip curled, he released me. “Believe what you want, son, but these eyes know what they seen. It was Walter Hagen and he was puking his damn guts up.”

  I staggered back, reeling. Tawdry Jones, one of the other forecaddies, caught me by the shirtback. “Breathe a word of this ever and your ass is sweet green grass.”

  The sun was full up now; already you could feel the heat steaming from the earth. It was nearly seven. The grounds before the hotel were packed with spectators emerging from the dining room and others arriving from the main drive. I filled my jug with hot tea as Bagger Vance had instructed me, and collected the apples and bananas and nuts.

  Out by the press tent a bunch of reporters and spectators were clustered around a ruggedly handsome older man they called Grant. It was Grantland Rice, I learned later, and he was answering a question, holding forth like royalty.

  “The seduction of golf? I’ll tell you its root. It goes back to the time before we were born, when we orbited in the ether, bodiless and without form. Don’t write this down, boys, I’m using it for my own column, maybe even for a book!”

  The reporters laughed and kept scribbling.

  “In those precarnate days, our consciousness existed much as it does now in dreams. That which we willed or imagined, our minds created instantaneously. A city. A shoe. A solar system. We had only to think and it appeared, complete to the tiniest detail.

  “Then, alas,” Rice continued, “we took upon ourselves the travail and torment of physical existence. We were born. We acquired a body. All memory was lost of that perfect bliss in the prenatal firmament. Or was it? Nay, we sought now, without suspecting its mystical source, to recapture if only for a moment the sensation we had known in the womb of the stars. We sought to think and to make our thoughts so!

  “I’ve lived and breathed sports my whole life and, mark me, this is the power by which they hold us spellbound. They remind us, when we perform an athletic feat aright or even vicariously, when we witness others doing so, of our days before birth. Our days in the ether. To throw a blistering fastball and watch the leathern pellet streak swift as thought precisely where we willed it: we feel like gods! We have willed, and our will has made it happen. To rifle a perfect pass. To fire the perfect punch. To pound a perfect serve. All these recall that idyllic existence, traces of which still linger in memory below the surface of consciousness.

  “But tell me, gentlemen, and I will yield to any man who can gainsay me: is there another field of athletic endeavor upon which man can work his will that is grander or of greater scale than a golfing links?

  “The distances alone! Out here we may visualize a drive of 300 yards, by God nearly three times as far as the mightiest home run, and then we execute it! And not just distance but accuracy as well. Consider a screaming long iron that rises and banks, fading or drawing exactly as we imagined, 210 yards to land precisely on target and stop within inches of the hole. From an eighth of a mile away! That is godlike! It makes us feel our will triumphant, we return to that paradise in which we dwelt before our natal hour.

  “Why quibble that this taste of perfection comes only once in a hundred shots, or once in a thousand? We taste the nectar once and must ever after continue to seek it.

  “That glimpse, gentlemen. That glimpse the goddess of golf grants us when she will, and that is all she requires to render us abject before her forever!”

  The reporters laughed and surrounded Rice, kidding him good-naturedly. “That may be the reason on the ethereal plane,” one spoke up loud, “but down here what brings ’em out is a plain old head-knocking. They come to see battle. To see a man spill another man’s blood.”

  Jones and Keeler were already there on the practice tee when I hurried up at five minutes before seven. There must have been two hundred spectators already, held back by ropes and swelling three and four deep just to watch Jones hit his warm-up shots. I had the apples and ice now and resettled them so the pack wouldn’t leak.

  Behind the crowd I could see the Chalmers pull in, with two police cycles rumbling ahead as escorts. The spectators stirred and jostled and there came Junah, stepping forth tall and handsome as the gallery parted before him. Bagger Vance emerged behind, carrying Junah’s bag. Photographers set up for photos. Junah obliged graciously but without pleasure. I saw Jones wink over and Junah smile back.

  On the practice tee, which was clipped as short and flawless as a putting surface, waited three pyramids of golf balls, brand-new high-compression Spalding balatas that were so white in the sun you couldn’t look at them without squinting. Jones could see that Junah was shy about approaching him, so he came over on his own, smiling, with O. B. Keeler, and they shook hands and wished each other luck. I was fetching the shag bag from the Chalmers and couldn’t get back quickly enough in the swell to hear what they were saying. I could just see them talking, two knights of the fairway, both tanned and athletic and handsome in their immaculate linen shirts and perfectly creased plus fours. Apparently Keeler had told Jones about last night on the course, and about Bagger Vance’s theories. Keeler beside Jones was gesturing to Vance, motioning him to join their group. Vance declined with a diffident motion of his hand, apparently thinking it unseemly for a caddie to fraternize with his golfing superiors. Keeler insisted, and reluctantly Vance came over. I got there just after the introductions to find Jones regarding the tall and still self-effacing caddie thoughtfully. “Are you sure we’ve met?” he asked, studying Bagger Vance’s features. “I’m certain I would recall a face as striking as yours.”

  “It was a long time ago, sir,” Vance answered softly. There was a pause. Something about the way Vance said it. You could see Jones puzzling, studying Vance as if for a meaning beneath the surface.

  “It’s all I can do to remember yesterday.” Junah stepped in, dispelling the tension in laughter. Vance seized the chance and withdrew subtly, easing Junah to the fore. The group crossed to Jones’ pile of practice balls; photographers clustered; Jones began lobbing easy pitches down to his shag boy. He chatted with Junah and Keeler in between shots, nipping each pitch perfectly with his flawless languid rhythm, nudging each successive ball from the clutch with his clubhead, positioning it precisely at the back edge of the previous divot. “Every warm-up session is a new adventure, isn’t it, Mr. Junah?” he remarked in his soft Georgia drawl. “One never knows which swing he’ll find that morning, or if he’ll find one at all.”

  Junah chuckled. “I haven’t found mine in five years.” You could see he and Jones were both battling nervousness, each seeking to establish a solid controllable rhythm for themselves for the day.

  “I’m certain your caddie can help you,” Keeler put in with a smile, trying to draw Bagger Vance closer into the circle. “If anyone knows how the swing is learned, I’ll wager it’s he.”

  There was a pause. “The swing is never learned,” Bagger Vance said softly. “It’s remembered.”

  Jones’ clubhead was just positioning a fresh ball. He stopped abruptly. The Grand Slam champion looked up, studying Vance’s face with a deep thoughtfulness.

  “You were right, O.B.,” he said with a grin to Keeler. “This mysterious gentleman is a master of the subtleties of the game. We’d better stop fraternizing before he seduces us into contemplation of its mysteries and we forget we have a match to play.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” Vance said softly, “I’ve spoken too much already.” Again he withdrew, a subtle touch to Junah
steering him toward his own practice lane.

  Keeler’s eyes followed as they withdrew. “Sir, tell me,” he called after Junah, “was your caddie ever a professional somewhere?”

  Junah laughed. “He’s been that and a lot more.”

  Keeler absorbed this thoughtfully. “May I ask where, sir?” he called, this time directly to Bagger Vance. “Where were you a professional?”

  Photographers and spectators had overheard the exchange. There was a stir; a dozen pairs of eyes, including Junah’s, turned to Bagger Vance to see if he would answer. The caddie squinted back toward Keeler. His voice was low, barely audible. “Here,” he said. “I was a professional here.”

  Keeler blinked, uncertain how to take this. Was the fellow mocking him? Keeler’s eyes searched Vance’s for a flicker of jest or ridicule. Jones too paused in his routine. You could see them both, confronted by the mystery of Vance’s clear truthful gaze, pull themselves, even shake themselves back to their centers. Let this be—their postures straightened and refocused—we have a match to play. At that moment, a commotion rippled from the rear of the gallery. We heard an automobile horn honk. Into view at the end of the tee eased Hagen’s brand-new Auburn six-door.

  The car stopped and the chauffeur sprung out. He clapped his own door shut, then stepped swiftly around to the rear. You could glimpse a head of blond curls behind the smoked glass and hear girlish laughter pealing. The chauffeur tugged the rear door open. There was a pregnant beat, a wafting curl of tobacco smoke, then a $500 black-and-white golf shoe arced forth into the sunlight, followed by an athletic calf wrapped in pale yellow argyle and a knife-creased plus four. Sir Walter stepped forth in his plumage. A breath expelled from the gallery, and then applause sprung, reinforced by cheers and shouts of excitement.

  Hagen’s caddie, Spec Hammond, stepped first onto the tee. Then his footman, in equestrian boots to the knee; then a boy, like me, bearing refreshments, including cigarettes in a silver case (I heard someone behind me say Hagen always had quail eggs carried with him on-course, as a snack and to keep up his strength). Then the Haig himself strode forth.

  Jones had turned back and was witnessing this with a wry smile, having no doubt endured this assault of style and gamesmanship many times in the past. The gallery too recognized this psychological salvo; it was a joke they were in on and they loved it.

  “You boys get enough breakfast in you?” Hagen called gaily to Jones and Junah. “I’ve got hot coffee in the Auburn if you want.” He thumped his stomach contentedly and gave a belch of satisfaction. The gallery laughed and turned to each other in merry whispers.

  “A nice jolt of caffeine, that’s just what our nerves need,” Keeler grinned back to appreciative laughter from the gallery. Photographers and reporters were clustering around Hagen now; Jones returned to his warm-up, moving from short irons to mid-irons; then Junah started, I scampered out onto the range with the shag bag as he lobbed the first easy pitches. It was a grand perspective. I was out there, fifty or sixty yards, on the immaculately manicured grass. I could see the gallery, in colorful thousands now and swelling each moment, with the hotel rising behind and the Atlantic pounding in mightily beyond the dunes.

  My position was on the right. Jones’ shag boy stood in the middle, a hundred yards behind, and Hagen’s was now trotting out, deep, going way back toward the fence. I could hear Jones’ mid-irons hissing overhead, hear the backspin loud and sizzling; the balls dropped so close to the shag boy he could collect them with just a step this way or that. On the left of the tee, Hagen was finishing with the reporters. He didn’t tee his own ball, but had Spec do it. His shag boy was most of the way back at the fence, 250 yards out. Hagen took his driver, gave it a swift waggle and stepped right to the ball. This was odd; players normally warm up through the short irons, mids and longs, taking out the distance clubs only at the very end when they’re thoroughly warmed up. But here the Haig was brandishing his driver right out of the slot. The gallery hushed. Every eye, including Jones’ and Junah’s fans’, turned as Hagen planted his feet, waggled once, cocked an eye down the range and lashed at the ball with all his strength.

  He cold-topped it! The ball squirted dead into the turf and rebounded with a flat, sickening sound, to bound and shoot away, a sharp 180-yard grounder. The gallery gasped with shock, then laughed with release of tension as it saw the twinkle in the Haig’s eye. “Sorry, Bob,” Hagen grinned across at the center slot, where Jones endured this patiently.

  Spec teed another ball; the Haig slashed; a duck hook shot dead left off his clubhead, overspinning wildly and nose-diving into the dirt 40 yards out, bounding away into the weeds. The gallery was now thoroughly enjoying itself, snorting and rollicking, each spectator no doubt rehearsing the story as he or she would tell it tonight and for decades into the future.

  I had to keep my eye on Junah, who was trying to maintain focus on his own practice. He had hit half a dozen nice smooth lofters, all right at my feet (one had bounced clean into the shag bag). But now I saw something that froze my blood. That same grim, distanced look on Junah’s face. That posture of despair. The more the gallery enjoyed Hagen’s high jinks, the darker the cloud grew over Junah’s head. What was he thinking? What was tormenting him?

  Hagen’s caddie teed a third ball; this the Haig blasted in exactly the opposite direction, a wild towering slice that arced across the 150-yard-wide practice area and vanished into the cattails on the far right. I saw Keeler take out a bill from his wallet and lay it wordlessly on the ground beside the slot where Jones was rifling his mid-irons; Jones produced a bill of his own and set it beside Keeler’s. Spec bent to tee Sir Walter’s fourth ball. Dramatically Hagen stopped him several inches short of the turf. The Haig teed it himself, then doffed his cream-colored jacket and stepped to the ball, loose and easy in just his shirt and tie.

  He swung. The ball rocketed off the clubface, nailed cold solid, and boomed downrange in an ever-climbing trajectory, finally steaming to earth well past the shag boy, sending the fellow scampering back to the 275 mark to overtake the still-galloping ball. The gallery roared. I saw Keeler bend to the ground, pick up both bills and hand them to Jones, who with a wry grin slipped them into his pocket.

  Then I looked back at Junah. Jones had his spoon out now and was banging his first balls for distance. The crowd oohed and ahhed as the great champion’s shots thundered down the range. Hagen, at his end of the tee, was cracking jokes. The gallery was laughing. Junah’s shoulders seemed to slump even more. His shots were getting ragged. Jones had gone to his driver now; he began launching bombs into the fence, then halfway up, then clean over. A pack of boys outside scuffled madly over each ball, the victor thrusting his trophy aloft, then surging afresh with the mob as the next ball, Hagen’s now, came sailing clear and bounding beside them.

  Junah had stopped hitting. He was at mid-iron range. I had moved back, just shy of the 175; Hagen’s shag boy was past the 275, Jones’ all the way to the fence. I could hear the Chief Marshal shout, “Twenty minutes to tee time!” Junah put his mid-iron away and took no other. What was he doing? Going to the putting green? Without hitting any long irons or woods? I felt the skin on my back go cold with gooseflesh.

  Junah was saying something to Bagger Vance, something cross and impatient. Oh no. I could see him peer out toward the ocean, to the sand mounds that ran the length of the first fairway. The dune line for a quarter mile was packed with spectators, thousands and thousands, already massing three and four deep like some vast army drawing up in line of battle. Junah turned with that despairing look I had come so to dread. Hit a ball, the voice in my head was shouting to him. Then to Vance: Set a ball out, stick a club in his hand! I could see Vance do just that. But Junah wouldn’t take it. His eyes swung south to the entry drive, the six-mile approach to the hotel where fresh multitudes now advanced from parking areas. I saw Jones glance over, just for a moment, toward Junah. He too sensed something awry. I wanted to rush in, though God only knows what I hoped to acco
mplish, but I didn’t dare. I held my position 175 yards out, feeling like a fool as the other shag boys chased down their men’s balls and I could do nothing but stand there useless and waiting.

  Then Junah moved. Slowly at first, then with increasing resolve, off the tee, into the gallery which parted without resistance, no doubt assuming the competitor was on his way to the practice green to warm up his putter. I seized the shag bag and tore in on a dead run. Junah was through the crowd now, approaching the Chalmers. This was the signal of alarm. No need of a car to cross forty yards to the putting green. Judge Anderson came striding, there was no mistaking his face flushed with anger; my father hurried forward too. Junah brushed past them both, and several other elders, calling behind him to Bagger Vance, ordering the caddie to come along, hurry.

  Vance obeyed, striding in Junah’s wake with the bag and clubs. The elders pursued, demanding to know Junah’s intentions. I raced up just as this urgent knot reached the Chalmers.

  “Throw my clubs in back,” Junah commanded Bagger Vance. “Take me away from here!”

  “To where, sir?”

  “Out there, away from this crush, where I can think!”

  He pointed to the open duneland between the two massed armies, then plunged into the darkness of the backseat and slammed the door. Bagger Vance set the bag swiftly into the trunk and sprang obediently behind the wheel. The engine snarled to life. Judge Anderson was rapping indignantly on Junah’s smoked window, demanding to know where his champion was going. Junah called the more fiercely to Vance, “Get me out of here!”