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

by Steven Pressfield

  Junah swung. You could hear the sickening turnover blow as the ball arced hard off the clubface, left and low, then dove even farther left, spinning furiously over the exact bunker Bagger Vance had indicated, striking the greenskeeper’s road precisely as he had said, and bounding wildly to vanish into the marsh grass. Out of bounds. Stroke and distance. Tee another one.

  The gallery groaned. Junah couldn’t bear to look up. He certainly couldn’t make his eyes meet Bagger Vance’s. I saw Jones and Hagen exchange a glance of pity, then avert their gazes simultaneously, eyes lowering to an absent focus on the turf. The match, or Junah’s inclusion in it, had reached its nadir. It had become an embarrassment, a joke, a fiasco. It hurt Jones and Hagen. Cheapened them. And everyone knew it would only get worse. No one rallies from the place Junah inhabited now. Jones knew it, Hagen knew it, the gallery knew it and most painful of all Junah knew it. A stony misery settled over his handsome features. He stepped with numb resignation, like a captive condemned not just to execution but to a lingering public humiliation beforehand, back toward his caddie, who now paused before placing a second ball in the champion’s palm.

  “Do you want to quit?” Vance spoke quietly, so Junah and I alone could hear. “We can easily fabricate an excuse that will be embraced by everyone. No disgrace. No one will quibble with your parting under these circumstances, least of all your friends.” Vance indicated the Judge and the other elders who hovered painfully in a knot at the rear of the tee. “They will be grateful to you.”

  Junah used his thumbnail to scrape a small clod of soil from the soleplate of his driver. “You know I can’t quit,” he answered.

  Vance nodded gravely, then dropped the fresh ball into Junah’s palm. “I know it,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you did.”

  Fifteen

  AN ATHLETE OF YOUR CALIBER, Michael, can well imagine Junah’s state of mind at this juncture. But to bring it into even bolder relief, let me show you something.

  It’s a magazine article by Arnold Langer. Remember, the writer from the Atlanta Constitution who mesmerized my mother and father over breakfast with tales of Junah’s heroism in the War. The article did not appear until two years after the match in the Summer of ’33 issue of Susquehanna Quarterly. This may seem an odd place for a piece of sports journalism except that Langer, as you will see, sensed that an event of significance beyond sport was taking place and therefore submitted his piece to a more serious journal. If you skim the first pages, you’ll see the article covers a number of sports: it refers to Dempsey, Tilden, Lou Gehrig; quite a bit of it is about prize fighting. It’s not until page 4 that Langer, advancing his line of thought, turns to the match at Krewe Island.

  GRACE UNDER FIRE

  The writer covering a variety of athletic endeavors is inevitably asked by acquaintances to render an assessment as to which sport is the most difficult, which tests the competitor to the utmost. Most expect the response to be a physically violent sport, perhaps football or ski racing, or one in which danger to life and limb predominates, as in motor racing or alpine mountaineering.

  These acquaintances are invariably startled (and occasionally outraged) when I without hesitation declare that Supreme Sport to be golf.

  Golf is the most grueling sport, the most testing sport, the sport which more than any other strips the competitor bare, mentally, psychologically and emotionally. Rarely have I seen this demonstrated more vividly and painfully than in the 1931 exhibition match at Krewe Island, Georgia. Here before our horrified eyes, the sporting press witnessed a man of unassailable credentials in courage, Captain Rannulph Junah, a decorated officer and bona fide war hero, come utterly undone under the pressure of what one would think would be to a man of his grim experience the merest trifle. A golf match.

  One watched the opening nine holes of that contest with an emotion that can only be described as horror. Your heart broke for the Captain, who was so clearly overmatched, not so much in a technical sense (his shotmaking capabilities were very nearly the equal of Jones’ and Hagen’s) as the psychological. That aspect of mind, that discipline which enables one to retain his focus on that peculiarly mental battlefield we know as golf.

  Consider Jones for a moment. Bobby’s swing, for all the adulatory prose it has inspired over the years, possesses a number of flaws, which Jones himself would be the first to acknowledge. His footwork has always been suspect, he invariably overrotates his hips when straining for distance and, most heretical of all, his grip at the top of the backswing quite frequently comes loose! His fingers partially release the club, then regrip as he starts down. But these flaws, which in a lesser mortal would spell calamity, are overridden by Jones’ spectacular cardinal virtue: his rhythm.

  Jones has been quoted on the subject, to which he confesses in his typical self-deprecatory fashion that he has devoted far too many hours of study. “Rhythm and confidence are twin names for the same quicksilver element. They are two sides of the same coin; rhythm the physical manifestation, confidence the mental. You may start with either; it will irresistibly produce the other.”

  In other words for Jones, rhythm is the touchstone, the haven, the physical/mental core around which he centers himself and from which he draws his confidence.

  Hagen on the other hand can never be accused of anything so civilized as rhythm. The Haig’s wild lurching motion is almost laughable alongside Jones’ languid Olympian tempo. Everything is hands, arms and the slashing wristwork for Sir Walter. Yet Hagen, like Jones, possesses an equally unbreachable harbor: his profound and uncanny feel for the clubhead. That gift of consciousness, that absolute sense of where the blade is, its precise orbit and alignment at all times in the swing’s wheeling constellation.

  What makes Hagen so exciting to watch is his capacity for midcourse corrections. He will seem to topple, roll, lurch, yet so sure is his sense of the clubhead that even from some wildly off-balance posture he manages somehow to right himself and recover in midswing, whipping the blade back to true and slashing the shot home. Then of course he’ll wink as if he had that very stroke in mind all along.

  Hagen does it with clubhead sense, Jones with tempo. But both do it with the mind. That is what makes them champions.

  Now consider our struggling warrior, Captain Junah. Junah’s swing, unlike Jones’ and Hagen’s was merely perfect. He stood to the ball flawlessly, his backswing unfolded straight from the copybook, his move through the ball was poetry itself. Yet all this availed him nothing under the pressure of the match. Over the ball the hero seemed to fall not so much into a state of fear as a fog of confusion. Of disfocus. He was lost. He looked, I don’t know what other word to use, innocent. I recall his caddie, a peculiarly intense fellow, struggling mightily to steady him. The bag carrier kept up a nearly constant monologue, apparently of counsel and instruction which, on this front nine at least, seemed more to unnerve the competitor than to rally him.

  So is it courage then? Is it physical courage, the kind required in wartime, that equates to success on the field of golfing combat? Apparently not. Apparently some other quality is needed. A quality which Jones and Hagen possessed but which Captain Junah, at least over the first nine holes, did not.

  It is my thesis that performance under fire (in the lesser world of sport, at least) is not a function of physical courage, but of consciousness. Of awareness.

  Or, perhaps more accurately, awakeness.

  This is not conscious awakeness, I believe. It doesn’t spring from the front of the brain. Its source is rather, I suspect, something far deeper, proceeding from a far more profound quadrant of consciousness.

  Jones and Hagen, in this match as in their other championships, were both capable of rising to necessity. Not, I believe, because of any superiority in their physical swings. But because of their ability to center themselves in a quality of consciousness which linked them absolutely and vividly to what they were doing. Jones with his rhythm and Hagen with his feel for the clubhead were capable of remaining conne
cted to the moment via some mysterious current of consciousness, an awakeness, an immersion that rendered them capable of correcting and adjusting in midswing, enabling them under pressure to deliver shots which lesser mortals are incapable of. Let me draw it to a finer point. Their swings are capable of responding to their wills.

  What is the nature of this will, this awakeness? Where does it reside? And how can we tap into it?

  We could ask Jones, but for all his brilliance, he has never been able to articulate it. Sir Walter is wise enough not to try. Perhaps we should ask Captain Junah, who wrestled with it so valiantly.

  Or maybe we should ask his caddie.

  Langer was being facetious, of course, and even condescending. What he didn’t know was that he was dead right.

  I stuck tight beside Bagger Vance through seven, eight, and nine and he kept pounding Junah relentlessly, demanding an answer to the same question:

  “Who are you, Junah?”

  Vance would ask this, then answer for Junah, keeping up an unbroken harangue as they strode from shot to shot.

  “Tell me who you are, Junah. Who, in your deepest parts, when all that is inauthentic has been stripped away. Are you your name, Rannulph Junah? Will that hit this shot for you? Are you your illustrious forebears? Will they hit it?

  “Are you your roles, Junah? Scion, soldier, Southerner? Husband, father, lover? Slayer of the foe in battle, comforter of the friend at home? Are you your virtues, Junah, or your sins? Your deeds, your feats? Are you your dreams or your nightmares? Tell me, Junah. Can you hit the ball with any of these?”

  Junah tried to stammer no….

  “No?” Vance pressed yet harder, “Then who are you? Answer me!”

  We were crossing between the nines now. The surge to the tenth tee carried the massed throngs away from the ocean to a run of five inland holes. The gallery’s weight and depth seemed to cut off all breeze; the heat hit you like a blast oven. The backs of Jones’ and Hagen’s shirts were drenched with sweat as we climbed the rise to the tenth tee. Junah removed his hat and buried his face in a towel; the moisture was dripping from it; I gave him tea and an apple and a big chunk of ice, which he wrapped in his pocket kerchief and applied to his burning neck.

  The big scoreboard by the tourney tents was visible when he reached the height of the tee. Hagen 35, Jones 36, Junah 41. The nine behind felt like a war zone; it seemed impossible that the competitors still had a siege of 27 more holes to play.

  I watched Junah peer around, trying to gather himself. The massed humanity, the heat, the blistering sun; across the dunes the galleries surged in massed battalions, one hole ahead, two holes ahead, swarming over brows of ridges in a relentless advance, flanking and maneuvering for position. Junah’s face was flushed; you could see his temples pound. He was not here on Krewe Island, but somewhere else, somewhere…

  “Yes, this is war, Junah. As you said before.”

  Bagger Vance moved beside the champion on the tee. “But this war is not between you and your opponents, or even you and the course. No, Junah, this battle like Reality itself takes place on a higher plane. The plane of the Self.

  “That higher battle is the one you are losing, Junah. It is why you are losing here.”

  Jones lashed a monster down the right side, a screaming yardage-devouring hook that arced out and back over the rough, hit the fairway steaming and bounded forward with overspin to slow finally, curling safely around the flank of a bunker I’d paced off the night before at 285.

  Junah barely noticed, so tightly was he held by Bagger Vance’s eyes. “What can I do, Bagger? Tell me.”

  Hagen was stepping to tee his ball; Vance kept his voice low. “I require only one thing of you, Junah. That you swing your True Swing. Your Authentic Swing.”

  “What the hell do you think I want?” Junah hissed. “How do I do it?”

  He paused for Hagen’s address. Sir Walter ripped one, a high dead-straight boomer that was all carry, splitting the middle and landing just a few yards behind Jones’, settling onto a clean flat lie, 190 from the 464-yard green. The applause echoed; then the gallery turned to Junah, who still stood over his bag, his face inches from his caddie’s.

  “Who are you, Junah? Nothing you call yourself can help you now. I have emptied you of all that. This match, this heat, this day have emptied you.

  “Listen to me.” Vance moved closer yet as the gallery shifted impatiently, wondering what the hell was keeping Junah from the tee. “All your ‘selves’ are exhausted and gone. Now: hit the ball with what is left.”

  Junah’s glance was desperate. “But there’s nothing left.”

  Vance nodded. “Exactly.”

  The caddie held out the champion’s driver.

  “Remember, the game is simple. The ball doesn’t move. It simply sits and waits. Now strike it, Junah. Hold nothing back. Hit it with everything you have.”

  Vance set Schenectady Slim in Junah’s hands. You could see the champion’s head was whirling, his brain beyond overload. The gallery sensed an apocalypse. Hagen and Jones did too. I was in terror that Junah might faint, collapse, actually fall down, so dizzy and disoriented did he seem. I shut my eyes, too terrified to watch as Junah teed his ball and stepped to it. I squinted to see him look back at Vance, one last time. Then he set himself, glanced once down the fairway…

  Junah’s clubhead started back. Before it reached the top, the gallery knew. Judge Anderson knew, my father knew, everyone who had ever seen and marveled at Junah’s swing when it was on …they all knew. He was on plane. On track. On rails. The big persimmon hit the slot at the top exactly, you could see Junah’s wrists cock fully into their ultimate power position, his knees and hips had already started rotating forward into the shot as the clubhead reached its zenith, high and geometric, left arm at full extension, and then, not with a slash or a blast but almost in slow motion the club powered through the hitting zone. The sound was like a bomb. The gallery gasped as the ball exploded off the clubface, low and hissing fire, and boomed down the narrow alley between the massed formations. Heads snapped, trying to follow its speed. There was a quick intake of breath, then a joyous release of tension, applause and a rush of awe and appreciation. I looked at Jones and saw a small curl of pleasure in his lip; he appreciated it too. Hagen was already striding off the tee, head down, ignoring the shot, which meant of course he had seen it and took it seriously. I peered toward the far right bunker, the one Jones’ ball had rolled to, whose carry paced off at 285. Junah’s drive cleared it on the fly, took one long hard hop, then settled into a low, ground-hugging roll, coming to rest 30 yards farther on, 315 from the tee, with Tawdry Jones the forecaddie sprinting in its wake to jubilantly plant his bright white flag. Three-fifteen cold. Thirty yards past Jones, nearly 40 beyond Hagen.

  Junah himself could barely believe it. Not so much the prodigiousness of the blow, as he had hit many as well and better, but that somehow it had appeared at this time, when his swing had seemed utterly incapable of producing it. He turned to Bagger Vance, as if expecting a winking smile or a thumbs-up. But the caddie was already striding for the fairway, instructing me to give Junah another of my iced apples and make sure he ate it. “You are your swing, Junah,” he muttered to the champion as he passed. “We will find that swing today and, having found it, nothing will ever take it from you again.”

  Sixteen

  JUNAH BIRDIED TEN, eleven and twelve. I can’t overstate the emotional effect that had upon the gallery, and not just the Savannah contingent. The sweltering thousands had shared Junah’s agony through the front nine…as golfers they understood his torment. Now the pendulum swung mercifully back; the gallery responded with a rush of glorious relief. None believed Junah’s spree would last. That he would fall apart again was inevitable, given how shaky he was. But at least, thank God, he had been granted these three holes. These would comfort him in memory. These we others could brag about, these we could tell and retell.

  Junah’s pitch finished eight fee
t below the pin on ten; he rammed the putt dead down the throat. This sounds better than it was. In fact Junah’s stone-numb hands banged the putt like a jackhammer; had the ball not collided dead-on with the back of the cup, it would have shot four or five feet past. You could see Junah clinging to what slight composure he had regained, desperate for some clear concrete focus to hold him together. I kept tight beside Vance as he strode at Junah’s elbow toward eleven. This was the first time I heard the caddie speak on the subject of the grip.

  “You’re in your head, Junah, I need you to come down into your hands. Listen to me. Intelligence, I have told you, does not reside in the brain but in the hands. Let them do the thinking, they’re far wiser than you are. Be patient. Let the club settle. Don’t make a move toward the ball until the leather has found its proper nestle. Remember, the hands do not create the swing, they find it, they remember it. Do you recall in the East how the sadhus would sit, palms upturned in contemplation, making antennas of their hands? The golfer’s hands are his antennas too, searching the Field, drawing in the Authentic Swing.”

  “What ‘Field’?” Junah interrupted impatiently. “I’m sorry, Bagger, I can’t absorb all this.” Vance nodded with patience, touching Junah gently on the elbow, steering him onto the next tee. Eleven was a short but severe dogleg left, across bunkers to a deceptively shallow fairway that could be easily overdriven into unplayable dunes beyond. The shrewd play was a driving iron of 210 yards, hit with spin to hold it where it struck; then a pitch or run-up into the tight, mound-collared green.

  Junah went for the green off the tee. He didn’t want to. But there was Vance, holding out the driver with a look that brooked no possibility of retreat. A thrill coursed through the gallery. So this was how Junah would play it. Five shots back, behind champions who could be expected to pull farther and farther ahead, he had no choice but to go all out. Junah focused. You could see him struggling desperately to relax, to let his grip settle and release the pressure of tension in his fingers. He swung. Not a thing of beauty, but a solid yardage-eating draw. The ball finished just shy of the apron, 270 from the tee; a chip and putt gave him a birdie.