Death in a Green Jacket

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Tiger really got to them, didn’t he?”

  “You’d better believe it,” I said. “But to be fair, if Tiger hadn’t shot that 18-under-par, someone else would have. But there’s only so much they can do to stretch that course. The only other defense they have is the greens, and they’re already close to impossible. If they shave them down any further, the tournament will never end—guys will be out there five- and six-putting until the sun goes down.”

  “They still don’t have much rough,” Conn pointed out. “What if they grew the rough like the Open?”

  “Same thing,” I said. “The tournament would never end. Those greens were made to accept only shots with backspin for control. Take away the spin, which is what happens when you hit the ball from deep rough, and they’ll be missing greens, chipping over and back and over and back, and then three-putting. You’d be looking at eight-hour rounds.”

  “So what is the answer, oh Great Swami of golf?” Conn chuckled.

  “There really isn’t one,” I said. “Of course, since the Masters is just an exhibition really, and since Augusta National seems to make up its own rules about most everything anyway, they could try introducing a Masters-only golf ball that doesn’t go quite as far. A lot of people think the U.S. Golf Association should do that anyway, but those guys are gun-shy of being sued again by the industry. The Masters could maybe get away with it, since it’s just that one tournament, one time a year. But I’d bet the players would kick and scream anyway. So my guess is they’ll keep tweaking the course, the pros will keep making birdies, and eventually the National will just have to get used to seeing nothing but red numbers on the scoreboard.”

  “Are you guys going to talk about golf all night?” Mary Jane said, frowning.

  “No,” Conn said. “In fact, I was about to mention an interesting call I got in the office today. It was from Martha Judge of Blythe, South Carolina.”

  “John’s mother,” I said.

  “Yup. She wants to talk to me about a wrongful death suit against Grosvenor and the Augusta National Golf Club.”

  “No kidding?” Mary Jane said. “Do you think she has a case?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Conn said. “She’s going to come up next week and sit down with me. Grosvenor would have to have prior knowledge for it to stick, I think. If the Judge boy was killed as a warning to Grosvenor, he probably didn’t know it was going to happen.”

  “Which takes him off the hook,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Conn said, nodding. “I got one of my associates doing some research on the law. Might be fun to tee it up against those guys.”

  “They’d probably go out and retain the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court to argue their case,” I said. “Don’t think money or connections are a problem.”

  “I always like a good fight,” Conn said, his eyes alight.

  “Men are so interesting,” Mary Jane said. “Everything boils down to a fight, doesn’t it? Did you ever think of maybe going to them and asking nicely if there isn’t something they’d like to do for the poor boy’s mother? You know, to make it right?”

  Conn and I looked at her for a moment. Then we both burst out in laughter.

  “What?” Mary Jane said, her face turning red.

  “The bull elephant in full charge does not stop to talk things over, or consider a more reasonable course of action,” Conn said. “The only way to get his attention is smack him in the head or put a bullet into his brain. Nature over nurture.”

  “But…” Mary Jane was not convinced.

  “Conn’s right,” I said. “You can’t expect a beast to change its stripes, nor can you expect Augusta National to roll over and play nice. They never have, and they never will. They’re used to doing what they want and getting their way. And they have the money and resources to get whatever they want.”

  “In that case, why pick a fight with them? If they’re going to win, anyway? It seems like a waste of time,” she said.

  “Because sometimes you have to pick the fight, even if the chances of winning are slim,” Conn said. “Sometimes it’s just the right thing to do. And in those cases, even if you get your head beaten in, figuratively speaking of course, you can sleep well at night knowing you’ve done the right thing.”

  “You sound like Hacker now,” Mary Jane said. “He’s always riding off into the sunset to save someone. Drives me nutty.”

  I smiled at her. “But it makes me more loveable.”

  “Well, no, it doesn’t,” she said. “It makes me nutty. But I understand that it’s part of what makes you tick. I can deal with that. If you changed that part of you, even if you could, then you might not be the same Hacker. And I might not like that Hacker like I do the real one.”

  “Awww,” I said. She blushed. Conn smiled.

  “Glad we got that out of the way,” he said. “If she had said that while we were eating, I might have been sick.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Wednesday is always one of the busiest days at the Masters. Tiger gives us his pre-game thoughts. The chairman of the club delivers his state of the Masters address. The Golf Writers Association holds one of the two annual meetings of the membership (the other is at the U.S. Open), and holds a banquet at night presenting the Player of the Year awards. And in the afternoon, there is the fun and frivolity of the Par-3 tournament. And, of course, the anticipation level for the main event ratchets up another notch.

  Conn had some work to do at his office, so he gave Mary Jane his Masters pass. She was looking forward to seeing this holy of holies for the first time. I drove us over early in the morning and parked in the press lot.

  “Wow,” she said when we got out of the car. “This is the best parking lot I think I have ever seen.”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  We went through the entrance gate and I walked her over to the putting green. There were some players striking putts, getting ready for a morning practice round. Mary Jane recognized Ben Crenshaw and began hyperventilating.

  “He’s a bit old for you, isn’t he?” I asked dryly.

  “Maybe I could be his trophy wife,” she said wistfully. “He’s soooo cute!”

  Of all the descriptors I had used with Crenshaw over the years, “cute” was a new one for me, so I said nothing. I showed some points of interest to Mary Jane—the famed wisteria vine, the first tee, and showed her where the tenth tee was, across the hill to the left. Glancing at my watch, I told her I had to go, and we arranged to meet for lunch in a couple of hours up by the old oak tree behind the clubhouse.

  “Where’s Amen Corner?” she asked.

  “Keep walking downhill,” I said. “If you fall into Rae’s Creek, you’ve gone too far.”

  I peeled off for the media center. There was a line waiting to get in. Pee Wee was being more ornery than usual, because he had a lot more guarding than normal. Card-carrying members of the Golf Writers Association who aren’t credentialed for the tournament are allowed onto the grounds for this one day so they can attend the general meeting. They are told they have to leave immediately after the one-hour business meeting, but that edict is generally ignored. Pee Wee will throw them out of the media center, but they’re free to wander the grounds for the day.

  The confab was thankfully brief. The order of business, as usual, involved our president’s report on his meetings with the U.S. Golf Association, PGA of America and the Royal & Ancient to try and make our job even easier, arranging better and closer media hotels, better shuttle transportation to tournament sites, more access to the players and better working conditions. As if we have it tough anyway. Then, also as usual, someone got up to complain about the judging in the annual writing contest. I’ve always thought writing contests are silly, so I never enter, which is just as well since the same four or five guys seem to win every year anyway. This year, at least, we were spared the usual endless and ongoing debate about whether we were admitting too many or not enough new members.


  Once the writers’ meeting adjourned, the interview theater quickly filled up. Charlie Grosvenor walked in looking regal in his Masters green sport coat and gray flannel trousers. Some men can pull the look off, some can’t. Grosvenor, who probably had a personal tailor, didn’t look bad in dark green. He took his place at the table on the riser up front, and waited to be introduced by the press and publicity chairman, also green-jacketed.

  Grosvenor’s remarks were brief. He went over the changes to the course made in the year since the last tournament, why they were made, and how the club hoped that all changes were in keeping with the vision of the founder, otherwise known as His Holiness Bob Jones. I wanted to place my hand over my heart and start singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Glory, glory hallelujah.

  Most of us knew better than to ask any kind of tricky question. Grosvenor would, like every other chairman before him, always hide behind the old rubric: “Augusta National is a private club, and we prefer not to comment on that.” But there is always someone who asks something about money, or who the members are, or when they’re going to admit a woman, or if they were going to invite more Europeans or Asians or amateurs or green-eyed Martians with antennae. “We’re a private club,” he’d say, “And we prefer not to comment on that.”

  So I didn’t ask Grosvenor if he was still worried about Enrico de la Paz sneaking up on him with a handgun. Or hiding in the blooming azaleas with a high-powered rifle, waiting for a chance to pick him off. Or what the problem was between him and the Colombian cartel. Or if Augusta National was still cashing in on drug running, like they apparently had been doing since the days of the High Priest Roberts.

  I made sure he saw me, though. And throughout the press conference, his eyes kept flicking over to me. Maybe he was waiting for me to spill his beans. But I had promised to keep quiet, and I did. Not too many guys would have. I wondered if he was surprised.

  Grosvenor then introduced Tiger as the defending champ, and he did his usual professional job of fending off questions about how many strokes did he think he’d win by this year. He went through the usual litany of taking it one shot at a time, good field of players here, had to earn every win, game was in good shape, had some good practice rounds and he just hoped to be in shouting distance by Sunday afternoon and then let the chips and putts fall where they may.

  I wrote up a quick piece and sent it along to Boston, with a note telling the desk I’d file a more detailed preview story later in the day. That one pretty much writes itself. “The umpty-third Masters tournament gets underway today at the Augusta National Golf Club, with a field of 91 hopefuls chasing one man, Tiger Woods, and his quest to overtake Jack Nicklaus’ record of 18 major tournament wins.” Quotes from Tiger, Phil, Ernie and Veej, graph or two about the changes to the golf course. Then a page or two of notes and quotes I’d picked up over the last few days. Ain’t exactly rocket science, is it?

  I strolled back out onto the grounds and loitered around the grassy lawn where the game’s movers and shakers meet and greet at the white metal tables shaded by the Masters-green umbrellas. The CEOs of all the golf equipment makers were out in force, hobnobbing with each other and with executives from CBS, U.S. Golf Association bigwigs and a handful of golf-crazy movie stars.

  The grounds were packed with spectators today, and I noticed a line waiting to get into the pro shop to stock up on Masters logo junk. Every year somebody—usually a Japanese magnate of some kind—casually strolls into the shop and buys all the cashmere sweaters or the entire wall of golf shirts, dropping a few hundred thousand dollars or twenty zillion yen, with a smile and a bow. No wonder Marty Tinsdale, the head pro, motors around town in a brand-new Mercedes every year.

  Mary Jane materialized out of the crowd, carrying a green plastic bag and wearing a big smile.

  “I got Phil Mickelson’s autograph,” she said. “He seems like such a sweet man.”

  I grimaced. “It’s all image,” I said. “In real life, he kicks his dog on a daily basis.”

  “No!” she exclaimed, “Really?”

  I laughed. “Have no idea,” I said. “But I always distrust someone who appears to be quasi-perfect like him.”

  “You are such a cynic,” she said, shaking her head. “I might not share this sandwich with you after all.” She held up her bag. “Got a couple of those pimento-and-cheese things. And a couple of burgers. Finest lunch of its kind available anywhere on the planet.”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “Where can we go eat?”

  I thought a minute. The shaded tables were all full, and I didn’t think the Pinkertons would let us in there anyway. One had to have some special dispensation or a billion-dollar net worth to get in there without an invitation.

  “I know,” I said. “Let’s go over to the range, grab a seat and watch them practice.”

  “Oh, joy,” Mary Jane said.

  We walked around the west side of the clubhouse towards the range, which occupied a fairly short space heading back towards Washington Road. So short, in fact, that the club had to string netting across some tall poles to prevent balls flying out into the busy traffic. Back in Snead and Hogan’s time, the range was deep enough for all but the really big hitters of the day. Now, even Fred Funk can knock a driver midway up the net. And in those years when John Daly shows up, the fans always encourage him to try and hit one over the netting. Which he does with apparent ease and his usual lack of regard for the consequences.

  To get to the bleachers where I thought we could sit and eat, we had to walk past the circular drive at the club’s main entrance, where people were taking photos of each other in front of the yellow-flowered Masters logo. As we made the circular walk, I noticed a large white limousine driving up Magnolia Lane. It looked familiar, but I didn’t know why. I lingered a moment and watched as it pulled up. The passenger-side front door opened and the man who stepped out was the same guy I had seen at Daniels Field the other morning, the one from the huge private jet. He opened the back door, and helped the same old man with the cane out of the car. Together, they walked into the clubhouse with one of the Pinkerton guards holding the door for them.

  “C’mon, Hacker,” Mary Jane was impatient. “The sign says Camilo Villegas is hitting balls. He’s another hottie.”

  “How do you even know who Camilo Villegas is?” I wondered.

  “I pay attention, of course,” she said.

  I made a mental note to find out who the rich guy with the limo was. If I had whipped out my cell phone, the beefy hand of the National’s law enforcers would have dropped on me like the plague. I’d have to wait until I got back to the media center. But I’d bet Travis Kitchen could find out who the guy was. I could give him the tail number of the jet as a good start.

  We found a space in the last row at the top of the bleachers and Mary Jane passed out the sandwiches. There were a half-dozen players working on their swings, accompanied by their caddies, swing gurus and sometimes by an equipment company rep. At a normal pro stop, the equipment guys are more in evidence as they entice the pros to try a new driver or wedge. But here at a major, they know better. Nobody wants to use something new and unfamiliar in a major tournament.

  Villegas was rifling three-irons down the range, where they either hit or one-hopped the netting 275 yards away. The youngster from Colombia was one of the brightest new stars on the Tour, noted for his unusual crab-like crouch on the greens to sight his putting line.

  “Cute little tushy on that one,” Mary Jane said, her mouth full of sandwich.

  “How sexist,” I said. “What about his excellent golfing form and prodigious ability?”

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “That too. But his tushy is world-class.”

  “What about Retief?” I asked, nodding at the South African who was hitting balls a couple of stations down the range from Villegas. “How’s his tush?”

  She glanced at him for a moment. “It’s OK,” she said. �
�But not in the same ballpark.”

  I was thinking that a top-ten-tushy ranking of the PGA Tour might make for an interesting future column, at least for the female readers of the Boston Journal, but then I thought of Frank Donatello, my obese, obtuse and mostly brain-dead editor. He would spike something like that faster than a story that praised anything about the Yankees. “Whaddaya, gone gay on me Hacker?” he would mutter darkly, throwing the piece in his overflowing trash can.

  My reverie was broken by the sound of squealing tires. I turned around in time to see the long white limo screeching away from the front door, its rear tires running up over the curb and across part of the grassy circle. The huge car swayed as it bumped over the curb and back down onto the driveway on the other side, and it peeled off down Magnolia Lane towards the exit at an unusually fast clip.

  “Somebody’s in a hurry to leave,” Mary Jane said. “Good thing they didn’t run over anybody.”

  Whoever it was in the limo apparently didn’t want to stay very long. As soon as I could, I’d have to call Kitchen and find out who that guy was.

  It was approaching 1 p.m., the starting time for the par-3 tournament, another Wednesday fixture at the Masters. The nine-hole short course, tucked in behind the “cabins” that extended down and behind the tenth tee, had been a late addition to the Masters, but the annual event had become extremely popular with players and fans alike. For one thing, both Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus, who had given up trying to play in the Masters, both showed up for this one, often accompanied by a grandchild or two. The other players were in relaxed mode, playing just for the fun of it, letting their kids caddy for them, and perhaps hoping to make a hole-in-one and collect one of the crystal bowls that were awarded. However none of them really wanted to win because of the curse—no winner of the par-3 tournament has ever gone on to win the main event. More than once I had seen players deliberately dump a shot or two into the pond that surrounded the ninth and final green, to make sure that they wouldn’t win the par-three tournament. The “patrons” were extra rowdy, placing noisy bets on which player would get it closest to the hole, up and in, or make the longest putt, and hooting and hollering at every shot. The Pooh-Bahs in the green jackets might not like it, but the only word to describe the galleries at the par-three tournament is “mob-like.” The club permitted such undignified behavior, mainly because there was no way they could stop it.