Albatross

by Terry Fallis

  “I’ve brought you a graduation present and a Masters present.”

  “And I didn’t get you anything for your retirement,” I lamented. “I should have thought of that.”

  “Horse hockey! You just finished your finals and are about to play in the Masters,” she said. “Your gift to me is inviting me here again to walk Augusta National with you. That, my dear boy, is the best retirement present I can imagine.”

  “Ms. Daven…um, Bobbie, I couldn’t do this without you,” I said. “I really couldn’t.” I meant what I said. I was never completely comfortable on the golf course, but I came close when she was alongside.

  She slipped into her room next door and returned carrying something in a big plastic bag. She pulled out a slim, sleek, and by the way she was wielding it obviously very light golf bag. It was in Stanford’s familiar cardinal-red and grey. My name had been embroidered on one of the backpack-style shoulder straps.

  “First, a gift in honour of your second appearance at the Masters,” she said. “This is my rather ham-handed way of telling you I’m afraid I still can’t lug your bag and may never be able to. So this is actually a gift for both of us.”

  “It’s so light,” I said after she handed it to me.

  “And it’ll take a PGA regulation set of clubs and stand upright on its own, too.”

  “Thanks, it’s perfect,” I replied. “I kind of like carrying my own clubs. I think of it as the cross, or rather bag, I must bear for never having to practise.”

  Then she handed me a small gift-wrapped box.

  “More importantly, this is for finishing your degree. Of course, I’m assuming you’ve passed all your exams and will be cleared to graduate in June.”

  I knew what it was. I just didn’t know what kind. I opened it and immediately identified the brand by the ornate logo on top of the faux-leather box.

  “A Conway Stewart? No, you didn’t. You didn’t. I can’t believe it.”

  I lifted the lid and there it was, the CS Wellington in Classic Brown, a stunning acrylic in various shades of, you guessed it, brown.

  “I can’t believe you remembered after all these years,” I said, beaming at her.

  “I tend not to forget things like grail pen preferences,” she replied.

  “Oh my gosh, it’s breathtaking,” I said before unscrewing the cap on its lovely, smooth threads and examining the eighteen-karat gold nib. “A medium! You remembered my taste in nibs, too.”

  “I have always loved my Conway Stewarts. I’ve had three over the years, but only have one now. It’s a lovely writer. I think you’ll really enjoy this pen,” she said.

  I immediately inked it with the Diamine Espresso I had in my backpack and pulled out my Rhodia notebook. I was in heaven. It was such a smooth writer. It laid down a thick, wet line, but not too thick or too wet. Just right. Perfectly tuned.

  “When I tested it in the store, there was just a bit more feedback than I knew you’d like. So I had a nibmeister smooth the nib. Now it’s dreamy.”

  “It’s perfect. Just as I like it,” I said. “If you’re trying to get my mind off the Masters, you’ve succeeded.”

  “I was, and I’m glad.”

  “This means so much to me. I’ve been pining for one for a very long time.”

  “I remember.”

  “I can’t believe it. It’s too much,” I said. “Thank you, thank you. I’m not sure how I can repay you.”

  “Repay me? It’s a gift, Adam. It is not to be repaid,” she scolded. “Besides, you’re giving me my second chance to walk the hallowed ground of Augusta National. A mere Conway Stewart doesn’t even come close.”

  “Well, let’s win this year and sweep out some of the cobwebs around this place,” I said. “Hey, has an amateur ever won the Masters?”

  “No. It’s never been done. In 1961 a fella by the name of Deane Beman, I think, won the annual par-three competition on the Wednesday of tournament week—that would be today—but that’s a very far cry from winning the Masters on Sunday.”

  “Maybe it’s time.”

  “I like the steel in your eye, son, but for crying out loud, do not start thinking about the game. We’ve got four days to talk about whatever strikes your fancy, as long as it’s not golf. Just let your body tell you what to do when you stand over the ball, and you’ll be fine.”

  “That’s my plan. Our plan.”

  * * *

  —

  WIKIPEDIA REPORTS THAT there have only ever been five golfers who have notched wire-to-wire victories at the Masters. Jordan Spieth, Raymond Floyd, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, and, back in 1941, a guy named Craig Wood all finished each of the four rounds of the tourney at the top of the leaderboard. I wasn’t thinking about this when rising PGA star Justin Thomas and I teed off Sunday afternoon as the final pairing. In fact, golf in general, and the Masters in particular, could not have been further from my mind. And that was why I was still clear of Thomas by four strokes with eighteen holes to go.

  Bobbie never once complimented me on my shots. Not once. That was our agreement. That was our plan. We spent a good part of the Sunday round talking about Allison. I hadn’t seen her, or spoken to her, since the painful episode on her front porch when I was home for Christmas.

  “She can certainly write,” Bobbie said as we made the turn for the back nine, including holes eleven, twelve, and thirteen, the daunting trio known as Amen Corner. Many a Masters has been lost around Amen Corner. But I wasn’t thinking about that. For once, I was glad to have Alli as a distraction, if only in my head.

  “I’ve taught precious few writing students, before or since, as talented as she,” Bobbie continued. “Her sentences were beautiful and balanced yet seemed effortless. That is a rare combination.”

  I wondered if the TV commentators were discussing just how much Bobbie and I talked to one another on the course. It was certainly not the norm on the Tour.

  “Countless writers have written countless beautiful sentences, but they so often feel like they’ve been painstakingly carved out of marble. Ms. Clarkson’s prose is pristine, nearly perfect, yet also feels like it just flowed easily and naturally from the nib of that favourite Parker Duofold of hers.”

  We stopped at my ball and I set my bag down beside us.

  “Okay, Adam, six-iron. Aim for the TV tower, not the pin. There’s wind. Full swing. I really think Alli has a chance of breaking through as a writer if she wants to.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure she still wants to,” I replied. “It’s been her dream for a very long time.”

  Thwack! The ball started toward the TV tower and then arced with the wind back towards the pin. It landed softly on the green and ran towards the cup. It was still rolling when I stopped watching.

  “You never speak in such glowing terms about my writing,” I said, without thinking.

  “Ah. Hmmm. Yes, well, Adam, you are also a fine writer. But there is a difference. You’ve gotten there through hard work, careful analysis, and a willingness not only to listen to comments and criticism but to sift through conflicting advice and act only on those points that will actually improve your writing. That is a different kind of gift, but a gift nevertheless,” she said as we walked up the tenth fairway, considered the toughest hole at Augusta National. She paused before continuing.

  “Think of it this way. Like some special fountain pens, Alli writes beautifully right out of the box. Now, I’ll try not to stretch this analogy too far, but you, dear Adam, write quite well first time out but then work assiduously to improve, as it were, by optimizing your ink flow, aligning your tines, and smoothing your nib. You both end up with fine writing, but you’ve likely expended more time and effort to get there. I make no judgment on either approach.”

  “So you’re saying Alli writes the way I play golf—that if there were a Gunnarsson score for writing, hers might be up in the nineties,” I said, pulling the putter from my bag when we reached the green. “And I write like most people golf, where improveme
nt and success is a lengthy, iterative, and often frustrating process.”

  “Precisely, son. Nicely put, and a damn sight better than my fountain pen metaphor, not to mention your impressive use of the word iterative,” Bobbie replied, eyeing my putt. “Okay, I’ve got outside edge with moderate speed, or two inches above the hole with slow speed. You?”

  “That’s what I see, too. Outside edge it is.”

  I lined up, locked down the triangle formed by my arms and shoulders, and sank the birdie putt to move five clear of Justin Thomas and six clear of Bubba Watson.

  “I wish I wrote like I play golf.”

  “But consider the sense of satisfaction earned by working so hard to yield a jewel of a story that is as good as you can possibly make it. Imagine how it feels to get so deeply inside the prose as you polish it, knowing that you’re making it better and better. That, to me, is the joy in writing.”

  I looked at her, smiled, and nodded. Of course, she was right. I knew what she was talking about. I’d felt it, too. I clearly needed to work on my patience.

  We made it through Amen Corner—birdie, par, birdie—but most of my competition didn’t fare quite as well. Bobbie and I were having such a great conversation, I don’t really remember much about the rest of the back nine. But we were still talking about writing and Allison as we walked up the eighteenth.

  “Okay, hold that thought,” Bobbie said. “It would be rude not to acknowledge the gallery. They are doing this for you.” Her voice was calm, but as she motioned to the crowd, I noticed that her hands were trembling.

  She reached over and lifted my golf bag from my shoulders.

  “I should be able to manage your clubs for this last wee bit. Now go.”

  I surfaced from our discussion and finally noticed the thunderous ovation from the massive crowd lining both sides of the fairway and surrounding the green. It was mayhem. The chant of ‘Adam! Adam! Adam!’ echoed across the course and was so deafening I suspect it spilled well beyond Augusta’s precincts.

  “Your hat, son,” Bobbie said under her breath.

  “Right.”

  I took off my Stanford ball cap and kind of waved it around a bit in appreciation of the ovation. I smiled, too. But strangely, I didn’t really feel anything. No excitement, no sense of accomplishment, no understanding of the history of the moment. Nothing. I just wanted to putt out and escape. I looked back at Bobbie, who usually walked right beside me. Her eyes glistened, and I don’t think it was hay fever.

  Justin Thomas, who was still five strokes adrift of me, also fell back and let me approach the green on my own. I stopped and waved him up with me. I thought it was the magnanimous thing to do. The people roared.

  The outcome was a foregone conclusion. It had been for most of the back nine, short of a major meltdown on my part. And now at the eighteenth, even if I tried, I couldn’t reasonably take six putts to sink my ball. In the end, Justin Thomas bogeyed anyway. So I surrendered to the moment and two-putted for a six-stroke win. Thankfully, my margin of victory was nowhere near Tiger Woods’s record-setting twelve strokes back in 1997. That would have only stoked the media fire higher.

  As she watched my final putt drop, Bobbie’s moist eyes gave way to full-on waterworks. She put the flagstick back in its place and then locked me in a bear hug that lifted me right off the ground. She squeezed me so tight I feared my sternum might fail. (“Caddie’s Hug Sends Masters Champion to Hospital with Broken Ribs and Collapsed Lung.”) I survived.

  “Thank you for this, Mr. Coryell,” she snuffled.

  “No, thank you, and your measuring tape, too. You started all of this,” I replied.

  I beamed like a Masters winner would, and waved to the crowd. Justin Thomas even hugged me the way pro golfers do. I’m sure I looked like the winner of the Masters, but that was mostly acting—and mostly for Bobbie.

  Then as the reporters who’d shadowed us all day out on the course moved in for the first of too many media interviews, I noticed Bobbie removing the eighteenth-hole flag from its stick and stuffing it into the pocket of her white Augusta coveralls. Tradition.

  About half an hour after my final putt, I sat in Butler Cabin under the TV lights. Someone padded a bit of powder on my face seconds before we went live. When the 2017 Masters champion, Sergio Garcia, helped me slip into the famed green jacket, I was surprised to find that it fit almost perfectly and felt really nice. But it was still green. It would enjoy a prized position in the bowels of my closet—that is, once I had a closet of my own. Then another idea for the jacket loomed into view. But a moment later I heard my name and I remembered I was still being broadcast live on CBS. Jim Nantz was talking to me while Sergio and the new chair of Augusta National, Fred Ridley, looked on. Bobbie was off camera, on the other side of the room, with a smile that two root canals and a funeral could not have extinguished. Normally the winning caddie did not accompany the champion into Butler Cabin. But I knew she’d want to be there, and so I had asked Mr. Ridley. Turned out I had just acquired some influence about thirty minutes earlier.

  “Adam, you punched your ticket to Augusta by winning the U.S. Amateur Championship last August, and now you’re the very first amateur to win the Masters in the storied history of this very special tournament. You’re only the sixth player in history to top the leaderboard in all four rounds of the Masters. You looked calm and collected out there all day, almost oblivious to the pressure. And you did it all, including carrying your own clubs and building a six-stroke cushion in the end, after only having played golf for about four and a half years. It’s an extraordinary and unprecedented achievement in sport, let alone in golf. How did you do it?”

  “Um, thanks, Jim,” I started. “Well, we have a simple formula. We just focus on choosing the right club, and then hitting the ball straight and long. We don’t shape my shots. I don’t even know how to shape shots. I just swing, and the ball seems to fly straight and cover the distance we know I can hit it for each club.”

  “When you say we, you’re of course referring to Bobbie Davenport, your caddie. Bobbie’s back issues mean you have to carry your own bag—and that has never happened here at the Masters—so it must be important to you that she be by your side.”

  “It sure is. I mean, she was the one who discovered that I might be good at golf, and she was the one who first put a club in my hand. So I wouldn’t be sitting here wearing this, um, very green jacket without her.”

  “Well, you both seemed very engaged in the round, talking your way around the course, never losing your concentration. How important was that?”

  “Well, talking to Bobbie shot by shot, hole by hole, and keeping my mind, um, focused on the right things, is critical. So, I kind of wish we could both fit into this green jacket, because we did this together.”

  “Adam, this major victory gives you a lifetime exemption to play here every year at the Masters, and perhaps more importantly, this stunning win gives you a five-year exemption on the PGA Tour. Now that you’re about to graduate from Stanford, I assume we’ll see you as a regular PGA Tour player?”

  “Oh, really? I didn’t actually know about the five-year PGA Tour exemption. I guess Bobbie and I will talk it over in the coming days. But it’s kind of nice to know I have options,” I replied.

  “You’re the 2018 Masters champion, yet you’ve taken a different path to get here than every single one of your predecessors. I imagine that you’ve made a certain Swedish kinesiology professor in Adelaide, Australia, very happy tonight because you are the first living evidence of his Predictive Innate Pinnacle Proficiency theory.”

  “Bobbie and I spoke to Professor Gunnarsson last week and I can tell you he was very happy, even before the Masters.”

  “Will this be the most important achievement in your life?”

  “Well, um, I kind of hope not. I mean, I’m only twenty-two,” I replied. “But this is pretty special.”

  “Finally, Adam, how are you going to spend the next few days in the wake of this h
istoric victory here at Augusta?”

  That question caught me a little off guard, and I answered without thinking.

  “Oh, um, well, I’ve been working on a short story for a writing contest that I have to finish soon or I’ll miss the deadline.”

  “Remarkable,” said Jim Nantz, laughing and shaking his head. “Live from Butler Cabin here at Augusta National, we’ve been speaking with the 2018 Masters champion, Adam Coryell, on the heels of an audacious, miraculous performance for an amateur still very new to the sport. Stay tuned for 60 Minutes, coming up next on most of these CBS stations. I’m Jim Nantz.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the presentation of the green jacket was repeated in a more private ceremony on the practice putting green beside the clubhouse. I insisted that Bobbie be up front with me. She chose to stand behind me, rather than beside me, but she was there. I pulled her forward when the trophy was presented. In fact, I didn’t turn to face all the cameras until both Bobbie’s and my hands were lifting the sterling-silver recreation of the Augusta clubhouse above our heads. That turned out to be the money shot.

  Bobbie was doing her best not to blubber while the cameras were flashing all around us, but her best often wasn’t good enough. I just kept smiling and stuck close to her. The next day, there were very few photos published around the world that did not feature us both. Just as I’d hoped.

  While all I wanted to do was jump in our car and head back to the hotel, it took another couple of hours before we could make good our escape. There were many more interviews to do—it felt like I just repeated myself for about ninety minutes. Finally, with my voice failing me, Bobbie and I drove out of Augusta National.

  Back at the hotel, I slipped off the green jacket and turned to Bobbie, who had just carried my clubs into my room.

  “Bobbie, I really have no place to keep this, and I know it means a great deal to you. I’d like you to have it,” I said, handing her the jacket. “I may need to borrow it each April, should I come back here, but other than that, I’d truly like you to have it. Green is really not my colour.”