Miracle at Augusta

by James Patterson

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  To Sue, second-best player in our house

  —JP

  For my brother William

  —PdJ

  1

  “ON THE FIRST TEE…from Winnetka, Illinois…the 1996 winner of the U.S. Senior Open…Travis McKinley.”

  I’ve never set foot on Augusta National before, let alone teed it up, so for thirty seconds, I just stand there shivering and let the polite applause of the patrons wash over me. Okay, “wash over me” is a bit of a stretch. How about “trickle over me”? Could you live with that? While the clapping subsides, I close my eyes and picture the shot I need to hit.

  Because my grandfather gave me a book on the Masters one Christmas, I happen to know that Augusta was originally a nursery owned by a Belgian horticulturist named Prosper Berckmans. That’s why all the holes are named after trees. The first, Tea Olive, is a 445-yard par 4, which doglegs right and calls for a high fade to the right side of the fairway some 290 yards away. When the image of the shot is locked in my mind, I step up and launch my drive into the December gloom, aiming twenty feet right of the big wire net that keeps balls from flying into the parking lot of the CVS next door.

  I’m happy to report that my tee shot comes off pretty much as planned, leaving me 165 yards to an uphill green, so I swap the driver for my 7-iron and aim for the right rear corner of it. When the ball lands softly and trickles—like that applause—toward the pin, tucked up front, just beyond the trap, I give myself the eight-footer for birdie and move on to the par-five 2nd, aka Pink Dogwood.

  My body may be fifteen miles outside of Chicago, freezing its nearly fifty-two-year-old ass off at the Big Oaks Driving Range on Route 38, but in my mind it’s in Georgia in April, and those color-corrected dogwoods and azaleas have old Prosper turning over in his grave.

  The start of my third year on the Senior Tour is a month away. As some of you may recall, my rookie year went rather well—unkind sportswriters leaned heavily on the word miraculous—culminating in my win at Pebble, which the starter was gracious enough to mention. My sophomore season, however, was lackluster at best, so I’m doing everything I can to prepare for ’98, particularly since the shelf life out here is so brief, what with me growing more decrepit by the day and fresh young blood bubbling up from below. If you think it’s hard fighting for scraps left by Hale Irwin, Gil Morgan, and Hank Peters, and believe me it is, imagine what it will be like next year when Tom Watson, Lanny Wadkins, and Tom Kite flash their birth certificates and step up to the senior buffet.

  I don’t even want to think about that. I just know that this year is huge, and since the end of October, I’ve been at Big Oaks every afternoon, fifth stall from the left, chewing up these nasty rubber mats and whatever cartilage is left in my right elbow.

  To relieve the tedium, I’ve been playing virtual rounds at Augusta, hole by hole, Flowering Crab Apple to Carolina Cherry, seeing if I can find the correct half of the fairway and then land it on the correct quadrant of the green. Along the way, I try to keep my scuffed range rock from rolling back into Rae’s Creek or finding the pine straw or nestling up behind the Eisenhower tree. It keeps me sharper than mindlessly banging balls.

  For the front side, the nine they never put on the air, I make do with the pictures and descriptions in my old Christmas present, but for the back nine, I have thirty years of TV viewing to draw on. When I get to 12, Golden Bell, that nasty par 3 at the end of Amen Corner, I even know which tree Byron Nelson used to look at to decipher the swirling winds. Instead, I gaze roofward and see if there are any plastic bags whipping around in the currents. My favorite holes are 13 and 15, Azalea and Firethorn, the two short par 5s that have been the scene of so much drama. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve even been working on a high draw to keep it on those slippery greens, which, in my mind at least, are never less than 13.2 on the Stimpmeter.

  Today, at 15, I catch it solid off the tee, and since I get even more roll off the Big Oaks cement than I would from the hard, sloping fairways at Augusta, I’ve only got 215 left, a perfect yardage for my new pet draw. As I prepare to launch the ball into the azure sky, there’s a bang behind my left shoulder. It sounds like a shotgun blast but is in fact a shank from Esther Lee, the housewife in the stall to my left.

  “Sorry about that,” says Esther, raising a hand in a pink glove.

  “No problem,” I reply. But the reverie is broken, and suddenly it’s a lot harder to pretend I’m in Georgia and not a drafty warehouse in suburban Chicago. After a couple more swings, I pack it in for the day and deposit my bag in the closet behind the front desk, where the manager has been nice enough to let me keep it, seeing as I’m here five days a week.

  Then I drive the nine miles to Winnetka and get in line with all the other trophy housewives and husbands and wait for Noah to be released from his kindergarten classroom at Belltown Grammar. Elizabeth and Simon were already well grown when Noah made a surprise appearance nearly six years ago, and as I watch the little gink shuffle out of the back, his backpack hanging off one shoulder and his baseball cap turned backwards, I appreciate how lucky Sarah and I are.

  “Hey, Noah, how was your day?”

  “Not bad. How about you? How was Augusta?”

  “Shot thirty-two on the front.”

  “Give yourself a lot of eight-footers?”

  “You know what I say, Noah?”

  “Charity begins at home.”

  “Exactly.”

  Our house is less than five minutes from the school, and seeing Sarah’s Cherokee in the driveway makes us both uneasy.

  “Mom’s home early.”

  “Yeah.”

  When we get out of the car, Sarah is standing in the doorway. “I have some sad news to share,” she tells us. “Pop died.”

  2

  AT 2 P.M. THE FOLLOWING Saturday, some two hundred of my grandfather’s friends convene in the parking lot of the Creekview Country Club and follow him up the frozen first fairway. By now, Pop has been reduced to the ashes that fill the Tupperware container head pro Matt Higgins holds in the crook of his left arm. When Higgins reaches the first green, he pulls off one glove, pries open the lid, and sprinkles a bit of Edwin Joseph McKinley over the portion of the green where the hole is generally cut.

  As the gray soot rains down on the winter green, Higgins utters the signature words with which my grandfather started a thousand rounds: “No gimmes. No mulligans. No bullshit. Let’s play golf,” and the ragtag army, some of whom have been forced by age and infirmity to ride golf carts with home health aides, hurl it back in unison like a battle cry: “No gimmes! No mulligans! No bullshit! Let’s play golf!” Then Higgins hands Pop off like a football, and another volunteer takes the lead.

  It’s an impressive turnout, particularly considering it’s fourteen degrees. Included in the boisterous band of mourners is my best friend and former caddy, Earl Fielder, who came up last night from North Carolina. No doubt my grandfather would be touched to see so many dear friends. Pop, who hated slow play, would also appreciate the brisk pace. In forty minutes, the procession covers thirteen holes, and with five left, the next two generations of McKinleys take over.

  Simon, a freshman at Nor
thwestern, leads us up the par-five 14th. He carries his grandfather over the longest hole on the course, then turns him over to his proud younger brother, and now the chilled brigade, many of whom have been fortifying themselves with frequent nips from their pocket flasks, fall in line behind a five-year-old. After Noah guides them to the 15th green, they take particular delight in the unlikely spectacle of a kindergartner leading them through another chorus of “No gimmes! No mulligans! No bullshit! Let’s play golf!”

  But it’s the McKinley ladies, Elizabeth and Sarah, who get to me the most on this freezing afternoon. Elizabeth, because she is surely the most devastatingly beautiful radiology resident in North America, and Sarah…because she’s Sarah. Sarah walks off 17, she hands off Pop with a kiss, and it’s up to me to carry him home.

  Affection for my grandfather is inscribed on every face in this unholy procession, many of whom are by now overfortified, but for me the affection and appreciation are overwhelming. Without my grandfather, I have no idea where, or even who, I’d be. I wouldn’t be a golfer. When I was eight, he put a cut-down 7-iron in my hand, and for the last forty-three years or so he’s been my only coach. And when Leo Burnett tossed me to the curb a couple of Christmases ago, he was the only one who didn’t think my grandiose scheme of qualifying for the Senior Tour was insane. I’ve been so dependent on his guidance, on and off the course, for so long, I’m more than a little worried how I’ll do without it.

  I carry Pop the final third of a mile and sprinkle what’s left on 18, banging the bottom of the container like a bongo to make sure every last particle of the beloved man has been set free.

  “No gimmes! No mulligans! No bullshit!” I shout. “Let’s have a drink!”

  “I think he means an indoor drink,” says an old friend, turning over an empty flask, and we file into the clubhouse for one last round or three on Edwin Joseph McKinley.

  3

  AFTER EARL HAS RUN a gauntlet of McKinley hugs and kisses and accepted pats on the back and best wishes from a dozen of my grandfather’s starstruck old cronies, I walk my friend from the clubhouse into the freezing Midwestern night. At the end of the flagstone path, a cab is waiting to take him to the airport, and as we approach the car, I realize, and not for the first time, that I also owe a great debt to Earl, without whom I never could have succeeded in my rookie year, and although I feel the urge to finally thank him in clear and explicit English, I fall short, in the finest male tradition.

  “Thanks again for making the trip” is about the best I can manage. “As you can see, it meant a lot to all of us.”

  “It meant a lot to me too, Travis. When you kick off, I’ll come to yours, too.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yup.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you in a couple of weeks, then. You ready?”

  “I better be. I’ve been working my ass off.”

  “Good. Because I don’t want to embarrass you out there.”

  When we’ve exchanged as much of this as we can stomach, Earl gets into the car, and I walk to the back of the lot and get into mine. After letting the heat run for five minutes, I pull up in front, where Sarah, Elizabeth, Simon, and Noah pile in.

  Creekview Country Club is an older course and, like a lot of older courses, is in the center of a neighborhood that has deteriorated over the decades. On the way back to the highway we pass a series of strip malls, lined with liquor stores, pawnshops, and mini-marts that seem particularly threadbare on such a raw night.

  In the last year and a half, I’ve done pretty well, almost embarrassingly so, and my one indulgence has been this Mercedes sedan. Although I’ve had it six months, I often still feel uncomfortable behind the wheel, an impostor, but the one time I never regret the purchase is on a night like this, when it’s stuffed with McKinleys and I feel that, at least for the duration of the trip, the tanklike vehicle is protecting them all, not just from the wind and cold but from all life’s other harsh realities as well.

  Plus, as Noah often points out, it’s kind of swank.

  Up ahead, at the light, a broken-down old van sits on the side of the road. As I wait for the light to turn, a middle-aged woman climbs out of the driver’s seat to gauge the extent of her problem, and when she walks in front of her car, we make eye contact. I know I should pull over, but the lateness of the hour and the sketchiness of the neighborhood lobby against it, and before I can offer a convincing counterargument, the light turns green and the impregnable Benz rolls on.

  Two stoplights later, my conscience gets the better of me, or maybe I just feel the heat of Elizabeth’s gaze on the back of my neck. “I’m going to circle back,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “See if I can help her.”

  It’s a four-lane road and half a mile before I can make a U-turn. By the time I get back to the woman and her van, I’m relieved to see that a second just as beat-up car has pulled over and parked behind it, and an older man, African-American with a gray beard, is wrestling a spare tire onto the right rear wheel. I roll down the window and the cold air rushes in.

  “Need any help?”

  “That’s okay,” says the man, taking in the well-dressed family from below.

  “Sure?”

  “It’s just a flat tire, sport. We got it covered.”

  4

  IF THERE’S A BETTER place to spend mid-January than Hawaii, let me know. Till then I’ll have to make do with Waialae Country Club on the island of Oahu, where Earl and I are getting our last reps in before tomorrow’s start of the Azawa Open and warming our bones in the tropical sun. It feels so good to be warm, and out of that stall at Big Oaks, I’m hardly bothered by the fact that fifty people are lined up on the range behind Earl, and two are watching me, one of whom is my new caddy, Johnny Abate. Earl’s fans, who have taken to calling themselves Earl’s Platoon, aren’t content to stand and gape. Every time he pures another 4-iron, they ooh and ahh and shower him with love.

  “This is your year, Earl!”

  “Hell yeah, buddy.”

  “You’re the man, EF!”

  And my personal favorite—“Earl Fielder is EFing good.”

  “I guess they don’t get out much,” I mumble under my breath to the object of all this adulation.

  “What makes you say that, Travis?”

  To clarify, I should probably point out that Earl has enjoyed a dramatic change in fortune since caddying for me in my rookie season in ’96. For starters, he is now a member of the Senior Tour himself. He earned his playing privileges by finishing second in the ’97 Senior Q-School, then backed it up with one of the most consistent rookie seasons ever, ending the year with twenty-three straight top tens. But what changed everything and transformed him into a bona fide celebrity is that Reebok commercial, which juxtaposes Earl on tour with old footage and photos of him from the late sixties in Vietnam. No one is happier for Earl than me, but do I find the clamor for autographs and photographs at restaurants and airports just a wee bit annoying?

  Of course not. I’m a bigger person than that.

  “Work on anything in the off-season?” I ask.

  “Just tried to tighten everything up a notch. Keep the arms and body more attached, have it all move in one piece.”

  “Jesus, Earl. You already got the most buttoned-up swing out here. To get it any tighter you’d need a monkey wrench.” But as Earl stripes a couple more, I realize he may actually have succeeded. Watching Earl, his broad forehead beaded with sweat, is like watching an Old World Italian mason build a wall. There’s no wasted motion. Every move and gesture is pared to the nub.

  “You’re striping it better than ever, Earl, and that’s saying something. You’re going to get that win this year, maybe two.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” says Earl. “I’m too much of a grinder. I may not stink it up, but I rarely go real low, either. Don’t roll it well enough. But I’d trade all those seconds and thirds for one win. And not just for the exemption. I want something to be remember
ed for, and once you get your name engraved on silver, it’s hard to get it off. How about you, Trav? You work on anything up there on the tundra?”

  “See for yourself.”

  I pull my 5-wood, aim my club face and feet slightly right of my target, and as I swing, I focus on keeping my hips turning and really letting my arms go, ripping down, through, and up. The ball takes off with the usual trajectory but, a hundred yards out, shoots up like a rocket when the afterburners hit. It bends slightly to the left before landing softly 215 yards away.

  “Son of a bitch,” says Earl. “I need to see you do that again.”

  I dislodge another Titleist from the pyramid-shaped pile, nudge it into place beside the long, shallow divot, and turn on the ball one more time.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. The high fucking draw. The suavest shot in golf. I just have one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why? There isn’t one hole out here where you’ll need it.”

  “It’s for Augusta.”

  “Augusta?”

  “How else am I going to keep the ball on those reachable par fives, thirteen and fifteen in particular? Those are birdie holes, Earl. You’re not birdieing those, you’re losing half a stroke to the field.”

  “I know that, Travis. You’re not the only one with a TV.”

  “You get reception down there?”

  “How the hell are you going to get an invitation—steal it from Tiger’s mailbox?”

  “Haven’t thought that far ahead. You know it’s a mistake to get ahead of yourself in this game. I just have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

  5

  THE DISPARITY IN STATUS between Earl and me is reflected in our Friday tee times. Earl goes off in the early afternoon with Chi Chi Rodriguez and Raymond Floyd, and I slip out at 7:03 a.m. with senior rookies Trent Smith and Elliot Brody. I hadn’t heard of them either, until I looked them up in the media guide. Smith joined the navy out of high school. Back on dry land, he sold insurance, ran a nightclub, and repaired pin-setting machines at a bowling alley, then spent fifteen years in Grand Prairie, Texas, in the auto repair business. He got into the field by Monday qualifying. Brody, who earned his spot through this year’s Q-School, was a teaching pro outside Tacoma for thirty years.