Slim and None

by Dan Jenkins

  Claude came over to me in the fairway.

  “Can you believe this?” he said. “Those people don’t realize this is our office and we’re out here trying to make a living for our families.”

  I slumped. I don’t Know what pro said it first, but it was the same old remark that had been endearing us to the press for years. This was our office. There were golf writers who loved to hear this so they could remind us that we were playing a game for a living, for Christ sake, and for somebody else’s money—and we didn’t have to wear grease-repellent uniforms and crawl under shit.

  From my own point of view, the most unfortunate thing about the disruption is that I was playing lights out. I had it all going—the tempo, rhythm, putter, attitude.

  I was three under through 8. I birdied the second with a good sand shot out of the front bunker and a six-foot putt. I birdied the 3rd with a wedge and a ten-foot putt. My other birdie came at the 8th after a big drive, big two-iron, and short pitch to three feet. And there wasn’t anything bizarre about the five pars I made. I was golfing my ball.

  After doing all that, I was tied for the lead with Elvis and Madonna on the scoreboards. All you can tell yourself in a situation like that is, take it one shot at a time.

  Claude Steekley and I stood at the bottom of the hill on the 9th fairway, where I was torn between a seven-iron and an eight-iron to the uphill green, the pin set middle-forward. Touchy deal. Long was Downtown Three-Putt City. Short was Spin Back Down the Fairway.

  Talent, where be thou?

  Back waiting on the 9th tee were Sergio Garcia and Knut Thorssun. Nearby, over on the 8th green, were Cheetah Farmer and Britney Mickelson. Down the 8th fairway was the last twosome on the course, Elvis Woods and Madonna Els.

  Four groups ahead of me, somewhere on the 11th hole, were Grady Don and Scott. Meaning Gwendolyn Pritchard, enthusiastic golf fan, was scurrying back and forth between her son and the gentleman with whom she’d been having room-service dinner the past four nights.

  Scott’s name wasn’t on the scoreboard, and it hadn’t been there all day. This told me he was still having trouble with the old putter, and was probably cussing and crying about Augusta’s speedy greens, and that Grady Don was within minutes of strapping some Odessa on him. Telling Scott to shut up unless he wanted to be grabbed by his ankles and dragged through a trough of shit before he was by-god drowned in Rae’s Creek.

  Scott’s situation was verified for me on the 9th tee. I caught Gwen’s eye in our gallery and made a gesture with a nod that said, “What’s going on up ahead?”

  She responded by mimicking a putting stroke and dragging her index finger across her throat. Easy enough to translate. Scotty was slitting his own throat with his putter.

  Claude Steekley, the man who was only out there trying to make a living for his family, played his shot to the 9th green first. He hit too much club, and the ball flew to the back of the green. He was already six over par, and that shot didn’t help matters. It was easy for Mitch and me and the fans who were nearest in our gallery to hear him when he shouted at the ball, “That’s right, Keep going, you Aggie-Baylor-OU bitch! Go on over the clubhouse roof, who gives a shit?”

  The tragic thing about my seven-iron shot to the green was that it looked and felt perfect. The ball ate up the flag the second it came off the clubface. I was tempted to hold the follow-through for a photo op.

  Mitch hollered, “Be the stick!”

  I hollered, “Leave it alone!”

  Where it might have wound up—stiff for a gimme three, or no worse than a short putt for a birdie—will remain a mystery, however.

  The ball landed a split-second before the swarm of protestors darted out on the green.

  There must have been two dozen of them, dancing, hopping around, flapping their arms, screaming death threats to golf and golfers.

  Weirdest opera I’d ever been to. Then I heard the noise coming from other areas on the course, and that’s when I realized there was a well-timed, inside-job disruption going on. Protestors had skillfully been assigned to all of the leading groups.

  Later I’d discover that in other groups on the course there were protestors who picked up the golf balls of contestants, on the greens, in the fairway, and tossed them into the trees and bunkers. Those people thought they were creating havoc with the competition, but they Knew nothing about the game. They didn’t Know that under the rules a contestant can replace a ball without penalty if it’s been detoured, deflected, molested, or in any way interfered with by an “outside agency.”

  Nevertheless, they had their fun.

  But now, as I was walking up the steep slope to the green, and as the siren was sounding to halt play, as it would if there was lightning in the area, the protestors began to scatter. All over the course they went sprinting across fairways, dashing into the pines, and plowing through bunkers, being chased by angry fans, Pinkertons, other security personnel, tournament volunteers, and well-meaning golf lovers.

  The scene was humorous, is what it was. I stood there and laughed as I watched protestors getting tackled, wrestled, and punched—those who weren’t slippery enough to escape through the pines and into the parking lots and out the gates.

  It was like watching people trying to herd cats.

  But I stopped laughing when I walked up onto the 9th green. My golf ball wasn’t there.

  18

  he rules official dispatched to our group was a vice president of the United States Golf Association. I should have known I’d have a big chance with a guy named Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft. This was after things had calmed down, the protest sillies had been abducted or chased off the premises, and General Douglas Anne Marie MacSprinkle had said, “I shall return,” and left the Philippines.

  The first person interviewed by Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft was Mr. Royce Ellis, a red-faced geezer in railroad shoes and a baseball cap with “South Atlantic Waste Management” on it. He’d found my ball in the front bunker left of the green. It was half-buried and nestled beautifully up against a heel print the size of a squirrel.

  “Mr. Ellis, did you see the contestant’s ball enter this bunker?” he was asked by Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft, who was proudly wearing his weak chin and my-parents-are-descended-from-Pilgrims attitude.

  “Nope, I didn’t see it go in there,” Mr. Ellis said.

  “Then, if I may ask, why did you think to look for the ball in this bunker, Mr. Ellis?”

  Royce Ellis said, “That’s where most golf balls is, don’t you see? Where my ball always winds up, anyhow—and most of my friends’. Yes, sir, you could say I live in bunkers. You sure could.”

  Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft said, “Mr. Ellis, exactly where were you standing when the contestant strucK the ball into this bunker?”

  “Hey, whoa!” I said, butting in. “I did not hit the ball into the bunker. I hit it perfect. It was on the flag all the way. One of the protestors obviously Kicked my ball in the bunker, or threw it in there. That’s an outside influence. I’m entitled to replace the ball on the green within a reasonable distance of the cup.”

  “But we do not Know if we have an eighteen–one here, do we?” Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft said. “We don’t Know that’s what happened.”

  Officials love rules-speak. He referred to rule 18-1 in the rules of golf: ball obstructed by an “outside agency.”

  “I damn well Know that’s what happened,” I said.

  “No, you do not, Mr. Grooves. What you do Know—indeed, what any of us can possibly Know at the moment—is that it is something to be determined.”

  I wanted to ask him if he was a member of one of those country clubs you can’t join if you’ve ever had a job.

  But I said, “My ball was all over the stick. Ask any of these people. Ask Claude Steekley.” I motioned to Claude. “Tell him, Claude.”

  “I wasn’t watching,” Claude said.

  “Thanks, Claude,” I said. “That’s great. Hook ’em Horns.”

  Mit
ch stepped in. “Sir, we had a good lie. There ain’t no wind. We hit us a perfect shot. You Know we ain’t gonna hook the ball in that bunker.”

  “I do not Know any such thing,” Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft said. He turned to me. “Fess up, Mr. Grooves. Are you quite certain you didn’t hook the shot a tiny bit? Just a teeny bit? Just a teensy, weensy, tiny bit?”

  “Jesus Elroy God Christ,” I said, and walked away to calm down. Try to convince myself it wasn’t in the best interest of my career to ask Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft of the USGA if he’d mind putting on a surgical glove before he stuck his finger up my ass again.

  While I smoldered, the official interviewed some spectators to see if they could help him determine whether he was looking at “an eighteen-one situation.” He loved reciting the rule number.

  A man in a straw hat and green cardigan said, “I didn’t see the shot. I was eating my egg salad sandwich.”

  A skinny woman in a blue sweatsuit said, “There was this man in front of me blocking my view.”

  An attractive woman in a purple golf shirt and white skirt said, “I saw the ball land on the green, and I’m sure a fat woman tossed it in the bunker.”

  A burly fellow in a Confederate-flag T-shirt said, “I’d have seen it but this woman Kept talking to me about her trip to Vicksburg.”

  A man in a black suit said, “I was looking when he swung, but that’s when the stupid person spilled a Coke on me.”

  A man in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts said, “I think the ball hit the green, but what I was doing, I was looking around to see if anybody Knew I was the one who farted.”

  Having gathered all the information, Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft ruled there was inconclusive evidence of an outside agency and concluded in his infinite wisdom that I must play the ball from where it was—out of that hopeless lie in the bunker.

  Under normal circumstances I could have asked for a second opinion, even a third, and appealed to the chairman of the competition committee. But there’d been the disruption, no other rules official was available, his decision was final, and I should “move it along, please.”

  To say I was livid doesn’t cover it.

  I blurted out, “Why, you insipid, chinless, born-rich—”

  But I was stopped before I got to the “fucking shithead” part or took a swipe at his Ivy League head with my seven-iron. Mitch dragged me away and held me in his clutches until I calmed down and realized that spending the rest of my life in prison wasn’t worth the pleasure of murdering a USGA rules official. Almost, maybe.

  Then came my caddie’s pep talk.

  Mitch whispered, “We not gonna let this bother us, B.J. We goin’ in that bunker, hit us a beauty. Maybe hole it out. Make us a four at the worst, go whip up on the back nine. Now let’s Keep our cool and do this thing.”

  I pulled myself together, stepped down into the white sand, and took a firm stance. I closed the face on my sand wedge so it pointed left of the target—the impact would bring it back to square—and I tried to take an upright swing, come straight down on top of the ball. That’s how you extricate yourself from a buried lie. I went about it OK, I thought, but evidently not. I left it in the bunker.

  As I stared at the ball in the sand, I hoped nobody in the crowd remembered that I’d once lent my name to an instruction article on bunker play in Golf Digest. And I couldn’t help thinking of what Grady Don once said. That he wasn’t a good enough golfer to read golf instruction and still play good golf.

  Mitch’s second pep talk went like this: “We OK. We only lay three. We sittin’ up good now. We just skim it out. Maybe we hole it. Least we do is get down in two, get outta here with a bogey. Bogey don’t hurt us. We make it up on the back.”

  My skim shot was what you’d call haphazard at best. I left it in the bunker again.

  Mitch’s third pep talk: “We only lay four. Let’s put it close, make us a putt. Take our double bogey like a man. We still be one under, and we got birdie holes on the back.”

  I landed the ball on the green with my third sand shot, but left myself a forty-foot downhill, sidehill, uphill, quad-breaking putt that no human could read or get close to the cup.

  Mitch’s last pep talk: “Piss on golf. Why don’t we just three-putt this thing, go away with a eight? Shoot us a dog-ass seventy-nine, eighty. Don’t make a shit to me.”

  My first putt sped twenty feet past the cup. The second putt swung ten feet to the right. The third putt broke both ways and left me with a five-footer. Big deal, I made it.

  But Mitch missed it by one. I four-putted for a fucking 9.

  So instead of going to the back side three or four under with a real chance to win the Masters, I was two over, out in 38, out of contention, and sliding off the scoreboard so fast I looked like my chute didn’t open.

  Which was why, as I walked to the 10th tee, my chat with Gwen took on such an intellectual quality.

  “You’re off the board,” she said. “What in the world happened?”

  “Nothing much,” I said. “I made a nine, is all.”

  “You made a nine? How is that possible?”

  I said, “It was easy. I got zebra’d. Zebras don’t always wear striped shirts and stab you in the heart with their phony calls in football games. Some of ’em wear striped ties and fuck people over in golf tournaments.”

  “I see,” she said. “Might I venture the guess you were the victim of an unfavorable ruling?”

  “Unfavorable is one way to put it,” I said. “Another way is to say a USGA asshole pulled out his dick and pissed on me in front of five thousand people.”

  Gwen turned to Mitch. He described my tragedy quickly, only touching on the sordid details.

  “Bobby Joe, I’m so sorry,” Gwen said. “That is so terribly unfair. I’m glad I didn’t have to watch it.”

  “It’s not that big a deal,” I said. “I’ll get over it . . . in about twenty years. Maybe sooner . . . if every incompetent, thieving, scum-licking, criminal zebra cocksucker in the country has his eyes gouged out and his arms and legs amputated, and gets hanged in public . . . and his children are Kidnapped, tortured, and murdered by a psycho Killer . . . and his wife is sold into white slavery in fucking Uganda.”

  19

  fter the disruption almost everybody shot straight up, arms and A legs. Played like hospital food. Some lost their timing, some lost their concentration, some lost interest. As most sportswriters reported—with an intelligence that was exceedingly rare for them—the only thing Anne Marie SprinKle’s protest did was screw up the contestants. It brought no harm or embarrassment whatever to the Augusta National members.

  Here’s how the first ten finished in the Masters, although some of the names appeared differently in America’s newspapers:

  Mitch congratulated me on my no-quit act. For not hanging a sign around my neck that said “Donate this round to the homeless.”

  Mitch said it took a man to dig down and shoot a par 36 on the back and fight back to a two-over 74 and grab fourth in the Masters after he’d been royally screwed by a zebra.

  It would be nice if I could say I went to the back nine pumped up to make a valiant comeback and fought my ass off, but that’s not what happened. What I did was play loose, casual, nonchalant, swing the club like I didn’t much care where the ball went. Christ, I’d already lost the tournament. I honestly didn’t even realize I’d shot two under on the back nine until I got to the cabin.

  I couldn’t blame Mitch for being happy about my finish. It meant $60,000 to him, which was 20 percent of the $300,000 that fourth place paid. But I Knew he was happy for me personally. Happy I didn’t embarrass myself, do a total puke-faint-die.

  I was the leader for twenty minutes. Which found me back in the press room, up at the table behind the microphone in the interview area, flanked by two southern gentlemen in green jackets. My audience was small. A half-dozen writers. Most of them were out on the course or watching TV, rooting for somebody—anybody—to win. An
ything but a sudden-death playoff that might drag on into darkness and bring them back the next day.

  One of the green jackets said, “Gentmin, we have our Mastuhs toona-mint leader here.”

  Most of the questions were about the murderous ruling that left me buried in the bunker. I said from what I’d heard, I was the only competitor in the field who wasn’t permitted to replace his ball on the green without penalty after the protestors did their damage. It was an outside agency, pure and simple, but the zebra blew it.

  Still, I said, it was my own fault the way I let the ruling upset me so much. I didn’t have to turn the 9th hole into a chopped salad.

  I said I would always wonder what I would have done if I’d made a three or a four at 9 and gone to the back with the lead. I might have won or I might have found another way to lose. We’d never Know.

  After the session I bumped into Irv Klar outside the interview area. He’d interrupted the Pulitzer winner he was clacking on his laptop long enough to come say he was sorry about what happened to me.

  He said, “I caught the last of your interview, Bobby Joe. Did you mean you really don’t blame the rules official?”

  “No, not altogether,” I said. “I still hope he’ll suffer a long, painful death from a light bulb shoved up his rectum.”

  Irv stared at me for a second. “I can use that . . . can’t I?”

  “If it’s tastefully presented,” I said.

  Grady Don was sitting in the players’ lounge outside the locker room when I came in. He was alone at a table having a scotch to celebrate his tie for eighth place, the best he’d done in a major. On the TV screen in front of him Madonna Els was winning the Masters again on tape.

  The players’ lounge connects to the locker room at one end of a ground-level wing of the clubhouse that was added on a few years before my time. The original clubhouse is the two-story white mansion you see in the photographs and paintings, the joint with the wrap-around balcony and the little lookout tower on the roof. The original clubhouse is antebellum, pro-bellum, or uncle-bellum. I only Know it’s as old as the tournament. At the opposite end of the locker room is a dining room available to anyone with a clubhouse pass. I suppose the best thing you can say about the players’ lounge is that it’s off-limits to the press.