Slim and None

by Dan Jenkins

  This pulled him up to within two strokes of me again, and after we parred the 13th and 14th holes, that’s how we stood when we came to the last four holes, the Ho Bitches.

  Scott drove first at the 15th and took it over the trees on the left, ignoring the bunker in the center of the fairway, and left himself with nothing but a simple pitch to the green on the 400-yard hole. His drive rendered the “strategic” bunker in the fairway so out of date, the club might as well have ordered the bulldozer right then.

  I had no choice but to play short of the bunker, which I did, and after I put a five-iron on the green but nowhere near birdie range, I could only wait to see what Scott would do with his easy pitch. Fortunately for me, his lob wedge sucked again. He failed to make a birdie.

  The 16th hole put far too much trauma in my life.

  First of all, I Knew from the scoreboards that the best score in the clubhouse was Phil Mickelson’s 280, even par for the 72 holes. Phil had caught fire on the back and closed with a 68. Everyone else had faded. But I’d started out six ahead of Phil, and I thanked Lucille for the fact that I still had him by four strokes. So by all that was logical it had come down to Scott and me, just the two of us now, and I had him by two strokes with three holes to play.

  It was still his honor on 16 and he drove it into the future again, way past the dogleg, past the willows, leaving himself with another short pitch to the green.

  I took the driver out of the bag, saying to Mitch, “I’ve been straight with this all day. What do you think?”

  “You feel confident with it, go ahead on,” he said.

  Confident didn’t swing the club. Unfortunately, I did.

  I pushed the drive too far right, and for a moment I thought for sure it was in the water. It’s impossible to describe that feeling. Food poisoning comes close.

  But the marshal down the fairway, right at the willows near the edge of the pond, signaled that the ball stayed up. Heart-pound deal.

  Mitch and I didn’t speak as we walked to the ball. He Knew I wasn’t done with the hole yet, and Knew my confidence had been shaken.

  When I reached my ball, I was happy I could see part of it in the tall grass. But it rested between the water and a marked-off red line. It was in a hazard. I wouldn’t be able to ground my club.

  My lie wasn’t that bad. I thought I could get an eight-iron up. Try to reach the green with it, but Keep it left, away from the pond if it landed short. And I didn’t want to think about the shot too long.

  Maybe I should have thought about it longer, however.

  I did the stupidest thing in my whole life—aside from marrying Terri Adams and Cheryl Haney.

  I didn’t swing hard enough and my clubface hung up in the twisted grass. As a result, I scuffed the ball into the pond.

  There were gasps, groans, and shrieks from the gallery.

  I stood there and looked at Mitch. He stood there and looked at me.

  All I could think of was two in the water, out in three, shooting four, probably make a 7—congratulations, you pissed away another major, you spineless, no-talent, give-up shit-ass.

  That’s when I heard Tricia Hurt’s voice.

  “Bobby Joe, I think this is your ball here,” she said. “This is where I saw it go into the grass.”

  She was three yards behind me, pointing down to a ball.

  “What—?”

  “Are you playing a Titleist Two?” She bent over to have a closer look at the ball. “There’s a red star on this one. Isn’t this yours?”

  I said, “Yeah, I guess that is mine. But I’ve already hit another one. I’m history, dear.”

  “No, you’re not,” Tricia said. “There’s no penalty for playing the wrong ball in a hazard.”

  I almost laughed. “Since when?”

  “I’m not Kidding, Bobby Joe. There is no penalty for hitting the wrong ball in a hazard. It’s in the rules.”

  I looked at the PGA officials, Haley Sprackling and Barney Rivers, who were standing nearby.

  “Is she right?” I said. “I don’t Know the damn rule. I’ve never had a situation like this come up.”

  Tricia said, “It’s under ‘provisional ball’—twenty-seven–two.”

  Haley Sprackling removed a thick book from his jacket pocket— Decisions on the Rules of Golf—and consulted it. After a long moment, he raised his eyebrows at Tricia Hurt and me.

  “You’re right, missy,” the official said. “You dang sure are. Bobby Joe, you can play this ’un here without penalty. You’re a lucky gunch.”

  With a grateful nod at Tricia Hurt, I took the eight-iron out of the bag again and quickly punched a shot safely out into the fairway before anybody could change his mind.

  Thanks to a fifteen-year-old girl, I’d gone from dead in the water, slim and none, to alive and well in a matter of two minutes.

  I was ninety yards from the green for my third shot. I wedged it up there to ten feet from the pin and somehow holed the putt for an All-American 4 after Scott missed another birdie chance from fifteen feet.

  We made pars at the 17th, me with a 200-yard five-iron shot and two putts, Scott with a 200-yard nine-iron and two putts.

  I must tell you that with a two-shot lead and only one hole to go, I wasn’t embarrassed or humiliated in the least to play the 18th for a bogey 5. I did it with a sick little tee ball, a sick little layup, a sick little pitch, and two putts from twelve feet. The last putt would have even been a gimme in a Texas gambling game.

  I always said happiness was a six-inch putt to win a major.

  55

  he moment was a basic blur. I was aware of people rushing out on the green and hugging on me, lifting me up. Mitch, Grady Don, Jerry, a couple of strangers. Finally Gwen, out of nowhere, leaping into my arms.

  “Well, where have you been?” I said, as she strapped a big Kiss on me. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”

  I was conscious of applause from the crowd, but I Knew it would have been louder and longer if the stud-bubba cupcake had won.

  Speaking of which, Scott’s mother and I edged our way over to him, and he put out a hand to me. Good sport.

  We gave him a hug together, and I said, “Scott, my man, you’re gonna win a scary bunch of these before you’re done—try not to hold this one against me.”

  “Geeeahhh,” he said. “You got a big break on sixteen, but I gotta say, that four you made was awesome.”

  I grinned. “I’ve always said the zebras do a good job.”

  Gwen wanted to go wash Oakland Hills off of her. She assumed I’d be in the press center a good while. She’d see me back at the hotel, she said, and don’t forget to bring the trophy home.

  The first thing I did was give the press a sound bite. I said I was so exhausted, I felt like I’d tried to fight a war with France for an ally.

  The ruling at the 16th hole was discussed at length. I said I’d be glad to saw off part of the Wanamaker Trophy and give it to Tricia Hurt.

  Some of the writers wanted to Know why I wasn’t better versed in the rules of the game?

  “Like you people are?” I said, smiling politely.

  I explained how most of us on the Tour aren’t rules junkies. We’ve all read the little book called The Rules of Golf you can buy in any pro shop, but most of us had never read or studied the bigger and thicker book called Decisions on the Rules of Golf.

  I said, “The decisions book is where you have to go to find the law of the land. Tricia Hurt was familiar with it. I’d only seen it on a shelf.”

  A writer wanted to Know if I was ashamed of playing for a bogey 5 on the final hole?

  “Why would I be ashamed of using my head?” I said.

  I reminded the writers that I wasn’t the first guy who played for a bogey on the last hole to win a major. I rattled off the names of some of those who’d done it in the past—Olin Dutra at Merion, Sam Parks at Oakmont, Hubert Green at Southern Hills, Andy North at Cherry Hills and here at Oakland Hills, Curtis Strange at Oak H
ill.

  I said, “Maybe you’d think more highly of me if I’d played a banjo and tap-danced up the last fairway and blown the deal.”

  Ellen Wheeler, the Houston poetess, followed me out of the press center and waited to corner me alone after I did radio stuff. She wanted the usual exclusive.

  What I shared with her was, I couldn’t help thinking about Clayton Heafner while I stood on the 18th green waiting to tap in the six-inch putt for the win. She wanted to Know who Clayton Heafner was, how to spell it, and why he would come to mind. I spelled it for her and explained that Heafner was a big, gruff Carolinian who played the Tour from the late thirties through the fifties. Jimmy Demaret liked to joke that Heafner was Known for his “even temper”—he was mad all the time. Heafner hated the majors, I said. One reason may have been because he never won any of them. Anyhow, Heafner used to say his ambition was to have a one-foot putt to win a major so he could walk up to the ball with his putter, say “Fuck it,” and backhand it into the trees. That’s what I was thinking to myself on the last green. I was thinking about Clayton Heafner. If she’d been close enough, I said, she might have noticed my grin.

  “Thanks,” she said. “There has to be a way I can use that.”

  “ ‘Screw it’?”

  “Maybe. Probably wouldn’t make the cut.”

  “ ‘Forget it’?”

  “Sold!” she yelped, and scampered away.

  There was a smattering of applause from the hotel staff when I carried the trophy through the lobby on the way to the elevator. I waved thankyous to one and all.

  I put the trophy on a table in the living room of the suite and went to the bar where I was pleased to find a bottle of Junior, a bucket of ice, and tall glasses. I was making myself a cocktail when Gwen came out of the bedroom. She was fresh from a long bath. She wore a pair of snug khaki denim pants and a light purple linen tank top.

  “Hi, champ,” she said, grinning. “I’ve colored my hair and had a body wrap for the occasion.”

  I said, “You may notice how smart I look. I’ve won a major championship, so I must be a lot smarter.”

  “You definitely look smarter than you did this morning.”

  “I’ll have to change my life around now that I’m so smart. I’ll have to get a whole new set of friends. I’ll probably have to get rid of you and find a smarter woman. One who wears glasses maybe.”

  “Bobby Joe.”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “To get rid of me?” she said, coming toward me with a look I’d always remember.

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “You’ve got two chances.”

  About the Author

  DAN JENKINS is the author of nine previous novels, including Semi-Tough, Dead Solid Perfect, Baja Oklahoma, Rude Behavior, and, most recently, The Money-Whipped Steer-Job Three-Jack Give-Up Artist. He has also published seven books of nonfiction, most notably Fairways and Greens and The Dogged Victims of Inexorable Fate, and writes an enduringly popular monthly column for Golf Digest. Jenkins is the recipient of the William D. Richardson Award from the Golf Writers Association of America, which recognizes those who have consistently made outstanding contributions to golf. He divides his time between his native Fort Worth, Texas, and New York City.

  SLIM AND NONE. Copyright © 2005 by D&J Ventures. All rights reserved.

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