Scoring was by modified match play: the goal was to win each hole with the lowest score, but each match would consist of nine full holes because it was the cumulative score that counted. Each outright win of a hole was worth one point, and each team got one-half point for halving a hole. At the end of the weekend, the team with the most points in each flight would win: there would therefore be ten winning teams, and ten runners-up.
Jack and I had been assigned to the third flight. My three handicap and Jack’s 10 put us in a flight where the combined team handicaps ranged from 10 to 14. Of course, since we were playing nine-hole matches, our handicaps were halved, so I was playing off 1.5, and Jack at 5 for the purposes of the tournament. Further, the tournament committee, to guard against sandbaggers, or those who inflate their handicaps so they can win more easily, had decided to automatically reduce everyone’s handicap by 10 percent. So I’d be playing off 1, and Jack off 4. Quickly scanning the list of players in our flight, I saw that I’d be giving away strokes to everyone. But, I thought, that’s only fair and it’s what handicaps are supposed to do: level the playing field among players with disparate skills so we could have a competitive and interesting match. At least Jack would get three shots per match, which he could certainly use. Especially since his real handicap was his general state of inattention.
Scanning the list of players in the third flight, two names immediately jumped out: Vitus Papageorge and Fred Adamek. We were scheduled to play them in the second match on Friday. This worried me. Not only did I never want to play golf with that All-Universe Prick ever again, I knew that the revenge factor would be high. Jack and I would be in for a tough match.
I pointed this out to my partner, whose eyes were red and tired. He just shrugged and said “Let’s go eat.”
First, we went upstairs to the locker room and took a long, hot shower. It’s a funny phenomenon, but the world’s best showers are often located in the most run-down, aging and decrepit-looking locker rooms, just like the ones at the Shuttlecock Club. I have personally tested this theory all across the country, and it’s always true. I’ve showered at many of the fanciest new clubs, the ones that drip with prestige and wealth, that have deep-pile carpeting, hand-rubbed African mahogany lockers, animal heads on the walls and plush sofas everywhere for lolling on … and the showers are always poor. Water pressure is low, the shower heads are stingy, and the hot water runs out too fast. But at the great old clubs, like Shuttlecock, the locker facilities are crappy, with threadbare linoleum floors, metal lockers that open with a clanging echo, and paint that’s peeling off the walls and ceilings. But the showers are magnificent: big shower heads that drench one in an endless supply of steamy hot water, with dispensers that release dollops of shampoo and body gel that foam up quickly. One never wants to get out of such a pleasurable place, but there were huge, thick towels waiting. Talcum powder for feet and crotch. Deodorant for the pits. Hair dryers. Brushes. Throw-away razors. Sure, the locker room at Shuttlecock was old and drafty and the décor would make the editor of Architectural Digest retch, but for a bunch of male golfers, it is nirvana.
Showered and dressed and feeling spiffy, we strolled across the lawn from the golf house to the main clubhouse in a deepening twilight. As we neared the main door, a long, silver Cadillac limo swung around the corner of the building and glided to a stop in front of us. The headlights pinned us and we had to step out of the way as the driver pulled up right in front of the door. The car sat there, growling at idle. The windows were tinted so we couldn’t see inside in the fading light of day. No one got out.
Suddenly, the back door flew open and Vitus Papageorge clambered out. His hair was wet and slicked back, and he wore a yellow linen blazer, black pleated tropical-weight woolen slacks, tassel loafers, a blue pinpoint Oxford shirt with white collar and cuffs and a yellow paisley tie. Dapper.
And angry. He slammed the car door shut, and started to enter the clubhouse ahead of us. But then he turned on his heel and stalked back to the limo, walking around to the driver’s door. Jack and I heard the soft whine as the window wound down.
“Goddamit, O’Grady,” Vitus snapped in an angry, hissing voice. “I pay you goddam good money. I expect you to get your fat ass out of the car and open my door. Do you read me?”
The driver did not answer. I saw a tiny red glow from behind the tinted glass, and then a cloud of bluish smoke billowed out of the window and wreathed the fuming Papageorge. We heard the whine as the window wound up again.
“We’ll talk about this later, damn you!” Vitus pounded on the window with frustration, and stalked around the car and into the club. Jackie and I followed, and exchanged a look and a shrug of the shoulders. It seemed not to be Vitus’ day.
Inside, we followed the sound of a hundred happy men to the banquet hall, where the pre-tournament stag party was in full swing. Take a hundred golfers, generous portions of scotch and vodka and beer, add the promise of a glorious weekend of golf on a fine old course, throw in a prime rib dinner with baked potatoes, and leaven within the comfortable atmosphere of a genial group of self-assured and over-achieving American men, and you will get a cacophonous but happy sound.
Jack and I fought our way to the bar, and then found two seats at one of the tables set up around the large hall. Huge banks of picture windows provided views of the Merrimac as it flowed silently past the island. As soon as we sat down, a waitress presented us with deep bowls of clam chowder, thick and creamy.
“Specialty of the house,” Jack told me as we tucked in with relish.
“Actually,” I said, “I think it’s a state law that clam chowder be served at all important Massachusetts functions.”
After we finished our chowder, Jack introduced me to the other Shuttlecock members sitting at our table. On my left was Dr. Walter Bainbridge who was chief medical officer at Lowell General Hospital. He was a rotund man with a shiny bald pate that reflected the spots inset into the ceiling high overhead. He wore a pair of small reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and smelled faintly of bay rum. He was wearing a blue blazer over a blue-and-white striped shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of gray flannel slacks. His handshake was firm and he seemed a genial sort. His partner, a surgeon from Boston, shook my hand and went back to attacking his slab of roast beef. I wanted to ask what his cholesterol number was, but restrained myself.
Across the table was Charlie Stansfield, a local insurance agent, in his mid-40s, whose hair was starting to resemble more salt than pepper, and his brother-in-law, a guy named Eric, who lived outside Philadelphia.
“Hacker?” Charlie said when he was introduced, “Golf writer for the Journal?” I nodded. “Heck, I read your stuff all the time! Tell me, is Tiger not the best there ever was? I mean, really …”
It was a question we get a lot these days, and with good reason. So I was prepared.
“Well,” I said, as everyone at the table stopped eating to listen to my opinion, “I think the best one-sentence way to answer that is what David Fay, the USGA’s executive director, said. ‘We are all lucky,’ he said, ‘to be alive at this point in history to watch Tiger Woods play golf.’”
Everyone nodded wisely.
“The hell with that,” Dr. Bainbridge interjected in a deep basso profundo voice. “Tell us about all these blonde models he gets to boink.”
Everyone laughed and I was about to tell the one good Tiger Woods nightlife story I had in my arsenal, when the squeaking of an amplified microphone being turned on caused the room to fall silent. At the head of the ballroom, Vitus Papageorge stood behind the wooden podium. He could have used an extra tread, as his head barely cleared the upper rim.
“Gentlemen…gentlemen…your attention please,” he called out, and waited until he had everyone’s attention. The room finally fell silent. “As the president of the Shuttlecock Club, it is my honor to welcome you all here for the 55th annual Shuttlecock Invitational Member-Guest tournament.” He paused dramatically, appar
ently waiting for applause, but there was none. In the sudden and awkward silence, somebody called out “whoopee!” which drew a few chuckles, and then my partner, sitting next to me, let out a horrific belch, which echoed across the room. Gales of laughter erupted, but Vitus’ face screwed up in taut disapproval.
“Excuse you, I’m sure,” he snapped, and held up his hand for quiet.
“Classy, as always,” I murmured to Jack.
“Thank ye kindly,” he giggled.
When he had our attention again, Vitus launched into a long and rather detailed explanation of the rules of the tournament, pointed out the board where the flights had been posted and reiterated that everyone was responsible for knowing their tee time and whether they were starting on the front or back nine. “There will be no excuses or exceptions,” Vitus lectured, waggling his finger. “You must be on the tee at the appointed time, or you will be disqualified. We have a full field as usual, and the only way we can ensure that all matches finish in daylight is to observe strict starting procedures and to enforce strict rules concerning pace of play. To that end, I can assure some of you that if you dawdle as you usually do, you will be assessed penalty strokes and/or loss of hole. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Master,” someone called out in a Transylvanian accent. Boos and catcalls filled the air.
“Go ahead and make fun,” Vitus continued, “But you’ll be thanking me later.”
“Aw, stuff it,” yelled someone from the back of the room. Laughter welled up again. It was a tough crowd.
Papageorge held up his hand for quiet. “Now then,” he said, looking down at his notes. “As you are undoubtedly aware, the U.S. Golf Association has officially notified all member clubs that any gambling and wagering activities officially or unofficially sponsored by this club are not allowed.” More boos. “However, I am also aware of the long traditions of the Shuttlecock Invitational, and what you gentlemen decide to do on your own is your business.” Loud cheers. “I will therefore leave the premises shortly so that whatever you want to do can be safely accomplished without the knowledge or interference of your club president.”
That got a standing ovation. Vitus Papageorge was not the type that enjoyed being the subject of sarcasm, but he managed a silly grin, waved his hand and disappeared through the French doors at the entrance to the banquet hall. The room returned to its high decibel hubbub as the assembled golfers went back to their drinks, their dinner and their conversations.
“What an ass,” said Charlie Stansfield. “I don’t know anyone who likes that guy.”
“Why is he the president of the club, then?” I asked.
Stansfield shrugged. “It’s a thankless job,” he said. “You gotta referee every damn disagreement, make decisions that leave someone mad as hell every time, and generally spend a lot of your time screwing around with stuff that’s totally meaningless. On the other hand, you get a parking space right in front of the clubhouse, your name on the plaque of past presidents in the lobby, and, I guess, you get to know everyone else’s business.”
“So you think it’s basically a power trip for Vitus?” I pressed.
“It’s gotta be,” Charlie said. “He’s a bank president and a successful real estate investor, so he’s got all the money he could want. I think he just likes running things and telling other people how to run their lives. I sure wouldn’t do it.”
I turned to Dr. Bainbridge sitting on my left. He had been listening quietly while working on a dish of apple pie a la mode.
“What do you think?” I asked him.
Bainbridge finished the last forkful of pie, carefully wiped his lips with his napkin, and set it down next to his plate. He motioned for a hovering waitress to bring him some coffee. I noticed that Jackie had quietly left the table, and was standing over by the bar, fresh drink in hand, chatting happily with a few other well-soused members.
“I respectfully disagree with my friend Stansfield here,” Bainbridge rumbled, finally. He turned and peered at me over his narrow spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “I’ve had my eye on Papageorge ever since he joined the Shuttlecock Club some 15 years ago,” he said. “He has always been the most disagreeable sort, and that’s unusual in a club like this. Most of the people here are fairly easy going and get along with each other. After all, the Shuttlecock Club is a country club, a place where people come for recreation. We bring our families here, our friends and business associates. We come to play golf and tennis, to dine, and to relax with other people of similar interests. Certainly, like any organization, this club needs someone to run it. Someone to make sure the bills are paid and the grass is mowed. But it’s hardly a major undertaking, and the amount of power, as you termed it, is hardly significant.”
The waitress brought a silver pitcher of coffee and began pouring it into the white cups. Bainbridge waited until she had gone before picking up again.
“Not long after he joined Shuttlecock, Papageorge let it be known that he was willing to serve on the club’s finance committee,” he continued. “Everyone agreed that having a bank president on the board of directors would be a good thing. Of course, we had other bankers from Lowell and even Boston on the board before, but he was new and brought a fresh new perspective. At least, that’s what we all thought.
“It was just three or four years later than Papageorge ran for, and won, the position of club president,” Bainbridge said, stopping to blow on and sip his coffee. “I remember thinking it quite unusual for such a new member to quickly rise through the ranks. The Shuttlecock Club, like most other private country clubs, can be a rather stuffy old place, and generally speaking, presidents are elected from a rather short list of well-known old families that have been members here forever. I also recall that the president just before Vitus not only didn’t run for re-election, but resigned from the club altogether soon after the election. It was Harding Wolcott, wasn’t it, Stansfield?”
Bainbridge looked across the table. Charlie Stansfield nodded slowly.
“I think you’re right, Walter,” he said. “I’d forgotten old Harding. But you’re right. He left the club and I think he and his wife pulled up stakes and moved down to Florida.”
“I thought that was quite unusual as well,” Bainbridge continued. “The final odd occurrence was that two years later, when it was time to rotate in a new president, the nominations committee announced that it could not find anyone willing to serve as club president. They’d asked everyone, they reported, and no one would commit. So, they recommended that Vitus continue on for another term. Two years later, it happened again. He’s now on his fifth term.”
I laughed. “Just like FDR, huh?”
Bainbridge chuckled. “Quite so. As I said, I’ve had my eye on the man for a long time. Indeed, a few years ago, I even volunteered to run for election to the board, just so I could keep a bit closer watch on Papageorge. But I was defeated in the election.”
“Not surprising,” Charlie Stansfield said. “Vitus has pretty much hand-picked the members of the board. I wouldn’t say they are his friends, since he doesn’t really have any friends. But he lets his wishes be known, and his wishes get elected.”
“Just so,” Bainbridge said. He fell silent and sipped some more coffee.
“Well,” I said, “Some of the best clubs are run by dictatorship. Augusta National springs to mind, as does Pine Valley, Seminole, a lot of them. Sometimes it’s better if everyone knows and understands that all important decisions will be left to the top guy. Management by committee is not always a good thing.”
“I quite agree,” Dr. Bainbridge said. “But there should be some mechanism in place for checks and balances. Vitus seems to have surrounded himself with yes-men, and nobody else is really quite sure how the club is operated.”
“Isn’t there some kind of annual report, or published audit?” I wondered.
“Certainly,” Dr. Bainbridge rumbled. “There’s an annual meeting to which all members are invit
ed and very few bother to attend. It’s usually at the end of January when many members have high-tailed it down to Florida and the rest have no desire to drive out here on a cold night. Vitus’ finance committee sends out an annual accounting, which shows incremental increases in both revenues and expenses, and every three or four years an increase in dues.”
“Except for the surprise of a couple years ago,” Stansfield chimed in, shaking his head.
“What happened?” I asked.
Stansfield took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “It still ticks me off,” he said. “There was an incident with a burst pipe one winter, the kind of thing that happens in old buildings all the time. All of a sudden, Vitus announced that the sewer system had been determined to be old and decrepit. Didn’t meet the city code, somehow, after sixty years of trouble-free flushing. Had to be dug up and replaced. Cost a bloody fortune, and every member was hit with an assessment to pay for it.”
“Jeez,” I said. “How much?”
“The project was priced out at four million dollars,” Dr. Bainbridge said, fingers drumming on the table. Every member had to kick in four grand. It caused an uproar in the club, but Vitus was adamant and the city officials backed him up. It was either replace the sewer system or close the club. I know at least four fellows who dropped out, and I’m sure Stansfield does too.”
Charlie nodded. “It was really hard on some of the younger guys, with families and educations to pay for,” he said. “We tried to get the assessment stretched out over five or ten years, but Vitus said it had to be done in two. I think the club lost something like 40 members.”
“It couldn’t be too hard to replace them, I’ll bet,” I said. “Place like this must have a long waiting list to get in.”
Death at the Member Guest Page 8
