The Golfer's Carol

by Robert Bailey

  I bowed my head as the preacher gave the benediction and again rubbed my eyes. When I did, I felt the wetness on my fingers and realized that I had shed a few tears. Most of my memories of Dad were a blur of instructions, admonitions, and orders. But in April 1975, we had shared an experience. It had only been a moment, but sometimes, I guess, maybe that’s all we have in life. Moments . . .

  Did he love me?

  Yes, I thought. That was probably why I had so much resentment built up inside me. My father loved me, but his way of showing it left a lot to be desired. Why couldn’t he have supported me? A pat on the back after a bad round? Some encouraging words before a big tournament? Anything? All I could remember was the criticism of my shortcomings. When Dad provided encouragement, there was always a hard lesson behind it. Get up and work to support your family. Give up golf and turn to law because it is practical and responsible. Be strong for your family after Graham’s passing because you’re the head of the household and your wife and daughter will look to you to set the example.

  He wasn’t a hugger and he didn’t talk in flowery words. His world was black and white. Right was right. Wrong was wrong. And if you weren’t good enough, you weren’t good enough. It was that simple. And when the person who wasn’t good enough happened to be his own son, he didn’t sugarcoat the sad reality of life.

  There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes that he’s not going to be Joe Namath.

  I gave my head a jerk and set my jaw, tired of my own thoughts. I opened my eyes and looked past the praying congregation to the closed casket directly behind the pastor. I thought about my deceased friend, whom I hadn’t known as well as I thought.

  Darby Hays was a frustrated and sad man.

  Weak. I heard my father’s rough voice in my head. Over the years, Dad’s hard way of talking had become ingrained in my subconscious. I hated the thoughts it provided, but they were there nonetheless.

  Darby was weak. If he’d had someone who kicked him in the butt a few times, then maybe he wouldn’t have turned to drugs and other women.

  I closed my eyes tight, hating myself for thinking in such harsh terms about my best friend.

  Then hating my father and his harsh way. I loved the man. I hated the man.

  I worshipped the man. And I was perpetually tormented by him, even from the grave.

  * * *

  —

  As everyone filed out of the church, I followed suit. I waited under the shade of an oak tree for Charlotte. As I leaned my back against the thick trunk, my mind drifted back to the hotel room at St. Andrews and the blank, depressed eyes of Bobby Jones. He recovered. He came back from picking his ball up and quitting a major championship. He came back and redeemed himself . . . and became a legend.

  I shook my head and gazed down at the roots that tunneled out from the tree. He wasn’t facing a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar hospital bill. His son didn’t die of cancer. He came back, but he wasn’t as far gone as me.

  “Randy?”

  I glanced up and saw Charlotte Hays standing in front me. She regarded me with red-rimmed eyes and touched my arm. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I wondered if I had blacked out again. I hadn’t been taken anywhere else—no sudden flashbacks or anything—but by the worried expression on Charlotte’s face, I must have looked out of sorts. “Yeah,” I said. “Just . . . thinking about Darb.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie, but I still felt guilty for saying it. My guilt increased when I saw fresh tears forming in Charlotte’s eyes. I pulled her in for an embrace, and for a few seconds, she cried into my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just can’t believe he’s gone, you know?” She squeezed my shoulders and I could feel her hands clenching into fists. “And I’m so mad at him. Drinking and driving. Throwing his life . . . and our whole future away.”

  She pulled back, holding my forearms tight with her fingers. “And everyone is wrong about him. Cliff, the pastor . . . everyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Darby may have acted happy-go-lucky and been a barrel of laughs around his friends and family, but . . .” She wrinkled her face and fought back more tears.

  “But what, Charlotte?”

  “He wasn’t happy,” she said, speaking now through clenched teeth. “He was miserable. He hated that he couldn’t putt well enough to play the tour anymore, and he was filled with regrets for not winning more tournaments and being a better player.” She let go of my arms and wiped her nose. I reached into my suit jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which she took without asking. She blew her nose and looked up at the sky. “He wanted other things too . . . but we couldn’t . . .” She trailed off. “Here.” She tried to give me the handkerchief, but I held up my palms in protest.

  “Please. Keep it,” I said, feeling a new rush of sorrow. Darby had never shared any of his problems with me.

  She nodded and then, for a few moments, we both stared at the ground. I felt the wind on the back of my neck and realized for the first time that it was a pretty day. A good day for golf, I thought, and smiled, knowing that the pleasant weather was appropriate for my friend’s burial and hoping he was getting a round in on that big country club in the sky. Maybe with Bobby Jones and Johnnie . . .

  I felt Charlotte’s hand grasp my own, and I looked at her.

  “Can you do something for me, Randy?”

  I gave her hand a squeeze. “Yes, what is it?”

  She took a deep breath. “Darby spent a lot of time out at Shoal Creek. It was literally his favorite place in the world. He had a locker out there, and I think he kept some things there that were special to him. With everything that’s happened since he died, I haven’t been able to make it out to Shoal. Part of it is I don’t want to have to drive the same road where Darby was killed . . .” She paused, and I could tell she was fighting hard not to cry again. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “I also don’t think it should be me that cleans out his locker. Shoal Creek was . . . sacred to him. Golf, in so many ways, was Darby’s church. He probably has some things in his locker that were very important to him, and I wouldn’t understand the significance of them. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  She peered up at me. “I trust your judgment. If you think there is something I should see, then please bring it by the house. If you don’t, then keep the item or throw it away. Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “What about Cliff?”

  “I thought about asking him, but I think it would be better if you did it.” She sighed. “I’m also worried there may be some things in there that Darby wouldn’t want me or his family to see.”

  “Like what?”

  Her gaze narrowed to a glare. “Like his girlfriends’ phone numbers. A pair of stray panties from a romp with one of the cart girls or one of his playing partners’ wives.”

  The intensity of her eyes caused me to lower mine to the ground. “I see,” I said.

  “You knew my husband better than anyone. Am I wrong to suspect those things?”

  Still gazing at the roots coming out of the bottom of the oak tree, I shook my head. “No,” I said, realizing I should have been able to anticipate why Charlotte had levied this request. “I’m sorry,” I added.

  “Don’t be, Randy. I loved that man. I knew he messed around with other women, but I loved him all the same. We were a good team, and let me tell you a little secret.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Darby wasn’t the only one who strayed.”

  My eyes darted up from the ground. I couldn’t believe my ears.

  She chuckled bitterly. “Oh, don’t be such a prude. Darby and I had problems, and we dealt with them in our own ways.” She paused. “Not everyone can have a marriage like you and Mary Alice, Randy.”

  I again cast my eyes
downward and began to wish I could unhear what Charlotte had just shared. “Mary Alice and I aren’t perfect,” I managed, thinking about how distant my wife and I had become since Graham’s death and the utter uselessness I felt at not being able to do anything to help us get over the loss of our son.

  All I can do to help is jump.

  “None of us are,” Charlotte said. “But you guys come as close as you can. You give her a hug for me when you get home.”

  I again peered down at the ground, feeling guilt begin to saturate my being as I thought of my wife, whom I had last seen curled up in the fetal position in bed, still suffering from the effects of her mother’s meat loaf.

  “Will do,” I whispered. Sucking in a short breath, I raised my eyes and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I should probably head to Shoal,” I said, and she gave me a nod.

  I started to walk away, but Charlotte’s voice stopped me. “Randy?” There was a crack in the last syllable.

  “Yeah,” I said, turning back to her.

  “Thank you for doing this.”

  18

  I drove down Highway 280 in a bit of a haze, lost in thoughts of Darby, Charlotte, and the secrets in people’s lives that take place behind closed doors. I thought that Darby was living the dream and the picture of success and happiness.

  And I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I remembered something that Bobby Jones had said in our round yesterday. Things are rarely as bad . . . or as good . . . as they seem. I knew that was true, but, on the flip side, I thought things had to at least resemble how they seemed.

  Maybe not. I answered my thought as I turned on to Hugh Daniel Drive. Sucking in a deep breath, I slowed my vehicle as I began to navigate the curvy road. It was only dangerous if you were reckless with your speed, as Darby had been. I scanned each curve, trying to remember where his Jaguar had gone off the road, but the police had cleared the area and I found it impossible to distinguish one bend in the road from the next. When Hugh Daniel dead-ended, I took a left onto Highway 41. About a mile up on the right was the entrance to the club. I slowed when I reached the gate and rolled down my window. A uniformed guard stepped out of the security house adjacent to the gate and approached my car. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m a friend of Darby Hays, a member who died in a car accident earlier this week. His wife asked that I go through his locker for her.”

  “Oh, yes. You are Mr. Clark. Mrs. Hays said you’d be dropping by. I’m so sorry about Mr. Darby. He was a really good man. Always very friendly with me and called me by name.”

  I glanced at the tag on the man’s uniform, which read Irvin. “Thank you, Irvin,” I said.

  He nodded. “Please tell Mrs. Hays how sorry I am.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll notify the pro shop you’re on your way.”

  Before I could answer, Irvin turned and walked briskly back to the house, reaching his hand inside the door. A second later, the gate began to open. As my car wound down the path toward the clubhouse, I tried to remember the last time I was here. Last summer? Or was it two summers ago? Whenever it was, I had come up to play in a two-man scramble with Darby, and we had won the tournament. We had closed down the nineteenth hole afterward, celebrating the victory and wisely taking a taxi back to Darby’s house. Good times, I thought, but I only half believed it. Were we really having a good time? Or were we both just escaping our lives for a few hours?

  Either way, it had been the last time I’d seen my friend since his ghost appeared to me a couple nights earlier.

  I parked at the bag drop and hopped out of my car. Before I could make it to the sidewalk that led down to the pro shop, a young attendant was trotting up the steps to meet me. “Mr. Clark?”

  “Yes, hey.”

  “Follow me. I’ll take you to Mr. Hays’s locker.”

  When we reached the landing, I glanced to my right at the green expanse of golf course that lay before me. The Jack Nicklaus–designed course was a thing of beauty with its tree-lined undulating fairways and bent-grass greens. Shoal Creek had been one of Jack’s first course designs, following Muirfield Village in Columbus, Ohio. Now, the Golden Bear had courses popping up everywhere, and it was obvious that golf course design would be his passion after his playing days were over. As I thought of Jack, my mind drifted to Augusta for a half a second. The second round was today, and Jack would probably need to shoot at least par to make the cut.

  As we reached the mahogany door that led inside, I shook off the thoughts and tried to focus on the job at hand. I was nervous at what I might find in Darby’s locker. Please God, don’t let there be a pair of panties in there . . .

  I followed the young attendant down a long hallway, which was decorated with portraits of famous courses and players, including Lee Trevino, who had won the PGA Championship here at Shoal Creek two years earlier. When we entered the locker room, we turned a corner, passing Jack Nicklaus’s locker, which Darby always made a point to show me every time I had played with him here. Finally, a few rows over, the attendant stopped and pointed. “Here it is, sir.” Darby Hays was stenciled in gold over the brown mahogany finish.

  “Everyone loved Mr. Hays,” the attendant said. “It was an honor to be able to talk and play with someone who had been on the tour.” The boy paused. “I’m sure going to miss him.”

  “I know, son. Me too.”

  He handed me a box and a short, stubby key.

  I thanked him as he trotted away. Then, sighing, I turned toward the locker.

  19

  I’d like to say that my friend’s locker was a treasure chest of surprises and untold secrets. But, alas, that would not be true. There were two pairs of golf shoes in the bottom cubby, one all white and one white and black. In the large middle section, there were some khaki slacks and two golf shirts hanging on adjacent hooks. On the top shelf, I saw two folded sweaters, several caps, and a shaving kit.

  In between the middle and bottom shelves of the locker were two drawers. I pulled open the one on the left and saw a stack of scorecards. Most of these were from Shoal Creek, but there were others from Birmingham Country Club, Atlanta Athletic Club, Pebble Beach, and several other famous courses. There was even one from Augusta. I opened that one and saw three names written on the card. Darby Hays, Jack Nicklaus, and Tom Watson. I’ll be damned, I thought, looking over the scores. Darby had shot a sixty-eight, Jack had fired a seventy, and Watson a seventy-one. That’s a framer, I thought, rubbing my thumb over the signatures at the bottom.

  I also saw the card from Twickenham Country Club, where Darby had shot fifty-seven. He hadn’t let me tell anyone at the club about his breaking the course record, but he had thought enough of the round to keep the card. I had to admit I was touched. I put the Twickenham card in my pocket.

  I opened the second drawer and saw a small red spiral notebook. I wiped the dust off the unmarked cover and turned to the first page, dated seven years ago. February 22, 1979. Below it were a few sentences scribbled in my friend’s handwriting. Good practice round today at Riviera. Still haven’t figured out how to play 18. Made some putts. Can I make them when it counts? Going out tonight. Then February 24, 1979. Darby had written a shorter message. Missed practice round yesterday because I was so hungover and had to take Sally home. Another tour groupie. When am I gonna grow up?

  For a moment, I felt bad reading my old friend’s inner thoughts, but I knew that no one in his family, especially Charlotte, would want any part of this experience.

  That’s why she asked me to come.

  Scanning the empty locker room, I noticed a sitting area with two leather chairs near the back. Sucking in a deep breath, I walked over and sat down. After only a brief hesitation, I continued to read the diary of Darby Hays.

  * * *

  —

  The first page was a harbinger of things to come. At least nin
ety percent of the entries had some combination of frustration over putting, shame over cheating on Charlotte or drinking too much, and disappointment over a mediocre finish in a tournament. There were long gaps between entries and then flurries where every day for two or three weeks had a few sentences.

  As I skimmed through it, I stopped on March 3, 1983. Randy’s son died today. Charlotte says we should go to the funeral, but I told her I can’t withdraw from the tournament. She thinks I should at least call Randy, but I don’t know what to say. The truth is that I’m jealous of my old friend. We’ve been trying to have a baby for six years. Randy’s son may be dead, but at least he had a son. And he still has Davis. I know it is awful to feel these things, but I can’t help it.

  Though I was angered by the callousness of my friend’s words, I was more surprised than anything. Darby was jealous of me?

  There was no entry at all on March 6, the day of Graham’s funeral. I continued to skim until I came to April 11, 1984, more than a year later. Another Masters in the books, probably my last. Gonna retire at the end of the year if I can’t score any better. Was great to see Randy. So glad that he, Mary Alice, and Davis made it down. I know they are all still depressed over Graham’s death, and I wish there were something I could do. As much as I love the guy, sometimes I think my presence makes things worse for Randy. It’s sad. He would’ve given anything to be a PGA Tour pro, and I’d trade every dime I’ve made on the golf course to be a father. Ain’t life grand?