The Golfer's Carol

by Robert Bailey

  Ellie had closed the meeting by saying something that I’d never forgotten, and that occasionally kept me up at night in the weeks after making my decision. “I’ve taken a lot of cases to a jury verdict, Randy, and you’re one of a handful of defense lawyers who bring out the best in me. I know that if I don’t bring my A game, you’re going to whip my butt.” She had smiled as she rose from her seat. “It’s time for me to take on a partner, and my first choice is you.”

  I had told Ellie that I would think about her offer, and I did think. I thought hard, and a couple of times I had almost been about to pick up the phone and say yes. I had spoken with Dad about Ellie’s proposal, and he wasn’t keen on it. You’ve got a steady job with a good firm working for solid clients. What more do you want? Do you really want to be an ambulance chaser?

  I had protested, as I always did when Dad provided the voice of logic and reason, but his words had sunk in. I’d talked with Mary Alice, who also didn’t like the idea of me leaving a stable job for something completely unknown. How much do you know about Ellie Timberlake? What if she treats you like a hired hand? What if she stiffs you on your share of the pie?

  I had heard plenty of war stories about plaintiff’s firms breaking up over the division of fees on settlements and verdicts, and Mary Alice’s fears struck a chord. She had tried to let me down easy, but in the end, she was scared of losing what we had. Why don’t you wait until things are a little calmer? We can’t afford any loss of income, can we? Why don’t you wait a few years and then think about making a move? Maybe when the kids are finished with high school?

  There was one other concern, and it dwarfed anything that Mary Alice or Dad had said.

  What if I wasn’t good enough?

  Deep down, I wasn’t sure I had the stuff to tee it up as a plaintiff’s lawyer week in and week out. I knew that the courthouses were littered with personal injury plaintiff’s lawyers who didn’t have a pot to pee in. I wouldn’t simply be earning a modest paycheck anymore, nor would I be working for an insurance company that paid my hourly rate. In the plaintiff’s world, you ate what you killed. If you didn’t win or settle the case, you didn’t bring home anything.

  Despite what Ellie had told me, I wasn’t sure I could handle the pressure of a full-time career of suing other people and companies for money. If I failed, it wasn’t just my career on the line. It was my children’s futures. It was the life that Mary Alice and I had built together. Was I willing to risk what I had for the prospect of something better? What if I failed? Could I deal with that?

  Was I good enough?

  I had finally told Ellie Timberlake that I couldn’t do it. She had not protested. Instead, she had simply grunted and said, “Okay.” Then she had hung up the phone before I could say anything further. A short while later, she had taken on a young female partner named Glenda Yates. I hadn’t exactly followed whether the new partnership had been successful. I still had a number of cases with Ellie, but she never mentioned how she and Yates were doing or anything about the offer that I had refused. I figured she had written me off.

  What does she want now? I wondered, gazing at the handwritten note my secretary had taken. We had several cases going right now, including one set for trial in ninety days. There was also the opening on the bench. Judge Douglas Brinkley was stepping down at the end of the year, and folks were beginning to announce their intention to run for his spot. She might be rounding up support for her candidacy, though that didn’t seem right. Ellie was too adversarial to be a judge, but who knew? Maybe she’d finally gotten tired of trying cases.

  I crumpled up the note and tossed it into the center of my desk.

  I guess it doesn’t matter, I thought, gazing back at the portrait of the thirteenth hole of Augusta on the wall. If I jump, nothing is going to matter.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. I was so tired. For a moment, I thought again of Mary Alice, sitting on the ground in front of Graham’s grave. Then, ever so faintly, I heard the far-off patter of what sounded like . . .

  . . . clapping?

  I opened my eyes and started to walk across the office to the window overlooking Spragins Street. There were probably some kids playing down below.

  But I stopped dead still when I glanced at the painting of the thirteenth hole at Augusta.

  The green didn’t have four bunkers surrounding it anymore, nor did I see the clusters of red azaleas. Instead, there was a bunker in front of the green and I was gazing backward up a fairway. And there were people in the picture now. A gallery?

  Yes, there was a gallery of folks that lined both sides of the fairway. I walked closer to the painting, and the clapping sound grew louder. I took another step, and the sound grew almost deafening.

  “Randy,” I heard someone say, and took yet another step. I was a foot away from the picture. I reached toward the people I saw and could now make out their clothing. The men wore slacks and golf shirts, and the women had on sundresses. As I touched the painting, I felt fingers grasp my own and pull me forward.

  27

  I was now standing in the painting. I was on a golf course. My eyes widened, and my pulse quickened. Several people were now looking at me and shooting me ugly looks.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I started to look around, and then I felt my hand being squeezed. “Johnnie?” It was the Scotsman who had caddied for me and Bobby Jones in my round at East Lake.

  “Aye,” he said. Then, smiling, he pointed at the swell of people. “Look.”

  I followed his index finger and my breath caught in my throat as I took in the scene. From our perch on a hill above the green, I saw an incredible mass of people that must have been six rows deep on each side of the fairway. The mob had swelled to ten deep around the green. I glanced to my right and saw a scoreboard. The top of it read 1960 United States Open.

  Sweet mother of G . . .

  I didn’t complete the thought as my eardrums began to throb with more clapping, followed by whistles and a few screams of “There he is! Yeah!”

  I blinked and subconsciously a grin came to my face as I recognized the figure stalking down the fairway toward the green. He wore a short-sleeve collared shirt and tailored pants and walked with a forward lean. I could see the tight sinewy muscles in the man’s arms and noticed a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. A few steps before he reached the green, the man reached behind him and hitched up the back of his pants.

  “By God,” I said, hearing the awe in my own voice. “It’s Arnold Palmer.”

  “Aye,” Johnnie said.

  It was a breathtaking scene to be in the midst of “Arnie’s Army,” the nickname bestowed upon the fans who followed Arnold’s every move on the golf course. “What round is this?” I asked, gazing down at Johnnie.

  “The finish of the third.”

  I rubbed my chin and thought it through. If this was the 1960 U.S. Open, then I was at Cherry Hills Country Club on the outskirts of Denver.

  “Arnold wins this tournament,” I whispered.

  But Johnnie said nothing. We watched Arnold and his playing partner putt out on the green, and then they pushed through the crowd toward what must have been a scorer’s tent. Now that his round had concluded, the people around us had begun to mingle and I caught snippets of the conversations.

  “He’s seven shots back.”

  “Not even Arnold can come back from that.”

  “My money’s on Hogan. He hasn’t been close in years, and he wants this one bad.”

  “What about the fat kid from Ohio who hits the ball a mile?”

  I nudged Johnnie with my elbow and winked at him. “The fat kid they’re talking about is Jack Nicklaus.”

  Johnnie peered up at me as if I had expelled gas and he was trying hard not to smell it. “Aye. I know that, Randy.”

  “Right,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “So . . . what now
? What am I supposed to see here?”

  Johnnie smiled and showed off a row of crooked teeth. “How about a bevvie?” he asked.

  “A what?”

  “A drink. A shot of Scotch whiskey or some such. Whatever your pleasure.”

  I gazed around the tournament grounds, looking for a tent that served alcohol. “Sounds good, but I don’t see . . .”

  “Not out here, silly man. In there.” He pointed at the Tudor-style clubhouse, which had a slight resemblance to East Lake.

  I smiled down at him. “Really?”

  “Aye. Don’t you want to see the makings of a legend?”

  * * *

  —

  The nineteenth-hole lounge at Cherry Hills was a hodgepodge of smells. Hamburger and hot dog meat, grease and beer, all laced with cigarette and cigar smoke that hung in the air. Johnnie and I walked past a few tables to the bar, where he ordered a Dewar’s and water and I said I’d have the same. “Can he see us?” I asked Johnnie while peering at the bartender.

  “Aye,” Johnnie said, taking the drinks. “But only long enough to pour us our whiskey. Now we’ve disappeared.”

  “How’s that?” I asked, waving my hands at the bartender, who, sure enough, acted as if I weren’t there anymore.

  “Got me, Randy. I don’t make the rules here. I just play by them.”

  That didn’t make much sense, but I was too intrigued by the surroundings to care. There, in the corner of the lounge, Arnold Palmer was sitting alone. “Can we . . . ?”

  “Come on,” Johnnie said, gesturing for me to follow him. “You’re going to want to see this.”

  We approached Arnold and took seats at the table next to him. Arnold appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, probably going over the previous round in his mind. It was odd to see the King like this. The only times I’d ever seen Arnold Palmer in person were when he was signing autographs at Augusta, and he was always so talkative and friendly. Here, he looked withdrawn and intense. A young waitress brought over a plate of food and held a drink in her hand. “Cheeseburger, fries, and a half lemonade . . . half sweet tea, Mr. Palmer.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Arnold said, winking at her as she placed his food on the table. As she turned away, the waitress’s face had turned pink and a tiny grin played on her face.

  “Awesome,” I whispered, not sure if it was cooler to see the man take a sip of the drink that would one day bear his name or how he had made a total stranger blush with a simple wink.

  “Aye,” Johnnie whispered back. “Awesome.”

  Arnold ate a few bites from his cheeseburger and then called out to one of the men at the next table. “Hey, Bob. How far do you think a sixty-five will take me this afternoon?”

  Bob smiled and blew a cloud of cigar smoke in the air. “Nowhere,” he said.

  I turned back to Arnold and saw his face darken. “What do you say, Dan?” Arnold asked, shifting his gaze to the other man at the table, who looked familiar. Dan Jenkins, I thought, snapping my fingers and glancing at Johnnie, who nodded. Dan had a thatch of brown hair on top of his head and a gleam in his eyes. The best part of my Sports Illustrated subscription was reading Dan’s articles. “You’re seven shots back, Arnie . . .” He trailed off and took a bite from a French fry.

  “You guys are crazy,” Arnold said, forcing a laugh, but his voice was defiant. “Two eighty always wins the Open, and that’s what sixty-five would give me for the tourney. Isn’t that right, Bob?”

  Bob slid his plate out of the way and leaned forward on his elbows. “Shoot sixty-five. Don’t shoot it. Won’t make any difference. You don’t have a prayer. You’re too far back.” He exhaled a ring of smoke toward Arnold and chuckled.

  Before I could even turn toward him, Arnold had kicked his chair back and stood from the table. “The hell I am,” he snapped. He set his half-eaten burger back on the plate and brushed past our table without another word.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Johnnie said, and we hustled off our seats and followed Arnold out of the lounge. He walked down a hallway and through a door with a sign over it that read Men’s Locker Room. We did the same, but we both stopped when we saw Arnold sitting by his locker and retying his golf shoes. After making sure the laces were good and tight, he stood up and strode into the bathroom. Johnnie and I followed, and we saw him splashing water on his face and drying it with a towel. For several seconds, I watched Arnold Palmer glare at himself in the mirror. What did I see in that gaze? Determination? Grit?

  I shook my head. No, those guesses were too easy to presume, and they were wrong. What I really saw was . . . anger. Whether he was mad at himself or with the sportswriter in the lounge, I couldn’t tell, but Arnold Palmer’s face was a deep red and his eyes seemed a tad bloodshot in the reflection from the glass. Bulldog red was what my father had called the look in a man’s eyes when he was boiling mad. Arnold gave his face a rough rub with both hands and then turned on a dime. He headed toward me so fast, I couldn’t get out of the way in time. I saw the whites of his eyeballs and heard the pounding of the man’s heartbeat as he literally passed through me in one long glide. The sensation staggered me, and I felt Johnnie grip my forearm. I glanced down at the Scotsman. “He’s really mad,” I managed.

  “Aye,” Johnnie said. “Let’s watch.”

  “Watch? What do you mean? The round is over.”

  Johnnie snorted. “This is 1960, lad. The third and fourth rounds were both played on Saturday. Our man there is about to start his fourth round.”

  I felt a surge of butterflies in my stomach as it dawned on me what I was about to witness. “Now?”

  Johnnie’s face broke into a wide grin. “Aye. In just a few minutes. Do you want to see him hit the shot?”

  My eyes widened, knowing exactly the one he was talking about. I grinned back. “Aye.”

  28

  The first hole at Cherry Hills Country Club was a 346-yard downhill par four. Because of the slope and the higher altitudes in Colorado, the hole tempted golfers to go for the green off the tee. If they were able to pull off the shot, then they would have an eagle putt to start the day. Make it and they gained two shots on the field. Two-putt and they still had an easy birdie in hand to gain momentum.

  It was the kind of shot my father would have called a fool’s play. The fairway was tight and tree-lined on both sides, and there was water down the right side. Miss the shot and trouble lay everywhere. The quest to make an eagle or a two-putt birdie could easily become, in one bad swing, a test to save bogey or worse. I didn’t need a history lesson to observe these challenges. Johnnie and I set up shop directly behind the tee box, and I was able to size up the hole in a matter of seconds.

  “A fool’s play,” I whispered.

  “Or a champion’s,” Johnnie fired back. When the Scotsman’s temper flared, so did his accent, and the last word came out like “champeen.”

  “How did he fare on this hole the first three days?”

  Johnnie shrugged. “Went for the green each time. Double bogey in round one after blocking his drive way right and into the creek. A scrambling par on day two after missing the green.” Johnnie scratched his chin. “Missed the green again in round three and ended up three-putting for bogey.”

  I shook my head. “So, hitting driver off the tee had yielded a three-over total on one hole. That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Mr. Clark,” Johnnie began. “Perhaps it’s not so much about pulling off the shot that counts, aye? Maybe it’s believing that he can.”

  The words felt a bit like a punch to the gut, and I readjusted my feet on the grass. I glanced down at Johnnie, and he was looking right at me. His green eyes were fierce. “Have you ever thought about that?”

  I didn’t say anything, turning my attention back to the tee box and trying to ignore Johnnie’s pointed question. A commotion had begun, and the patrons to the right of us were being
told to make room. The one-thirty group was approaching.

  I watched Arnold Palmer move through the gallery . . . his army . . . toward the tee box. It didn’t appear that his short session on the driving range had done anything to quell his anger. As he stepped up onto the elevated mound where he would hit his first shot of the day, the agitation in his tense expression was obvious. Arnold snatched the driver out of his bag and tossed the cover to his caddy. Then he glared at the ground while his name was announced to the crowd: “And from Latrobe, Pennsylvania, Arnold Palmer.” Unlike the times I had seen him as an elder statesman in practice rounds at Augusta, the look on the man’s face now was all business. He barely watched as his playing partner struck what appeared to be a three wood down the left side of the fairway, well short of the green.

  When it was his turn, Arnold teed his ball on the left-hand side of the marker. He stood behind the ball for a couple of seconds and gave his driver several soft swings with only his right hand. Then, without hesitation, he approached his ball and took his stance. He turned his head once to look at the target and, after returning his eyes to the ball, started his swing.

  I had seen the golf swing of Arnold Palmer in his prime thousands of times on black-and-white videos, and I had watched the older version of the man hit live shots. It would be wrong to call his move on the ball a thing of beauty. He snatched the club back fast and made a full turn behind the ball, his clubhead dipping past the point where the shaft was parallel to the ground. Then he transitioned hard to his left side and lashed at the ball as if he were wielding a sword and literally trying to kill the white object on top of the tee. His follow-though was likewise violent as he stopped the clubhead out in front of him and cocked his head to the left. The move made him look like he was trying to will the ball to where he wanted it to go.

  Was it beautiful? No. That was too weak a word. The man’s swing was majestic and powerful. When Arnold’s persimmon-headed club contacted the golf ball, the sound resembled that of a twelve-gauge shotgun.