The Caddie

by J. Michael Veron

  By all accounts, Fazio had succeeded. The first course, known as Pine Barrens, is a design tribute to Pine Valley, the classic New Jersey course that frequently ranks first on published lists of great golf courses. The second eighteen, known as Rolling Oaks, is ranked by some as even better than Pine Barrens. To complete the golf feast, Fazio also designed a nine-hole practice course, called the Short Course, featuring seven par-three holes and two par fours, as well as a practice tee and putting and chipping greens that are as good as it gets.

  From everything I read, World Woods Golf Club was a logical choice to host the next stage of Q-School. It would pose a real challenge to any player who coveted a Tour card.

  Of course, the field would be even tougher this time around. Obviously, everyone who advanced from the first round was playing well. In addition, we would also be competing against a number of outstanding players who had been exempted into this second stage. These were players who had competed on the Nationwide and PGA tours the previous year but failed to make enough money to earn a card for the following year. Most of them were hardened veterans of professional competition, and all of them would be formidable competition.

  We arrived two days early, time enough for a practice round on each course. The format was essentially the same as the first qualifier at Champions in that we would alternate between the two courses.

  For some strange reason, I don’t remember all that much about the tournament. It was like I was on automatic pilot, responding to Stewart’s direction as if I were in a trance. It was another indication that I had invested total trust in him.

  As a result, I played perhaps my best golf ever, putting together rounds of 69–67–70–67, and easily advanced to the final stage of Q-School. Although I had scored better in individual rounds in competition before, I had never strung together four rounds that were as solid as the four I played at World Woods. As Stewart told me, “Consistency’s the key. Anyone can shoot the occasional low round. That doesn’t win tournaments. The fellow who can avoid even one poor round is the one who gets the cup.”

  Any joy I had about staying alive in this prolonged torture test was tempered by the certain knowledge that the going would get considerably tougher at the next stage. For one thing, the finals of Q-School would be played at PGA West in La Quinta, California, on the Stadium Course and the Nicklaus Private Course, both tough tests.

  In particular, the Stadium Course, designed by Pete Dye, had the reputation of being a monster of a course. According to clubhouse gossip, every hole was guaranteed to identify and attack any weakness in your game with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

  The news wasn’t much better about the Nicklaus Course. It had the same kinds of sharp edges as Dye’s Stadium Course, but its cruelty was hidden behind native plants and wildflowers.

  If that weren’t enough, the Q-School finale was a marathon, consisting of six rounds instead of four, the idea being that it was somehow “fairer” to make the obstacle course longer. Try selling that, I thought, to the 180 players who would be trying to win the thirty-five Tour cards that were up for grabs.

  At first, I didn’t like having two extra rounds. Golf is not a static game. Good golf eventually turns bad, and bad golf eventually turns good. I was playing well, but I wasn’t sure it would last for six more rounds.

  In typical fashion, though, Stewart put a different spin on it. “Think of it this way,” he said. “We have more opportunities to recover if we have an off day. Besides, the more golf we play, the better for us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He winked at me. “A lesser player might have a hot hand for two or three rounds, but it’s unlikely he can sustain the pace for 108 holes. The odds are he’ll fall by the wayside, leaving the more deserving players—which obviously includes you—to claim their rightful place in the standings.”

  I immediately felt better. Stewart’s unbounded confidence in me was infectious, and I was beginning to take on the same positive attitude by osmosis.

  Before leaving Florida, however, Stewart had another one of his surprises for me: We were going to play a couple of practice rounds at Seminole.

  As anybody with a golf IQ above eighty knows, Seminole was Ben Hogan’s favorite golf course. Designed by Donald Ross in 1929, it sits alongside the Atlantic Ocean, nestled between two dune ridges about fifteen miles north of Palm Beach, Florida. Hogan made an annual pilgrimage to Seminole each spring to practice and play in the weeks leading up to the Masters, supposedly because a round there called for every club in his bag.

  The course was originally developed as the centerpiece of an exclusive club that would be a winter playground for wealthy industrialists from the North. But it came to be much more than that over the years because of the quality of the golf course. Virtually every great professional of the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s played in the club’s annual professional-amateur tournament, and celebrities like Bing Crosby became frequent habitués of the place, which was noted for its elegant locker room and sumptuous dining as well as for its golf.

  It was, of course, a private club—very private, indeed. I had to wonder just how Stewart was able to get us on, but I knew it was pointless to ask him. If I did, I knew that he would only say that he had somehow “made arrangements.”

  During the long drive south, Stewart explained his reasons for setting me up at Seminole. “First,” he said, “it’s one of the truly classic courses. Playing it will enrich your sense of the game’s history.” He paused as if to allow me to digest what he was saying. “Beyond that, it’s a great test of your game. It’ll require you to hit almost every shot you’ll need to play the game anywhere. It’s well worth the drive.”

  We arrived on a Tuesday, around noon. As protocol required, Stewart immediately went to the pro shop to check in. It hardly surprised me that Jimmy Scofield, the head professional, greeted Stewart as an old friend.

  As we walked toward the locker room, I gave Stewart a sideways glance. “So this guy’s another old friend, huh?”

  He didn’t even break stride. “Yes,” he said while looking straight ahead, “I’ve known Jimmy a long time. He used to be an assistant at Winged Foot.”

  I thought briefly about asking how Stewart would know people at the posh club in Mamaroneck, New York, that has hosted a number of U.S. Opens and other great championships but knew that I probably wouldn’t get a straight answer. Instead, I remembered that making conversation with Stewart was a lot like fly-fishing; you just kept flicking the lure lightly onto the water in hopes of a strike.

  For that reason, I tried to sound as blasé as possible. “He seemed to know you well.”

  Again, Stewart seemed nonplussed by my subtle interrogation. With a nonchalant shrug, he said, “You carry enough bags, you get to know a lot of people.”

  As I looked around, I became very glad that Stewart knew Jimmy Scofield. Seminole was quite a place. The locker room was one huge open room with lockers against the walls. I guessed the ceiling to be about thirty feet high, with windows near the top to let in the bright Florida sunshine. In the middle of the room were various arrangements of leather chairs and sofas, and at one end was a bar manned by a friendly bartender capable of supplying any beverage you desired. On the wall high above the bar were wooden placards bearing the names of the winners of the annual winter pro-am that was held for many years. The roster of champions read like a Who’s Who of professional and amateur golf.

  After changing shoes, we stopped in the dining room for a sandwich before teeing off. Even though the food was casual, it was absolutely first rate. It occurred to me while we were eating that no one appeared to question the presence of a caddie in the room. I didn’t say anything, but took it as one more sign that Stewart was perhaps more than he pretended to be.

  It also struck me as odd that, everywhere we went, others seemed to know more about Stewart than I did. I had come to accept, however, that my inscrutable friend would reveal more of himself to me only on his own
terms and that no amount of probing on my part would change that.

  As we headed out to the first tee, Stewart explained, “The rules here require that we play in the company of a member. Jimmy’s arranged for a fellow named Taylor Vicknair to be our host. I believe he’s waiting for us over there.” He pointed to a man waiting expectantly near the first tee.

  Vicknair was a handsome man I guessed to be about sixty years old. He was five-ten or so, trim, and had a deep rich tan suggesting that he either owned a tanning salon or spent most of his days on the golf course. He didn’t look like the tanning-salon type to me, so I figured he was a player. He was also gracious and professed to be delighted to host us for the afternoon.

  I didn’t ask Stewart how often he had been there before, but he previewed each hole for me without ever referring to a yardage book, as if he knew the entire course by heart. Before each play, he would tell me the most advantageous way to shape my shot based on how the green there best received approaches.

  In fact, Stewart was setting up my tee shot on the third hole, a par five, when something peculiar happened. The hole measures about 515 yards and is a dogleg right. A grove of palm trees occupies the right rough, while a small dunelike ridge protects tee shots pulled left of the fairway from reaching the serpentine lake that projects fingers out across and along several holes in the middle of the course.

  As Stewart handed me my driver on the tee, he said, “You can get there in two by cutting your drive around the palms on the right.” Vicknair overheard him and warned in a friendly tone, “Watch for those bunkers on the right, though; it’ll take a cannon shot to carry the last one.”

  Vicknair’s remark obviously caught Stewart by surprise. Looking out toward the fairway for the first time, he exclaimed in surprise, “What are those bunkers doing there?”

  Our host seemed puzzled by the question. “Well,” he said slowly, “they’ve been there ever since I started coming here, which was twenty years ago.”

  Although barely visible from the tee, there were, in fact, three consecutive splash bunkers staggered down the right side of the fairway, as we discovered when we trekked down the fairway after our tee shots. On closer inspection, it was apparent that their principal design function was to discourage long hitters from cutting the corner and shortening the hole.

  It happened again on the tenth hole, only in reverse. The tenth hole is a short par four with water in play off the tee on the left. As Stewart handed me a three-iron, he said, “You can’t see it from here, but there’s a bunker down the right side as well. There’s just no percentage in hitting driver.”

  As he spoke, I saw another curious expression on Vicknair’s face. As politely as he could, he said, “Stewart, I think you’re confused. There’s no bunker in the landing area on the right side.”

  Stewart said noting this time, but I could tell from his face that he was again surprised.

  The rest of the round was uneventful. I played well enough to shoot 71 on my first loop around the course. Our host wasn’t far behind with a 76. As we thanked him for the game, he indicated that he had reserved a starting time for us the next morning.

  I was headed to the locker room for some quick relief when I observed Stewart disappear into the pro shop. It occurred to me that I should follow and thank Jimmy Scofield for arranging our game.

  As I entered the pro shop, I overheard Stewart and Scofield talking about the third and tenth holes. It soon became obvious that Stewart was asking about the changes in the two holes. Scofield repeated what Vicknair had said, which was that the course had been the same for as long as he could remember.

  At that point, Scofield indicated that he had a book in the back on the club’s history that had pictures of the golf course over the years. He went to get it. While he was gone, Stewart noticed me for the first time.

  “I thought you were headed for the locker room. How long have you been here?”

  I smiled. “Long enough to hear you ask about the third and tenth holes.”

  When Scofield brought him the book, Stewart seemed almost embarrassed. He told the pro he would read the book that night and return in the next day.

  As Stewart drove us to the Holiday Inn where we were staying, I thumbed through the book. I found a set of photographs of every hole on the course.

  “Hey!” I exclaimed. “You were right on both counts. According to these pictures, there were no bunkers at three, and there was a big crablike bunker down the right side at ten. I guess you’re vindicated.”

  Stewart smiled. “Well, it’s reassuring to know that I’m not crazy.”

  “One thing, though,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “These pictures were taken in 1947. And it says here that, shortly afterward, Claude Harmon shot a course record 60. They must’ve gotten worried that the course was too easy, so they brought in Dick Wilson on a supposed secret mission to toughen Donald Ross’s original design. Wilson added the bunkers at three and took the one out at ten because he brought the water into play there.”

  Stewart was quiet.

  I wasn’t through. “Do you want to know when Wilson made those changes?” Without waiting for an answer, I said, “His work was completed in 1952.”

  Stewart still didn’t talk. Instead, he left me to ponder how he could have remembered features on the course that had disappeared a half century ago.

  xii

  WE HAD A PLEASANT round again the next day. I soon realized that Hogan’s assessment of Seminole was accurate. Once again, I was forced to use every club in my bag. And because of the unpredictable ocean breeze, virtually every hole played differently from the day before.

  I noticed it especially on the thirteenth hole, a par three of about 175 yards. The hole played straight toward the water from the tee, and Ross had set the green atop the prominent dune ridge that shielded the ocean from view until you walked up onto the putting surface. The day before, with the wind blowing in from the sea, I had to nuke a four-iron to reach the front of the green. Now, with the wind quartering from behind my right shoulder, I nearly sailed my tee shot over the green onto the beach on the other side of the dune with just an eight-iron.

  I found myself continually bewildered by the wind direction at Seminole. At one point, I turned to Stewart in frustration. “Is it always this crazy out here?”

  He just laughed. “No two rounds are the same here, Bobby. It’s that way with most courses that are hard by the sea. Wait’ll you play the British Open on one of the true links courses over there.”

  That remark stopped me cold. “You think we’re gonna play in the British Open?”

  He nodded. “We’ll get there one day soon, don’t worry. You’ve got what it takes.” He paused and looked off in the distance. “And I’m dying to get back and see it all again.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  He spoke quietly, as one would during a church service. “Yes, I have.”

  “But when…”

  “A long, long time ago.” Suddenly, he shook his head, as if to force himself out of his reverie. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Bobby. It’s a goal, not yet a reality. It’s another reason to keep working hard.”

  He was right, of course. It seemed foolish to worry about the British Open when we hadn’t even qualified for the B.C. Open. Still, Stewart’s idea of playing Seminole to prepare me for the last stage of Q-School had been a good one. I felt as if my game had withstood a real test there and, with my confidence bolstered, was ready for whatever PGA West had to offer.

  It took us three days to drive home to Baton Rouge. Although I halfway expected us to drive on to California, we had made enough prize money in recent weeks to afford airline tickets. So we were flying to La Quinta and would arrive three days before the tournament started—plenty of time to get over jet lag and learn the courses as well.

  In the interim, I found out what I could about PGA West. I have to admit that I didn’t like much of what I was learning, par
ticularly about the Stadium Course. Apparently, the developer of PGA West challenged Pete Dye to build something bolder, longer, harder, and more penal than anything he had ever done. With someone like Dye, that’s a tall order. But, by all accounts, he outdid himself with the Stadium Course.

  Although most purists are critical of the course as “gimmicky,” few will argue that it is as difficult as any course in the country. That assessment is certainly shared by virtually all of the touring professionals who’ve played there.

  After I finished reading the materials I had collected about the course, I moaned to Stewart that PGA West didn’t sound like much fun. Of course, he quickly reminded me that everyone would be playing the same eighteen holes with the same hole locations, so it shouldn’t matter whether the course was hard or easy.

  It was such a typical comment. Stewart never tolerated any kind of negative thinking. As he challenged me, “Name one time where thinking that way has helped you.” And, of course, I couldn’t.

  Once we arrived, I was glad that we had allowed ourselves a couple of extra days. For one thing, the atmosphere at the final stage of Q-School was even more tense than the earlier stages. Everyone knew they were close to getting a Tour card now—so close, as the saying goes, they could taste it. I’d never seen so many uptight golfers in my life. A guy with a Prozac concession in the locker room could have put his kids through college on this tournament alone.

  And the players were much more recognizable this time. Over half the field consisted of guys who had played the Tour before. Many of them had even won events there, some more than once. Add to that the prominent can’t-miss amateurs in the field who were coming out, and it was obvious that the level of competition had risen considerably.

  I needed to become accustomed to the somber environment and get past being in awe of the players I had seen on television and read about in the golf magazines. As Stewart reminded me, they were after the same prize we were.