Miracle at Augusta Read online

  “Nice catch,” says Earl.

  Six holes later, I find another way to amuse my new boss. Because it’s a muggy Florida afternoon, I’m careful to stay hydrated, so careful I’m soon in need of a bathroom. I put it off as long as a man of a certain age can, but when there’s a wait at the par-three 7th, I jump at the chance and scurry to the small white stucco structure discreetly tucked among a cluster of shading palms. Unfortunately, a tournament official got there first and tacked a sign to the door: FOR PLAYERS ONLY.

  That leaves the plastic Porta-Potty roasting in the sun ten yards away. “Enjoy the facilities?” asks Earl when I get back.

  “Immensely. Thanks for asking.”

  22

  EARL SHOOTS 71 IN the first round and 71 in the second. Then again, Earl’s rounds often mirror each other. That’s why he’s the Joe DiMaggio of senior golf, with twenty-four consecutive top tens and counting. The man doesn’t make bad swings or hit squirrelly shots.

  Earl’s got one of the most repeatable swings on the planet. I’ve always known this, of course, but witnessing it up close and personal is a little disconcerting. Again and again, I pace off the distance to the nearest sprinkler head, do the math, and come up with the same number to the center of the green on Saturday that we had on Friday. Once, I’m quite certain, his ball came to rest on top of his old filled-in divot.

  For his caddy, it’s as frustrating as it is impressive, because despite his otherworldly ball-striking, we’re a whopping two under. He doesn’t make bogeys, but he doesn’t make birdies, either. He’s the human unhighlight film.

  So where does Earl drag me after the second round is in the books? The driving range, of course. Like everyone else, Earl likes to practice what he’s good at. It reminds me of the greasers in high school who would spend all afternoon waxing and polishing their already gleaming Camaros and GTOs.

  “You know how many fairways you missed the first two days?” I ask, after I’ve seen one too many perfect 5-irons.

  “Not a lot.”

  “One. By six inches. You also missed twenty-four putts inside twenty feet. And guess how many you got to the hole?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Two.”

  “Wow, Travis. You’re actually paying attention.”

  “That stuff you said about how you would trade all those thirds and fourths for one win. Was that bullshit?”

  “No.”

  “Then put that club away and follow me.”

  To my relief, he does, and we spend the next three hours on the practice green performing one drill. From anywhere from eight to sixty feet, I drop six balls, and he has to get every one to the hole. If he doesn’t, we start over.

  Want to know the results of this three-hour master class? I was afraid you might. On Sunday, Earl doesn’t make a putt over six feet and leaves just as many short. Thanks to my meddling, he shoots 72 and finishes out of the top ten for the first time in a year. I violated the caddy’s version of the Hippocratic oath, which is not to make things worse. And yet, as I throw my bag in the trunk and motor south, I’m buoyed by an almost giddy sense of optimism.

  23

  THE REASON I’M SO hopeful is that our next stop, Shoal Creek, just outside Birmingham, Alabama, is the toughest track the seniors play all year. That means Earl, even with me on the bag, has a real chance. Let me explain.

  Most of the tournaments out here, like the one we just wrapped up in Sarasota, are held at resorts. Resort courses play easy. They have to, because they’re laid out with the hacker in mind. The fairways are wide, the rough anemic, and the hazards so close to the tee they’re not really in play, at least not for the pros, who start drooling all over themselves before they get out of their cars. Since keeping the ball in play isn’t much of a challenge, these tournaments turn into putting contests, and Earl isn’t going to win many of those.

  At Shoal Creek, which was carved out of the woods by Nicklaus in ’77 and has already hosted two PGA championships, no one’s salivating in the parking lot. It’s long and tight and unforgiving and there are no houses and swimming pools lining the fairways. To contend at Shoal Creek, you need to be a bona fide ball-striker, someone who can drive it long and straight and hit greens from 200 yards out all day. Even on the Senior Tour, there aren’t many of these, and Earl is one of them. Once you get to the deep end of his bag, he’s as good as any old fart in the world.

  In Birmingham, Earl and I have three days to prepare, and the more we see of the course, the worse it looks and the more I like it. Not only is the course hard, it’s set up hard too, with four inches of the juiciest Bermuda rough this side of a U.S. Open. In our first practice round, I drop three balls into it and invite Earl, one of the stronger guys out here, to hack away with his 7-iron. His best carries 85 yards.

  “This stuff is horrible,” says Earl.

  “No, it’s not. It’s beautiful. Because you’re not going to be in it. And a lot of your so-called friends will be.”

  24

  MY BIGGEST FEAR IS that Earl wants it too much. Ever since we rolled into town the press has been all over both of us. A former U.S. Senior Open winner who gets himself suspended, then comes out to caddy for his old pal, is good copy, and part of what makes it intriguing, particularly in Alabama, is that the golfer is black and the caddy white. When Shoal Creek hosted their second PGA Championship in 1990, the club’s all-white membership became a national story after Hall Thompson, its founder and president, defended his club by saying “we don’t discriminate in every other area except blacks.” Since then, Thompson has changed his tune, at least slightly, and added one African-American to the roster, but a black golfer winning the tournament would still be newsworthy, maybe even historic.

  In the press tent, Earl insists he couldn’t care less about any of that. “Winning my first tournament is all the incentive I need,” he says. That’s true, as far as it goes, but the racial backstory gives him all the more incentive. Why wouldn’t it? And you can tell that it means something to the club’s black caddies, who go out of their way to shake his hand, wish him luck, or just make eye contact.

  If Earl won’t talk about it, maybe I will. In the last three days, I’ve received dozens of interview requests, including one from ESPN’s Stuart Scott, who suggests I might want to be known for something other than the Ding Dong Lounge. I turn them all down—the last thing I want to do is say something stupid that will put extra pressure on Earl—and Thursday night, when there’s a knock on my hotel door, I ignore it like all the rest.

  After thirty seconds, it turns into banging.

  “Travis, open up. I know you’re in there.”

  Annoyed, I hop from the bed and unchain the door. It’s Stump.

  “I want to wish you good luck,” he says. “I think it’s great that you’re out here with Earl.”

  “Thanks, Stump. I hope Earl feels the same.”

  “Believe it or not, he does. I just ran into the Duke of Earl in the elevator. He told me you actually know what you’re doing. Surprised the hell out of him.”

  “I bet. Speaking of surprises, thanks again for what you said in Ponte Vedra. It really opened my eyes. For thirty years I didn’t like you very much.”

  “I kind of deduced that.”

  “All because you beat me in a college match thirty fucking years ago.”

  “You mean the one where you had me down by two with three to go?” says Stump with a shit-eating grin.

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “You’re a competitive prick, Travis. So am I and so is Earl and every other asshole out here. We wouldn’t be here otherwise. If it makes you feel any better, I always thought you were an asshole, too.”

  “But you were right.”

  “Yeah, good point.”

  Then Stump leans forward and points at a spot above my collar, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “No doubt about it,” he says. “That’s raw and pink and angry. It’s official, son. You’re a redneck now,
too.”

  25

  THE FINAL PIECE OF bad/good news is the weather. On Monday, the temperature barely reached sixty, and it has gotten colder and windier ever since. This morning, when we finally tee off for real, it’s forty-eight, with twenty-five-mile-an-hour gusts. On this course with this setup and this wind, it’s about survival, and who knows more about that than someone who got himself home in one piece from four tours in Vietnam?

  For the next four and a half hours, Earl and I keep our heads down and plot our way from point A to B to C, following the routes we mapped out for each hole. Off the tee, Earl keeps it out of the wind with a low, hard stinger even Tiger wouldn’t sneeze at. Although the ball doesn’t get more than twenty feet off the ground, he gets so much roll that he puts it out there 275/280 every time, and while Earl’s playing partners, one of whom is the golf commentator and Senior Tour rookie Gary McCord, are hacking it out of the rough every three or four holes, Earl doesn’t stray from the short grass.

  I’m not saying Earl makes it look easy. The human unhighlight film isn’t endowed with that kind of flair. But he makes it look boring, which is even better, as far as I’m concerned. Fairway, green, two putts. Fairway, green, two putts. After six holes of this, I overhear McCord mumble to his caddy, “I think that motherfucker is an android.”

  Earl’s got things so under control, I can enjoy the rugged scenery. When I say Shoal Creek was carved out of the woods, I mean real woods, and unlike most courses we play, the wilderness hasn’t been utterly obliterated so a bunch of middle-aged guys can play golf. There have been sightings of foxes, coyotes, and bears, and except for a brick chimney high on Double Oak Mountain, which looks down over the 14th hole, the views aren’t marred by houses.

  The first round is classic Earl—fourteen of fourteen fairways, fifteen greens in regulation, and thirty-four putts. One birdie, one bogey, and sixteen pars. That’s just fine, because for once, he’s playing a course where par means something. Earl’s opening 72 leaves him tied for third, two strokes out of the lead.

  26

  SATURDAY’S JUST AS RAW and gusty, and now it’s raining. By the third hole, it’s coming down hard and we all expect play to be suspended, but with no electricity on the radar, the marshals decide to have us slog on. The wet fairways make the course longer and harder, which plays into Earl’s strengths, but I’m more than a little worried about holding up my end of the bargain, since the one thing harder than playing golf in the wind and the cold is caddying in the rain.

  Add a downpour to the equation and caddying becomes borderline impossible. Ever try carrying the bag, cleaning and pulling clubs, pacing off yardages, and deciphering the wind and greens while holding an umbrella over your golfer? It’s like being a short-order cook at a popular diner on a busy morning, when you’ve got a grill full of crackling eggs and new orders piling up. There’s too much to do, and if you crumble under the pressure, you’re toast, as in whiskey down. To keep Earl and his equipment dry, I’ve got four towels in rotation—two in the bag, one under my jacket, and one hanging from the tines of Earl’s umbrella beside an extra glove—and all I’m trying to do is stay calm so Earl can stay calm, too.

  “Bearing up okay?” asks Earl as I swap a soaking towel for a semidry one.

  “Piece of cake,” I lie. “You just concentrate on fairways and greens.”

  Earl does as instructed. He’s like the U.S. Postal Service. Neither wind nor cold nor rain can stop him from delivering pars. On the par-five 10th, he even throws in a birdie, and when the horn blows to stop play with Earl safely on the 12th green, I’m disappointed, because I doubt anyone else is faring as well under these conditions.

  Till now, I’ve been too busy to verify that, but as Earl and I thread our way back to the clubhouse, we get our first look at the leaderboard. At the very top, so high it hurts my neck, is the name on the back of my overalls—Earl Fielder—and beside it the only number in red, −1, because he’s the only golfer under par.

  “Take a gander at that,” I say.

  “Let’s not get too worked up yet. We haven’t even played thirty holes. Speaking of which, as soon as we’re done here, you should head back to the hotel and take it easy. Tomorrow’s going to be a marathon.”

  27

  I CARRY EARL’S DRIPPING bag through the hotel lobby and into the elevator, and when I get off on the third floor, there’s a puddle in the corner. Inside my room, I pull all the clubs and dry the grips with a bath towel. Then I crank the tin heater to 11, lay the soaking bag in front of it, and head back out the door.

  When I drive back through the stone pillars, Shoal Creek is empty. After a day like today the players can’t get away fast enough, and the only people milling about the grounds are the employees of the beverage companies, who are here to restock the hospitality tents for Sunday. In its soggy way, the course is as lovely in the damp gloaming as in blazing sunshine, and as I walk past the abandoned clubhouse, I can hear the water running down the gutters and dripping off the leaves.

  Beyond the clubhouse is the pro shop, the retail outlet tastefully tucked away in a Colonial-style house with an eagle over the front door, and tacked to the rear of it like an afterthought is the low-slung caddy shack. Since the touring pros brought their own and the course is closed to members, there’s no work for the regular caddies this week. Nevertheless, a handful have come in to help each other while away a miserable day. Three play dominoes, a solitary tall figure stretches out over a pool table, and a fifth stands between them stuffing kindling into a potbelly stove that glows orange at the center of the room. The man stoking the fire seems the most approachable.

  “That little stove throws off some heat,” I offer.

  “Better than nothing.”

  “I’m Travis. I’m caddying for one of the seniors this week.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “It’s going to take more than luck to win tomorrow. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Who’s got you on the bag?”

  “Earl Fielder.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” says the man, unlocking a smile and extending his hand. “I’m Vince. How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking to talk to someone who knows a lot more about this track than me. Hopefully, someone willing to share what he knows.”

  “I wouldn’t be of much use. As the caddy master, I’m only on the course on Mondays, when they let us play. Those three aren’t what you’re looking for either. They’re what we call bag toters. The person you need to talk to is Ron Bouler,” he says, pointing toward the pool table. “Owl’s been looping here since the day it opened. He knows every blade of grass on this plantation. I’ll introduce you.

  “Hey, Owl,” says Vince, “someone’s here to pick your brain.” Bouler, who wears a leather cap, is setting up to bank the six ball in the far corner, and when he swivels his head toward me, I see why he was nicknamed after a bird of prey.

  “Travis is caddying for Earl Fielder this week and is looking for an edge, things you can’t find in the yardage book.” Without taking his eyes from me, Bouler slides his stick forward. The chipped cue hits the evergreen ball dead center, sending it caroming the full length of the table into the corner pocket.

  “Travis,” says Bouler, “aren’t you the one who got into it in Hawaii?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “And now you’re caddying for a brother. How the mighty have fallen.”

  “I’m just trying to return a favor and help a friend get his first win. Tomorrow, I want every advantage I can get.”

  “Local knowledge.”

  “Exactly. As much as you can spare and I can absorb in one night. I want to know how the greens will handle all this water. Which putts are going to look faster than they are and which are going to be slower? Which ones are going to break half an inch less than they look like they will and which ones will break half an inch more? What are the worst patches on every green and fairway? Where are you as good as dead and what can y
ou live with?”

  “You bring the chart of where they’re cutting the holes tomorrow?” As he puts down his cue, I pull a damp piece of paper from my rain jacket, unfold it, and hand it to him. When Bouler leans into the light, I’m surprised by how young he is, midthirties tops.

  “I stopped going to school after ninth grade,” says Bouler as he studies Sunday’s pin positions. “You were wondering how I could have caddied here since seventy-seven. Well, that’s how.”

  “Math was never my strong point,” I say.

  “It was mine, but I couldn’t afford to stay in school. Not if I wanted to eat, too. I started here at fifteen, actually before that. I grew up a mile down the road. When they brought in the big earthmoving machines to lay out the course, I rode over on my bike and watched. I saw the greens when they were just mounds of dirt, and when it poured like today, I watched the way the water ran over them. That’s the way the putts still roll.”

  Owl turns his eyes from me and calls back to Vince, who’s reading at the desk near the front door. “Vince, any chance you could put on another pot of coffee? Travis and me, we got some homework to do.”

  28

  BY SUNDAY MORNING, THE rain has cleared. It feels more like early September than late February, and that first-day-of-school edge in the air does nothing to ease my tension. Earl’s feeling it, too. On the range early, just after dawn, he hits a couple of balls off-center.