Miracle at Augusta (14 page)

“HOW DOES IT FEEL?”
I ask when Jerzy finally reaches the hole and sees the evidence for himself.

“Ridiculous good,” he says. He plucks the ball from the hole and holds it in the moonlight. “So ridiculous good, it should be illegal.”

“Actually, it is.”

“Well, fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.”

“That's what I say.”

We give ourselves a minute before we vacate the green. Then we walk past the 11th tee, where our round began, and for the first time today, a part of Augusta National is familiar, not because we've seen it countless times on television but because we stood on this very spot three hours before, and that makes for a richer strain of nostalgia.

The feeling of déjà vu is even stronger as we head up the 11th fairway, crest the hill, and gaze out toward the amoeba-shaped shadows that are the 11th and 12th greens. Now the moon is all the way up and crickets have replaced the birds, and as we walk through the dew-drenched grass, I feel the same elation I did as a twelve-year-old, when after
“two more holes”
and
“just one more”
and then
“one more and that's it,”
I raced back through the sudden nightfall toward the Creekview parking lot.

Fifty yards short of the green, I hear Rae's Creek, and then I smell it. We step out of our shoes and socks and wade back across. On the other side, I lay Jerzy's bag on the ground and, from our dry perch on his clubs, stare back across the creek at Amen Corner.

“Jerzy, you know what was your best swing all day?”

Jerzy shrugs, still hauling aboard his birdie/eagle finish.

“The only one that didn't count. After you knocked it into the trees on ten, you stepped up to the provisional with the exact same attitude as the first. That showed a lot of heart. I'm really proud of you for that. There are a lot of pros who couldn't have done that. In fact, you're sitting next to one of them.”

“That's because you're a great big baby.”

“Correct.”

After one last glance across the creek, we turn our backs on Augusta National and make the slow climb through the pines. I should have thought to pack a flashlight, because scrambling over the wall is borderline dangerous, particularly for an exhausted almost fifty-two-year-old. Once we're back on legal ground, Jerzy finds the spot where I stashed my clubs, and we slip through the trees onto the grounds of the Augusta Country Club.

“You think Hootie is going to take you up on that tour?”

“I hope so,” says Jerzy. “When I said I'd be honored to show him around Big Oaks, I meant it. It's still my favorite place. Always will be. That reminds me, there's something I've really got to say.”

“What?”

“Next time, I'm caddying.”

“No shit.”

For a couple of minutes, we stand in the dark and smile, savoring a ridiculous good day. Then Earl turns on a flashlight and we see the two carts parked side by side.

“Well?” asks Stump. “How'd our boy do?”

“That's it?” I ask. “No hello? It's good to see you? We were a little worried about you guys? None of that? Just, what did he shoot?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Afraid so,” I say. “Seventy-seven…from the tips.”

Stump emits a sound only a 220-pound tobacco-chewing redneck is capable of producing without injury. “This calls for a celebration, and I know just the place. But Jerzy's going to need ID.”

“For fuck's sake, Stump,” says Earl. “After everything they've done today, I think they're capable of getting themselves into your silly-ass bar.”

“They better be. Because Wednesday is karaoke night.”

Stump motions for Jerzy to take the seat next to him and I get in the cart with Earl and we race beneath the moon to the empty parking lot. The last thing I hear, before their cart slips out of earshot, is Stump telling Jerzy, “You got a nice little game, son, keep it up.”

IT'S A LITTLE MORE
than two months later, and I'm sitting in the den with Sarah, Noah, and Louie, watching golf on television. For obvious reasons, I've been doing more spectating than competing this summer, and this weekend is particularly rough because it's the U.S. Senior Open, my one shining moment as a pro. That must be why Sarah, who wouldn't normally spend Saturday indoors, has joined me and Noah on the couch.

The good news is that both Earl and Stump are having a great Open. Not only are they tied for third at four under par, they're paired in the second-to-last group, and with Lee Trevino rounding out the threesome, they're guaranteed plenty of airtime. In fact, the broadcast opens with Stump, shameless as ever, waving his cap back and forth and whipping the crowd into a frenzy. When he finally puts the cap back on his head, I can't make out the name on the front, but I can tell it's not Titleist or Skoal, his primary sponsors.

“Noah, can you read what it says on Stump's hat?”

“State,” says Noah.

“Must be Georgia State,” I say. “Either that, or he signed a new deal with an insurance company.”

When Trevino takes the tee, the crowd is even more raucous, and when he doffs his cap, I notice the same unfamiliar white font.

“How about Lee's hat?” I ask Noah. “Can you read that?”

“
Re
something,” he says.

Next and last is Earl, and as he goes into his brisk preshot routine, I see he's wearing the same boxy black hat with the same simple white font on the crown, this time a word beginning with
M.

“Your name is on his hat,” says Sarah, stunned. “It says McKinley.”

“It does, Dad.”

Earl splits the fairway for the millionth time, and after his ball stops rolling, Earl, Stump, and Trevino pose side by side, their hats reading:
M
c
KINLEY, STATE, RE-IN.
Then Earl switches places with Lee, and the three hats read:
RE-IN STATE M
c
KINLEY
.

The three are still side by side on the tee box and beaming into the camera when my favorite on-course interviewer, Dave Marr, hustles over and asks, “What's with the hats, gentlemen?” and shoves a microphone in front of Earl's face.

“This is for our buddy Travis McKinley,” says Earl, “who got suspended for nothing more than a scuffle between consenting adults. He's been out four months now, and that's four months too long.”

“Enough is enough,” says Stump.

“And how about you, Lee? You feel the same way?”

“These guys were both there. If they think it's ridiculous, that's good enough for me. Besides, Travis is one of my favorite players. I miss him, and I'm sure the fans do, too.”

“Dad, can you believe Trevino just called you one of his favorite players?”

“No, I can't…and it's too late to tape it.”

It doesn't stop there. On the second tee, Earl's Platoon takes up the chant: “Reinstate McKinley…Reinstate McKinley!” and when they tire of that, switch to the catchier “It can't wait! Reinstate!” often with Stump out front conducting the choir. Earl and Stump must have been plotting this for weeks, because by the back nine, half the field has switched to a black cap with either
RE-IN, STATE,
or
M
c
KINLEY
on it. I don't have to look over at Sarah to know that tears are streaming down her face, but I risk it anyway.

Overwhelmed, I retreat to the backyard with Louie, sip my beer on a lawn chair, and gaze up at the trees. Sarah and I have lived in this house nearly thirty years, and the branches get fuller and lovelier each summer, and for twenty minutes I watch and listen as the leaves move in the gentle breeze. When my cell phone goes off and I see the call is from Ponte Vedra, Florida, I consider not answering, but on the fifth ring I succumb.

“Travis, it's Tim Finchem.”

“I had no idea they were planning this. Are you calling because you want me to ask them to stop?”

“No, it's too late for that. I'm calling to eat crow. If your fellow players want you back, who am I to stand in the way? As of this moment, your suspension is officially suspended. You are once again a member in full standing on the Senior Tour.”

I hear the words, but they're more than I can absorb, so I close my eyes and listen to the leaves.

“Travis, you there?”

“Yes, Commissioner. Thanks very much.”

“Don't thank me, Travis. Thank Earl and Stump and Lee. You got a lot of good friends out here. I hope you know that.…One other thing, before I forget. A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from Hootie Johnson. You know Hootie, right? The chairman of Augusta National?”

“I know who he is. I can't say I know him.”

“Well, apparently he knows you. I don't know what prompted this, and I'm not sure I want to, but he said if you ever want to play Augusta National you should give him a call. Good night, Travis, and welcome back.”

I stare at the rustling leaves for another hour before I go back inside and share the news.

IT WAS CHRISTMAS morning and a balmy 38 degrees. In other words, a perfect day for golf, and there I stood on the semifrozen mud of the 17th tee at the Creekview Country Club in Winnetka, Illinois.

My marriage was disintegrating. My three kids, whom I love more than life itself, didn't know what to make of me lately, and I had a terrible feeling that come January, I was going to be fired from my job at Leo Burnett. Who knows, if everything went as badly as it possibly could, there was a chance I might be one of the homeless after that.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

I bent down, teed up an old scuffed Titleist, and squinted through the wind at the long tight par 5, lined on both sides by towering black leafless elms.

Now what follows is one of those mystical, largely unexplainable, out-of-body experiences, so please bear with me. Or as Vin Scully used to say at the start of his golf telecasts, pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable. I admit that in sheer unlikelihood, this probably ranks right up there with Truman upsetting Dewey,
It's a Wonderful Life,
and John Daly winning the British Open.

What can I say? Stuff happens to people. Tragedies befall saints. Fortune smiles on cretins. Extraordinary things happen to ordinary people. And this happened to me.

Since it is such a crucial number in this story, I should point out that I was starting my round on 17. Despite the unseasonable thaw, it
was
Christmas, the course was empty, and 17 just happened to be the tee closest to where I parked. Anyway, I knocked the cover off my drive.

Nothing unusual about that. I hit the ball farther than the pro here at Creekview. I even hit the ball farther than the current champ, Mark Duffel, who's twenty.

I trudged down the fairway, nudged my ball away from a sprinkler head, and hit my second shot, a 185-yard, 5-iron, stiff. Suddenly, I was feeling better. To hell with my problems. Golf can have that effect.

Now, here comes the weird part. This is where everything gets a little spooky, and I took my first step on this road—​either to salvation or damnation.

I stroked that putt so clean and solid.

Strange.

I put such a pure sweet roll on it, the ball traveled over the grass like a bead of mercury rolls across the floor after you break a thermometer.

The beginning of a miracle. A harbinger. A sign.

The little white ball dropped into the little white cup for eagle.

I was hooked.

I was elated.

I was doomed.

I must tell you right now, however, that this isn't the so-called Miracle on 17. Not even close.

I hurried to the next tee.

I KNOW WHAT you're thinking. What's the big deal about a nine-foot putt in a practice round on a deserted golf course in the dead of winter, with the only witness a skinny red squirrel who had hopped onto the green in search of an acorn or two?

Let me give you a little quick background.

Except for tap-ins and your basic no-account three- or four-footers, I don't make putts less than twelve feet. My nickname, borrowed in a most unflattering way from the former world welterweight champion Roberto Duran, is “Hands of Stone.” In spite of that, I've been club champ here at the Creekview Country Club in Winnetka five out of the past twelve years.

But it wasn't just that the putt on 17 went in. Every-
body gets lucky sometime.

It was
how
the putt went in.

It didn't creep in the side door, or dribble in the front, or start off-line and get corrected by a spike mark. It was dead center from the instant it touched off my blade until it rammed home with all the subtlety of a Shaquille O'Neal dunk.

But even more important was the
feeling
I had as I stood over the putt.
I knew it was going in.

Knew it in my hands, shoulders, legs, and bones.

Knew it with a degree of certainty that was almost spooky.

It was like something that had already happened, and all I had to do was patiently wait for the present to catch up.

For the first time in forty years, I could actually
see the line.
My nickname notwithstanding, my putting problem was never really my touch. It was in my eyes, or somewhere behind them in the plumbing of my brain. Does it break three inches or two? Does it break at the beginning or the end? Your guess was as good as mine.

But that morning as I stood with my eyes directly over the Titleist logo, my putting dyslexia was cured. It was as if someone from the Winnetka Highway Department had painted a dotted white line between my ball and the hole. Or better yet, had laid a small stretch of track about the size of my younger son Noah's train set, and all I had to do was get the ball started right and then watch it roll as if it were on rails into the center of the cup.

But, as I said before, this isn't the miracle I'm trying to tell you about.