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Since it was first played in 1935, the United States Classic had grown in prestige until it was now considered the “fifth major”—right along with the Masters, the British Open, the PGA, and the U.S. Open. The course where the Classic was held had become legendary, a place to be mentioned in the same breath as Augusta, Cypress Point, and Merion. Golfers called it the Old Testament and for good reason. The course was one of the most beautiful in the South, lush with pines and ancient magnolias. Beards of Spanish moss draped the oaks that served as a backdrop to the small, perfectly manicured greens, and oyster-white sand, soft as powder, filled the bunkers. When the day was still and the sun warm, the fairways glistened with light so pure it seemed heavenly. But the natural beauty of the course was part of its treachery. While it warmed the heart, it could also lull the senses, so that the bedazzled player didn't realize until a fraction of a second too late that the Old Testament forgave no sins.
Golfers snarled at it and cursed it and swore they would never play it again, but the best of them always came back, because those heroic eighteen holes provided something that life itself could never deliver. They provided perfect justice. The good shot was always rewarded, the bad met with swift, terrible punishment. Those eighteen holes provided no second chance, no time for jury-rigging, no opportunity to plea-bargain. The Old Testament vanquished the weak, while on the strong it bestowed glory and honor forever. Or at least until the next day.
Dallie hated the Classic. Before he'd given up drinking and his game had improved, he hadn't always qualified for it. The last few years, however, he'd played well enough to find himself on the roster. Most of the time he wished he'd stayed home. The Old Testament was a golf course that demanded perfection, and Dallie damned well knew he was too imperfect to live up to that kind of expectation. He told himself that the Classic was a tournament like any other, but when this course defeated him, it seemed to shrink his very soul.
Every part of him wished that Francesca had chosen another tournament when she'd issued her challenge. Not that he was taking her seriously. No way. As far as he was concerned, she had kissed him good-bye when she'd thrown that little tantrum. Still, someone else was in the announcers' booth when Dallie teed up at the first hole, taking a few seconds to shoot a grin at a pretty little blonde who was smiling at him from the front row of the gallery. He'd told the network honchos they were going to have to wait a little bit longer for him and handed back their contract unsigned. He just hadn't been able to sit this one out. Not this year. Not after what Francesca had said to him.
The grip on his driver felt good in his hand as he addressed the ball, solid and comforting. He felt loose. He felt fine. And he was damned well going to show Francesca that she didn't know what she was talking about. He hit a big booming drive that shot out into the sky—rocket-driven, a NASA special. The gallery applauded. The ball sped through space on its way to eternity. And then, at the very last instant before it descended, it drifted ever so slightly... just enough so that it missed the edge of the fairway and landed in a clump of magnolias.
Francesca bypassed her secretary and dialed her contact in the sports department directly, making her fourth call to him that afternoon. “How's he doing now?” she asked when the male voice answered.
“Sorry, Francesca, but he lost another shot on the seventeenth hole, which puts him at three over par. It's only the first round, so—assuming he survives the cut—he has three more rounds to go, but this isn't the best way to start a tournament.” She pressed her eyes shut as he continued. “Of course, this isn't his kind of tournament anyway, you know that. The Classic is high pressure, high voltage. I remember when Jack Nicklaus owned the place.” She barely listened as he went on, reminiscing about his favorite game. “Nicklaus is the only golfer in history who could regularly bring the Ol
d Testament to its knees. Year after year, all through the seventies and even into the early eighties, he'd come into the Classic and blow everybody away, walking those fairways like he owned them, making those tiny little greens beg for mercy with those superhuman putts of his....”
By the end of the day, Dallie was four over par. Francesca felt heartsick. Why had she done this to him? Why had she issued such a ridiculous challenge? At home that night, she tried to read, but nothing held her attention. She started to clean out the hall closet, but she couldn't concentrate. At ten o'clock that night, she began phoning the airlines trying to find a late flight. Then she gently awakened Teddy and told him the two of them were taking a trip.
Holly Grace banged on the door of Francesca's motel room early the next morning. Teddy had just gotten up, but since dawn Francesca had been pacing the perimeters of the shabby little room that was the best accommodation she could find in a town bursting at the seams with golfers and their fans. She nearly threw herself into Holly Grace's arms. “Thank God you're here! I was afraid something had happened.”
Holly Grace deposited her suitcase just inside the door and sagged wearily into the nearest chair. “I don't know why I let you talk me into this. We didn't finish shooting until nearly midnight, and I had to take a six A.M. flight. I barely got an hour's sleep on the plane coming down here.”
“I'm sorry, Holly Grace. I know this is an absolutely miserable thing to do to you. If I didn't think it was so important, I'd never have asked.” She hoisted Holly Grace's suitcase to the foot of the bed and opened the latches. “While you're taking a shower, I'll get some fresh clothes out and Teddy can pick up some breakfast for you at the coffee shop. I know it's dreadful of me to rush you like this, but Dallie tees off in an hour. I've got the passes ready. Just make sure he sees both of you right away.”
“I don't understand why you can't take Teddy to watch him play,” Holly Grace complained. “It's ridiculous to drag me all the way down here just to escort your son to a golf tournament.”
Francesca pulled Holly Grace to her feet and then pushed her toward the bathroom. “I need some blind faith from you right now. Please!”
Forty-five minutes later, Francesca stood well back from the door as she let Holly Grace and Teddy out, making certain none of the people milling around in the parking lot could see her clearly enough to recognize her. She knew how fast news traveled, and unless it became absolutely necessary, she had no intention of letting Dallie know she was anywhere near. As soon as the two of them had disappeared, she rushed to the television so she could be ready and waiting for the tournament coverage to begin.
Seve Ballesteros was leading the tournament after the first round, so Dallie wasn't in the best of moods as he came off the practice green. Dallie used to like Seve, until Francesca had started making cracks about how good looking he was. Now just the sight of that dark-haired Spaniard made him feel out of sorts. He looked over toward the leader board and confirmed what he already knew, that Jack Nicklaus had ended up at five strokes over par the day before, shooting a round even worse than Dallie's own. Dallie felt a mean-spirited satisfaction. Nicklaus was getting old; the years were finally doing what human beings couldn't— putting an end to the incomparable reign of the Golden Bear from Columbus, Ohio.
Skeet walked ahead of Dallie to the first tee. “There's a little surprise for you over there,” he said, gesturing toward his left. Dallie followed the direction of his gaze and then grinned as he spotted Holly Grace standing just behind the ropes. He began to walk over to her, only to freeze in mid-stride as he recognized Teddy standing at her side.
Anger rushed through him. How could one small woman be so vindictive? He knew Francesca had sent Teddy and he knew why. She had sent the boy to taunt him, to remind him of every nasty word she had hurled at him. Normally he would have liked having Teddy watch him play, but not at the Classic—not at a tournament where he had never done well. It occurred to him that Francesca wanted Teddy to see him get beaten, and the thought made him so furious he could barely contain himself. Something of his feelings must have shown because Teddy looked down at his feet and then back up again with that mulishly stubborn expression that Dallie had grown to recognize all too well.
Dallie reminded himself that it wasn't Teddy's fault, but it still took all of his self-control to walk over and greet them. His fans in the gallery immediately began asking him questions and calling out encouragement. He joked with them a little bit, glad of the distraction because he didn't know what to say to Teddy. I'm sorry I screwed everything up for us—that's what he should say. I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk to you, to tell you what you mean to me, to tell you how proud I was when you protected your mama that day in Wynette.
Skeet was holding out his driver as Dallie turned away from the gallery. “This is the first time ol' Teddy's going to see you play, isn't it?” Skeet said, handing him the club. “Be a shame if he didn't see your best game.”
Dallie shot him a black look, and then walked over to tee up. The muscles in his back and shoulders felt as tight as steel bands. Normally he joked with the crowd before he hit, but today he couldn't manage it. The club felt foreign in his hand. He looked over at Teddy and saw the tight little frown in his forehead, a frown of total concentration. Dallie forced himself to focus his attention on what he had to do—on what he could do. He took a deep breath, eye on the ball, knees slightly bent, drew back the club and then whipped it through, using all the strength of his powerful left side. Airborne.
The crowd applauded. The ball fired out over the lush green fairway, a white dot speeding against a cloudless sky. It began to descend, heading directly toward the clump of magnolias that had done Dallie in the day before. And then, at the end, the ball faded to the right so that it landed on the fairway in perfect position. Dallie heard a wild Texas cheer from behind him and turned to grin at Holly Grace. Skeet gave him a thumbs-up, and even Teddy had a half-smile on his face.
That night, Dallie went to bed knowing he'd finally brought the Old Testament to its knees. While the tournament leaders had fallen victim to a strong wind, Dallie had shot three under par, enough to make up for the disaster of the first day and push him way up on the leader board, enough to show his son just a little bit about how the old game of golf was played. Seve was still in there, along with Fuzzy Zoeller and Greg Norman. Watson and Crenshaw were out. Nicklaus had shot another mediocre round, but the Golden Bear never gave up easily, and he had scored just well enough to survive the cut.
As Dallie tried to fall asleep that night, he told himself to concentrate on Seve and the others, not to worry about Nicklaus. Jack was eight over par, too far behind to be in contention and too old to pull off any of his miraculous last-minute charges. But as Dallie punched his pillow into shape, he heard the Bear's voice whispering to him as if he were standing right there in the room. Don't ever count me out, Beaudine. I'm not like you. I never quit.
Dallie couldn't seem to hold his concentration on the third day. Despite the presence of Holly Grace and Teddy, his play was mediocre and he ended at three over par. It was enough to put him in a three-way tie for second place, but he was two shots out of the lead.
By the end of the third day's play, Francesca's head ached from watching the small motel television screen so intently. On CBS, Pat Summerall began to summarize the day's action.
“Dallie Beaudine has never played well under pressure, and it seemed to me he looked tight out there.”
“The noise from the crowd obviously bothered him,” Ken Venturi observed. “You've got to remember that Jack Nicklaus was playing in the group right behind Dallie, and when Jack is hot, like he was today, the gallery goes wild. Every time those cheers went up, you'd better believe the other players could hear, and they all knew Jack had made another spectacular shot. That can't help but shake up the tournament leaders.”
“It'll be interesting to see if Dallie can change his pattern of final-round defeats and come back tomorrow,” Sum
merall said. “He's a big hitter, he has one of the best swings on the tour, and he's always been popular with the fans. You know they'd like nothing better than to see him finally pull one out.”
