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  7. Desert Inn

  3

  206

  8. Baltusrol

  4

  365

  9. Pebble Beach

  4

  450

  10. Harbor Town

  4

  453

  11. Olympic

  4

  427

  12. Westchester

  4

  476

  13. Augusta

  5

  485

  14. Butler National

  4

  429

  15. Medinah

  4

  318

  16. Cypress Point

  3

  233

  17. Oakmont

  4

  322

  18. Doral (Blue)

  4

  425

  ——–

  ——–

  72

  7092

  It was a roll call of some of the toughest holes in America. I had come to grief on several of them during my years on the US tour.

  The gargantuan opening hole at Spyglass Hill demands superhuman stroke play to achieve par. I once took twelve at Pebble Beach’s notorious 9th and saw why it was nicknamed the Old Heartbreaker. Perched above the restless ocean, the 16th at Cypress Point is the most beautiful but deadly hole I’ve ever encountered, a true test of nerve and technique. When the north wind hits the Monterey Peninsula, all three holes are invincible.

  Other names stirred other memories for me.

  Winged Foot needs rifle accuracy. Merion is strategically trapped around the green. The prevailing winds in San Francisco are cunning pickpockets who rob you freely of strokes at Olympic. The 12th at Westchester is a giant par-four that’s strewn with hazards. I’ve lost count of the number of balls I’ve put into the creek at Augusta’s unlucky 13th, and the challenging 14th at Butler National has also had me in deep water. As for the Blue Monster at Doral, there are few more daunting finishing holes than this one in Miami.

  My quiet panic had soon given way to relief.

  I realised that Golden Haze was not an amalgam of exact replicas, because it would have been impossible to reproduce some of those unique holes. What Tom Bellinghaus had done was to keep strictly to their yardages while copying only a feature or two from them. Golden Haze, he claimed, was a celebration of the best of American golf.

  As soon as I began my practice round with Zuke, I realised that Bellinghaus was a disciple of that legendary course architect, Robert Trent Jones. There were the same hallmarks—lush velvet fairways, manicured roughs, huge tees and massive, undulating greens guarded by water and contoured bunkers. It was pretty but punitive. Bellinghaus had toughened it even more with some vicious dog-legs that created blind shots and some uniformly cruel pin placements.

  Howie Danzig had been right. It could be a killer.

  Realistically, I had no chance of winning the tournament. I’d been brought in at the last moment and had only two days to master a perilous course. It was over a month since I’d played any golf and I was pitted against quality opposition. The best I could hope for was to give a good account of myself and stave off humiliation.

  To achieve this, I was lucky enough to have the help of an excellent caddie. Jerry Bruford was a short, sturdy, bullet-headed man in his forties, a gum-chewing philosopher who’d studied the course carefully and found much to respect but nothing to fear. His comments were invaluable, his judgement of distance faultless and his advice about club selection sound. We liked each other straight away.

  Zuke had recommended the caddie and I was grateful. With Jerry Bruford in my corner, I felt safe.

  ‘This is the suicide hole,’ he warned.

  We’d reached the 13th. Augusta. The centrepiece.

  ‘By the end of the tournament,’ predicted Jerry, surveying the great expanse of water in front of us, ‘that lake will have more balls in it than the entire United States Army.’

  The kidney-shaped lake ran almost from tee to green. What made it especially hazardous was the fact that the unusually small green was set on a raised plateau. Too long a shot would take you on over into a bunker while an under-hit ball was certain to roll down the sharp incline and into the lake.

  ‘Don’t try any heroics,’ said Jerry. ‘Keep right and stay clear of the water. That way you get a good look at the flag when you try to hit the green with your third shot.’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed.

  It was a baptism of fire. I hooked my tee shot into the lake, lost a second ball when I under-hit my approach shot to the green, then found a bunker on the far side of the plateau.

  I finished with a bogey six. Jerry was sympathetic.

  Zuke managed a creditable par at the hole. His massive tee shot went to the right of the lake, then he cut diagonally across it at its narrowest point. All he could see of the green when he hit his third shot was the tip of the flag, but his ball landed obligingly on the edge of the putting surface and he sank it with two putts.

  His mood had changed the instant we began the practice round and he was now jaunty, talkative and brimming with confidence. Dressed flamboyantly in yellow shirt, red trousers and white shoes, he made me feel almost invisible in my dark colours and baseball cap. Whenever he was in the public eye, Zuke liked to cut a dash.

  I hit dozens of balls during the round and made many serious mistakes but I was not disheartened. There’s always a special thrill in tackling a new course for the first time and I knew that I could improve every time I got out on it. I learned a lot from listening to Jerry and from watching Zuke, and I took the trouble to make copious notes in my little pad at each hole.

  We adjourned to the locker room.

  ‘What’s the verdict, Al?’ asked my host.

  ‘It’s a tough bugger and no mistake, but it might have its weaknesses.’ I grinned at him. ‘Just wish I knew where they were.’

  ‘I’ll find them,’ he announced. ‘Come Thursday, that course is going to lose its virginity good and proper. And I’ll be the guy responsible.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ asked a mocking voice.

  Gamil Amir had come into the locker room and overheard us. He sauntered over and studied Zuke through dark brown eyes. Small white teeth showed beneath his black pencil moustache.

  ‘How will you take its virginity?’ he teased. ‘From what I hear, you don’t have the balls for it any more.’

  Bristling with anger, Zuke leapt up to face him.

  ‘Why don’t you just hop on your camel and get your unwanted Arab ass out of here?’

  ‘I live in America now,’ replied the other with smiling control. ‘I know your customs well, I speak your language perfectly and I play golf better than any of you.’

  ‘Only one problem, Amir. We don’t fucking like you!’

  ‘Some of your men don’t,’ he conceded. ‘But your women like me. They like me a lot. Ask your wife.’

  Zuke’s punch caught him on the side of the jaw and sent him staggering back. I th
rew my arms around my friend to prevent him from diving after Amir.

  ‘Calm down, Zuke!’ I urged. ‘Take it easy, will you?’

  Blood trickled from the corner of Amir’s mouth and down on to his fawn sweater. He looked in a mirror and stemmed the flow with a handkerchief, then he swung round to confront Zuke again. Amir’s voice was deep and menacing.

  ‘Don’t ever come to my country,’ he warned. ‘You’re the sort of man who would end up floating in the Nile with a knife through his throat!’

  He turned on his heel and stalked out quickly.

  When Zuke eventually calmed down, we had a late lunch in the clubhouse. He then excused himself because he had to see Howie on business that afternoon. I took Jerry out for another practice round and worked hard for some hours. We spent a long time at the troublesome 13th. I was determined to crack it before the tournament.

  Zuke returned to drive me back to the house. After dinner with him and Helen, I sloped off for an early night.

  The next day followed the same pattern. A practice round with Zuke in the morning, lunch together, then a solo foray in the afternoon to try to iron out some of the many difficulties I was still having. It was evening before I finally packed in and went to the bar. A familiar figure hailed me in rasping tones.

  ‘Hurry up, Saxon! You owe the barman eight dollars.’

  It was Clive Phelps. Lounging against the counter, he was as shabbily dressed as ever and his thick curly hair needed a trim. A cheroot was jammed between his lips and it had burned down so low that it was in danger of setting fire to his thick moustache. Ash decorated his shoulder and sleeve.

  I pumped his arm to show how delighted I was to see him and ordered drinks for us both.

  ‘Thought you were coming yesterday, Clive.’

  ‘So did I,’ he moaned, stubbing out his cheroot. ‘Fog at Heathrow. Cancellations. Delays. Total bloody chaos. I was lucky to get here at all.’

  ‘So you haven’t had a chance to see the course yet?’

  ‘Someone drove me round in a golf cart. Looks a right sod.’

  ‘It won’t take prisoners.’

  I explained why and Clive absorbed all the details like a sponge. A good golfer himself when he allowed himself to be, he was full of pertinent questions about the finer points of Golden Haze. Our drinks arrived and I settled my debts. We toasted each other and drank deep. His eyes rolled comically.

  ‘What’s the scandal?’

  ‘None so far.’

  ‘Come on!’ he complained. ‘What is this? I was the one who got you out here, remember. I expect a bit of quid pro quo, old son. Spill the beans. Who’s been fucking whose wife? Where are the backhanders going? Is it true Kallgren’s tied in with the Mafia?’

  ‘Everything’s completely above board, Clive.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  I pondered. ‘Well, there is one thing,’ I admitted.

  ‘Tell me all. Whisper it into my shell-like lughole.’

  After swearing him to secrecy, I told him about the incident between Zuke Everett and Gamil Amir. He was enthralled.

  ‘We could be in for some fireworks, Alan.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Amir is clear favourite to win. Everybody’s tipping him. Man can’t lose. Now, my question is this.’ His eyebrows rose quizzically. ‘If Zuke takes a swing at him over a chance remark in the locker room, what in God’s name will he do to Amir when the bugger slaughters him out there on the course?’

  It was an alarming thought.

  ***

  Pomp and ceremony surrounded the start of the Kallgren Tournament of Champions. The media were there in force and the large crowd around the first tee contained more than a sprinkling of Hollywood stars and VIPs. Resplendent in their uniforms, a US Marines band gave us rousing extracts from the Sousa repertoire. Along with the twenty-nine other players, I was lined up in front of the dais. The Titanic could not have been launched with more fuss and pretension.

  Using a pair of silver shears to cut a giant ribbon, the Mayor of Los Angeles declared Golden Haze officially open, then posed for the cameras. Rutherford Kallgren came forward to make a short speech of welcome to us all and expressed the hope that the inaugural event would put his pride and joy firmly on the golfing map. Kallgren was far too plausible for my liking and had the sort of self-effacing manner that subtly draws attention to itself. I was happy to play in his tournament but I would have hated to work for such a man.

  Tom Bellinghaus now took his turn at the microphone. Big, sleek and completely bald, he spoke with the beaming arrogance of a man convinced that he is supreme in his chosen field.

  ‘Golden Haze is my course. I created it. I wanted it to be the most comprehensive test of golfing skills in America and I believe that I have achieved that objective.’

  He paused to bask in the spontaneous applause. I noticed that none of the players clapped. Tom Bellinghaus noticed too. He aimed his next remarks directly at us.

  ‘You are the cream of the golfing world and you will all be out to tame my course. I defy you to do so. To prove I have faith in my handiwork, gentlemen, I will put my money where my mouth is. The crucial hole at Golden Haze is the 13th. It will break many of you and hold all of you at bay. Let me throw down a challenge to you. I will pay $500 to anyone who gets a birdie at the 13th hole.’ He quelled the immediate buzz of interest with outstretched hands. ‘And I offer a prize of $5000 to the player who gets an eagle.’

  Applause mingled with excited speculation as he sat down. Tom Bellinghaus had thrown down the gauntlet. Evidently, he did not expect to have to part with a cent of his money. It was up to us to wipe that complacent grin off his face.

  ‘He could regret that,’ muttered Zuke, standing beside me.

  ‘I hope he does,’ I said. ‘Somehow I doubt it.’

  The first round began shortly afterwards.

  When the draw had been made I was fortunate to be partnered with Phil Reiner, the quiet man of the US tour. Tall, muscular and impeccably smart, Reiner had a pleasantly anonymous face that was hidden behind large, gold-framed spectacles. He was a consistently good rather than a brilliant golfer and always finished near the top of the USPGA tour rankings. He was the ideal partner. Cool, polite, professional.

  It was a measure of the course’s unforgiving meanness that I played well and still finished eight strokes over par. Phil Reiner was in impressive form and actually managed a par round. Two strokes ahead of him was Gamil Amir, the instant crowd favourite and the only player to beat par. Zuke Everett’s name ended the day in fourth place.

  The 13th hole never looked in the slightest danger of yielding a birdie. Bellinghaus beamed on. His wallet was undefiled.

  Pairings were altered for the second round so that the leading players went out last. Thanks to Jerry’s guidance and a more aggressive attitude, I shot a 74 that boosted my confidence a great deal. I was teamed with the luckless Mr. Chung, a somnolent Korean who hit two shots into water and lost a third ball in some pine trees.

  By repeating his performance of the first round, Amir stayed at the top of the leader board with a cushion of three strokes. Reiner was second on 143 with Dayton Willard breathing down his neck. Zuke had a disastrous second round and slipped right back. It was galling enough for him to have Amir in the lead but he was in an even fouler mood when the Egyptian collected $500 for a birdie at the 13th.

  He was miserable company that night at the house.

  The third round changed everything. A fierce wind stiffened some already impregnable defences and scores began to tumble. I was struggling from the first tee. Zuke, by contrast, was in his element. I was not too thrilled at having him as my playing partner when we set out but I soon revised my opinion because I became an awe-struck witness to a truly remarkable round of golf.

  Zuke Everett ha
d always been a player who responded to pressure but this time he surpassed himself. Defeating the wind with a low trajectory, he drove with a blend of power, accuracy and sheer determination. No hole was safe when he was in that form. He had picked up three birdies before we reached the back nine.

  His charge continued all the way to the 13th hole.

  ‘This is the big one, Zuke,’ I observed.

  ‘I’m ready for it.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Augusta was truly the death hole.

  During the first two rounds, it carried out a series of cold-blooded character assassinations that left even great players looking like ordinary ones. Since it was expected to draw even more blood, it had attracted a huge crowd and the stands around the green were packed.

  Sitting among the other ghouls was Tom Bellinghaus.

  Gasps of disbelief went up from the gallery when Zuke Everett addressed his ball on the tee. Instead of driving to the right of the lake to secure a good position from which to cross it, Zuke was going to try to carry the water with his tee shot. Since he was aiming diagonally across the widest part of the lake, his ball had to stay in the air for the best part of three hundred yards. Even though the wind was now at our backs, it was a frighteningly audacious shot.

  Zuke drew his driver back with utmost concentration and then brought it whistling down with a fierce plunge of speed. His ball flew through the air like a bird for several long seconds and then it all but skimmed the water’s surface before hitting the safety of the bank. Ever the showman, Zuke turned to acknowledge the uproar with his club held aloft. A birdie—even an eagle—was now possible.

  After Zuke’s incredible tee shot, my own was an anti-climax. Opting for safety, I stayed to the right of the lake, content to pick my way around and give myself a good view of the green.

  We split up and headed for opposite sides of the lake.

  ‘Go on, Zuke,’ yelled a fan. ‘You can walk on water!’

  ‘No,’ he called back. ‘I can only turn it into wine.’