Comeback

Comeback

         When they talk about a manicured course, most people don’t understand what that means.  They might presume that its like their neighbor’s lawn.  Every bush is trimmed to perfection, every blade of grass is of equal height and dimension and every bed of flowers is planted with an exact pattern over a thick, rich, bed of mulch.  However, your anal retentive neighbor has nothing on the golf course superintendents that groom the golf courses shown on network television every Sunday afternoon. 

         These courses take manicured to a whole new level.  The grass is mowed every day, and in patterns and designs that would boggle the most fastidious homeowner.  Acres and acres of bermuda, bent, blue and fescue, as well as variations that only the architects and superintendent’s will know, are primped and primed for the best of the world’s golfers.  They even time the blooming of shrubs and flowers my limiting daylight and root temperature until just before the tournament starts.  This ensures that the blooming is at its peak on Saturday and Sunday.  For the average person, these are not golf courses, they are shrines of natures beauty.  Nor are these the courses on which the greats cut their teeth.  Jones, Sarazen, Hagen and Snead would have laughed at the effort and technology that has been developed. 

         However it was the vision of people like Bobby Jones that has brought the current state of championship courses to their current level.  Interestingly, it is Jones’ signature course, that stands as the pinnacle for all golfers, not only for the prestige of its annual Masters tournament, but for the beauty and seductiveness that the course itself exudes.

         As Nick James stood over his ball on the 18th green at the Cadillac Invitational, he wasn’t thinking about the lilac bushes that should have peaked in their bloom and faded three weeks ago, that were now in full bloom.  Nor was he thinking about the stylish light green/dark green swaths, mowed down the fairway.  The only thought in his head was keeping his rhythm for three more shots.  If he let one thing slip, his one stroke lead would be in serious jeopardy.  He had played a fantastic final round, coming from 3 strokes back, to take the lead with a 16 food side hill put on number 17.  His playing partner should have been an unlikely match for the final group, but he had played so well in the past 4 months, that he was no longer a surprise to be on top of the leader board. 

         James was, himself, a bit of a newcomer.  He had a lot of promise, but they all do when they first arrive on the tour.  He had a straight ball and a great putting stroke, so he was always going to be a threat, unless he started missing fairways, or had to depend solely on his short irons to win.  Today, he had started strong, and gained three strokes in the first 12 holes on his playing partner Harold Murphy.  But Murphy was well schooled in championship golf.  He held the tour record for major victories, tournament victories and most top three finishes.  Interestingly, he hadn’t finished better than 10th in any regular tour event in 20 years, and his last victory was 16 years earlier.  Murphy had been playing mostly on the senior tour for ten years, and hadn’t even won a senior event in eight years.  More on that in a bit.

         James addressed his ball, and the huge gallery stood silent.  His take away was effortless, and he was fluid throughout his swing.  Unfortunately, his hands were slightly ahead of the ball at contact, and his drive began slicing into the large trees to the right of the fairway.  “Ahhh!”  James dropped his head, slamming his driver into the tee box.  The gallery voiced a collective “Ohhh.”  His ball came to rest on bare dirt, 200 yards from the pin, with no chance of playing it to the pin.  He’d surely have to punch out, and scramble for par, hoping that Murphy would also par.

         Murphy bent down, to tee up his ball to shouts of “You’re the man” and “c’mon Murph.”  He was oblivious to it all.  He’d hit thousands of tee shots in similar situations in his career, and his age of 60 years didn’t seem to dampen his thirst for victory in the last few months. 

         Murph was an unusual man.  He had taken the tour in a storm, nearly 40 years earlier.  He was one of the few amateurs that received the hype of stardom, and answered the call.  He hadn’t wilted in the face of fame like so many others.  He hadn’t peaked, then faded away.  He started strong, and stayed strong for 20 seasons on the tour.  Because of this, he had many devoted fans, and a few devoted enemies.  Most looked up to him with awe and amazement.  The fact that he could sustain his greatness and dominance of the game for two decades was unfathomable at the time.  He looked and acted like any regular guy in the gallery, but he made amazing shot after amazing shot, and when it came down to the last hole in a major, he never failed to come up with the shot that was needed to win.  Usually, his opponents failed to answer that shot, and usually he ended up winning.  But along the way, there were other very popular and very successful golfers that had their own following.  Some of the fans of these golfers looked at Murph with contempt.  They continued to root for their guy, even though he was the underdog.  For some that’s human nature.  But for most, as long as the favorite has a good personality and good heart, he’s their guy. 

         But Murph was now 40 years departed from the days when he was nicknamed “The Executioner” by a fellow golfer.  His nickname became popular when he methodically marched to five straight victories in his third year on the tour.  In each of the tournaments, including the 5th, which was the U.S. Open.  He was never in the lead until the last or 2nd to last hole in any tournament.  In each tournament, he finished with two birdies or an eagle and a birdie, and edged out the contender by one stroke.  The gallery and media could see how the eventual 2nd place finisher always folded under the pressure in each tournament.  It seemed like Murph put each one out of their misery with an amazing shot to the pin or a putt in the final two holes.

         The nickname was coined by the likeable Al Forche, who finished second to Murph in the Shell Open, one week prior to that year’s U.S. Open.  He told a reporter that he had begun to lose steam after a missed par putt on #14, and “The Executioner” seemed to sense that his end was near.  From then on, newspaper articles and magazines referred to Murph as “The Executioner” in many an article.  That nickname proved true for nearly two more decades, as Murph marched to fame and fortune, leaving the wrinkled brows, shaking heads, and slumped shoulders of his competitors in his wake.

         Murph’s drive was long and straight.  Much longer than he had been hitting the ball for nearly 20 years.  James’s heart sunk, when he watched Murph’s ball land and bounce, then roll to its finish a mere 100 yards from the green.  It was a textbook drive if a player actually wanted to birdie the final hole.

         As the two players walked down #18, they didn’t share a word, in spite of the fact that they were within arm’s length of each other.  Murph knew that if he said anything, it would be perceived by James and everyone else as conceited.  He was always a courteous gentleman, even in the face of greatness.  Something that was sometimes lost on the younger professionals that now formed the ranks of the tour.  James too was a good guy though, so he finally managed to look at Murph, and say, “its been an honor to play with you Mr. Murphy.  Good luck.” 

         “Good luck to you too kid,” said Murph.  But both men knew that James had a big job ahead of him, if he was going to force a playoff.

         James was out, so he had to hit his shot first. The television announcers were dire in their predictions.  If he let his youth and bravado get ahold of him, he could leave his shot well left of the green, and end up in the water.  That would spell certain defeat.  If he played it smart, he would have to rely on his questionable short iron game to get down in two and hope for a playoff or an unlikely misstep by Murph.  All other options were much worse. 

         James chose to take the gamble.  He selected a mid-iron and elected to play his shot over the water, slicing it into the pin.  His gamble was to either birdie or par, but do it by not playing it safe, and punching out into the fairway.  The announcers in the booth were predicting disaster for the young pro from Tennessee.

         He took a mighty cut at the ball, but the hard pan lie made the ball skip, and the slice was much more dramatic than he had planned.  He avoided the water, but his shot was hot, and flew the green, ending up in thick fescue.  He was faced with a downhill lie, well above the pin.  The next shot would make the most seasoned pro’s knees buckle.  Luckily, James wouldn’t fully realize his quandary until he was much closer to the green.

         Murph didn’t waste any time.  He knew the club he wanted, he knew the shot he wanted to play, and he knew where he wanted the ball to stop.  He wanted an uphill put, so his ball would need to come to rest at about 9 O’Clock, if the pin were the center of the clock, and green was the clock.  He hit a high, lofting pitching wedge that seemed to hang in the air for just a moment before it began its assault on the green.  The huge gallery was motionless, as every head peered up into the clouds over the green.  Then, in a roar of approval, the ball landed about 5 feet left of the pin and about 20 feet beyond the pin, then spun back to pin high.  Murph had left himself with a 5-foot birdie putt, directly uphill.  The cup may as well have been a garbage can, as he couldn’t have left himself with an easier putt. 

         James looked on with a mixture of disbelief and defeat, and he hadn’t even had a chance to see that his ball was nearly un-hitable.  The two pro’s walked towards the green, and James attempted to talk with his caddy, as the crowd continued to chant and cheer for the elder golfer.  When James finally got to his ball, the dissatisfaction was evident on his face.  The ball was a small egg, in a very large and very deep nest of wiry grass.  He had about 40 feet of green to work with, but the ball was going to come out with top-spin, and everything ran away from him.  He’d have to hit a perfect shot, just to keep the ball on the green, if he hit the ball at all.  A whiff, on the final hole of a televised tournament is every professional’s nightmare.  James certainly didn’t want to mark himself with such a misstep so early in his professional career.  The television cameras were all focused on him as he looked at his shot from every angle.  The announcers were once again, very dubious about his chances, and seemed to be holding back on more dire predictions than they were actually stating. 

         James positioned himself over his ball, right leg severely bent, open stance, with several nervous glances at the pin.  Finally, he took a large backswing and hacked at the ball.  In a flurry of torn grass, the ball flew into the air, landed about three feet onto the putting surface and dwindled to an unceremonious halt, nearly 30 feet above the pin.  He had left it terribly short.  He closed his eyes, slumped, and pursed his lips.  His putt was going to be every bit as precarious as his chip had been. 

         Again, James paced the green.  He read every possible angle he could.  The putt was going to break slightly to the left, but if he misjudged the speed, he would roll off the green, or leave himself with a long come-back putt.  He felt like a horse on a skating rink.  Again, the gallery was silent.  If he missed this putt, he would certainly lose the tournament.  He had to make this putt, just to have a chance at a playoff.  He stood over his putt, concentrated, relaxed, and hit the putt of his career.  The ball seemed to take off like a bullet.  It tracked perfectly and to the gallery’s roar, hit the back of the cup, bounced up into the air, and dropped in for an amazing par. 
         James was visibly pleased, but there was no dancing around, no high-fives with his caddy, and certainly no fist pump.  For he knew that “The Executioner” had a simple 5-footer, for the win.  James retrieved his ball with a smile and tossed it to his caddy. 

         Murph placed his ball behind his marker, gave his putt a few reads and chatted with his caddy who confirmed that it was as straight as an arrow.  Murph quickly stood over his ball, relaxed and fluidly struck the ball directly to the center of the cup.  When it dropped the crowd erupted once again.  Murph just laughed, retrieved his ball and tossed it into the gallery.  Then he shook hands with James, and their two caddies.  You couldn’t tell it on the outside, but inside, Murph was in more denial and disbelief than he had ever experienced in his whole life.  His primary goal was to get that scorecard signed, so he could get back to his wife.

         The media was a frenzy.  It was only two more weeks until the Masters, and Murph’s resurgence had already had the fans and the media talking about his chances.  Now, with a fresh win under his belt, and one against a strong field, everyone was predicting that the history of golf was soon to be re-written.  The Executioner was not going to be remembered as one of the great golfers of the past, and probably the best golfer of all time, he was going to be revered as the best golfer that ever lived.  He would likely cross all athletic boundaries and be considered one of the best and probably the most remarkable athlete of all time, in any sport. 

         Of course, there were the nay-sayers.  Critics suggested that he was using illegal equipment, or that he was taking banned or experimental substances.  Both allegations were laughable.  Murph had been using the same driver for 2 years.  It was the same driver and shaft that propelled him to the middle of the pack for driving distance on the senior tour.  All of his clubs were subject to inspection and review by the tour at any time.  Supplements and performance enhancing drugs were even more unlikely.  Murph was a typical 60 year-old male.  He was soft in the middle, grey on top and a little hard of hearing.  He only had one doctor, and he hadn’t had any contact with him in a year. 

         Not even Murph could put a finger on the strange re-birth that his game was experiencing.  Nothing else in his life had changed.  He played the same amount of golf, worked on the same practice shots he’d worked on for 15 years.  He did the same amount of exercise including working on an eliptical machine, lifting some light weights and stretching.  His diet and eating practices all remained static, if they weren’t experiencing a little bit of tapering. 

         Yet, Murph had probably just finished the best four days of golf that he had ever played.  He was hitting the ball nearly as far as he was hitting it when he was 30 years old.  He was putting with more accuracy than he had ever putted.  His irons were on the button every time.  He didn’t make one misjudgment in 72 holes of competitive golf, on one of the more difficult courses he’d played in 10 years.  It was almost like he was on auto pilot, and the airplane was a brand-new, state of the art, jet. 

         Murph’s resurgence had started in the first tournament of the year in Hawaii.  He entered the tournament just to give his wife Eunice a nice vacation from their home in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.  It had been a cold, snowy winter, and the prospect of a couple of weeks in Hawaii, was very enticing to both of them.  The sponsors had given him an exemption because they knew he still had a draw.  He hadn’t played in a regular tour event in over a year at that point, and he assumed he’d miss the cut, and spend the next 10 days island-hopping with his wife. 

         He was quite surprised to find himself four shots off the lead after Friday’s round.  He was playing in a very impressive field, and ended up in the second to last group on Sunday, paired with the #1 golfer in the world, R.J. Torson.  Still, no one expected him to finish well.  They just assumed he’d put two really good rounds together, with one average round, and that he was poised to fall apart on Sunday. 

         He had never played with Torson.  Torson was considered his protégé.  He had a similar amatuer career to Murph, and seemed to have a dominant game to all other pros on the tour at the time.  By the time of the Hawaiian tournament in January, Torson had already compiled a win record that predicted an eclipse of Murph’s.  It was also easy to see that the two men played a totally different game.  Torson was a strong, powerful player who also possessed a remarkable touch around the greens.  He had a killer combination, and the wins to prove it.  Murph had formerly played with a similar style.  In his heyday, he didn’t have comparable equipment, but his power, compared to the other golfers of his genre, was evident.  He too, possessed a rare touch around the green, and his impressive record of wins was proof that power and touch could not be beaten.  But for Murph, years had eroded his power and his touch, and he was no longer considered a threat in any tournament.  He could still hit a relatively long ball, and he still had flashes of brilliance, but both were fading with the color of his once dark hair.  By the time of his appearance in the Hawaiian tournament, he relied on hitting the ball straight and getting his ball to the pin, so he didn’t have long, difficult putts.  However, achieving these objectives was not nearly as easy as it sounded.  Especially for a man entering his 7th decade. 

         For the tournament sponsors, this truly was a match made in heaven.  Their only unanswered wish was that the tournament wasn’t several time zones away from their main market.  However, if Murph didn’t fall apart on Sunday, the ratings would go through the roof.  It would be seen as the passing of the torch from one great golfer to his successor.  By Saturday evening, every form of media had specials and features of the next day’s match.  The gallery was at a record level on Sunday morning, and the whole atmosphere rang of the super bowl.

         It was a gorgeous Hawaiian day, and Murph soaked up the long lost attention that had now reappeared.  He chatted with all the golf industry moguls that morning, and he played the crowd like the old pro that he truly was.  He signed hats and gloves, mugged for shots with the kids, and cracked a few jokes that put the crowd in the palm of his hand.

         All the while, Torson was going through his strict pre-round routine.  He was the favorite by a long shot, but that only added pressure to his situation.  He was a calm and cool professional, but the hint of disaster was palpable.  If he failed to defeat Murph, it would be a terrible embarrassment.  He had to play well, and it seemed like winning the tournament no longer mattered.  Torson had to beat his playing partner, and his playing partner didn’t seem to care. 

         The gallery for their group was enormous.  Nearly every fan on the course positioned themselves so that they could catch a glimpse of the storied twosome.  Where the terrain allowed it, the gallery was 150 people deep.  The other golfers on the course seemed to be playing only for their caddies to watch.  It was a crowd control nightmare. 

         Cameras clicked and fans sneezed and coughed at the most inopportune times.  Luckily both golfers were so focused on their game, that the distractions had little impact on their game.  The gallery ooh’d and awed all around the first 14 holes.  Both golfers had their moments of amazing golf.  Torson’s power and touch was tuned to a perfection.  Murph was methodical, precise and unflappable.  As the two stood on the tee of #15, Torson had Murph by one stroke, which coincidentally, was the lead of the whole tournament.  The final group had both forgotten to bring their putting stroke to the course with them on Sunday.  They apparently had grown tired of following the huge gallery and rarely getting a glimpse of a camera crew as well.

         Both players parred #15 and #16.  On the tee at #17, Murph cracked a few jokes that were picked up by the television network’s microphones.  The gallery was roiling with laughter, and the announcers in the booth were beside themselves with giddiness.

         The fact that the #1 golfer in the world was playing an excellent round of golf, and was still unable to shake his 60 year old playing partner was not lost on anyone, including Murph.  However, while he was internally, shaking his head in disbelief, he didn’t show it on the outside.  He just seemed like an older, more lighthearted version of the 30 year old “Executioner”. 

         #17 was an uneventful show of excellent golf.  Both players conservatively carded pars.  Murph was not about to try something risky and let Torson coast to victory.  So it all came down to #18.  The final hole, a 600 yard par 5, certainly gave the advantage to Torson.  He’d reached the green in two on Thursday and Friday.  He was over the green in two on Saturday. 

         Torson had the honor, so he chose a conservative 3-wood.  He only had to tie Murph on the last hole to win the tournament.  His 3-wood was also at least 75 yards longer than Murph’s average driver.  He stepped up and ripped a violent missle, down the right side of the fairway, with a slight draw.  He had 290 yards to the pin for his second shot, and he had left himself a perfect angle to get it close to the pin.

         Murph didn’t flinch.  He had chosen his driver for this hole, 5 holes earlier, and he wasn’t going to change his mind now.  As he addressed his ball, he told himself to trust 50 years of knowing his own swing.  Without so much as a breath, he sweetly swept the ball right down the middle of the fairway, and watched as it bounded towards Torson’s ball off in the distance.  Murph’s ball seemed to have an unusual amount of energy as it landed, and seemed to roll forever.  When it came to rest, he had a little over 310 yards to the green.  Much better than anyone had predicted.  Murph gave his caddie, Max, an amused glance, as he handed his driver to him.  Max seemed to be in a bit of a trance, and just shook his head as if to say, “I don’t believe this is happening”.

         Murph came to his ball and had to decide to either risk a wild shot with his driver, from a tight lie, or hitting his 3-wood, and leaving himself about 100 yards to the pin.  He was slightly amused by the fact that he hadn’t had to make a decision of this weight since he was 40 years old.  But the decision was easy for him.  He was going to live or die by the sword, and he asked Max to give him the driver. 

         Max said, “Murph are you sure?”  This kid could put one in the volcano on the next shot.  If you stick this one in the rough, he’s going to coast in on this one without a worry. 

         “Then let’s give the kid something to worry about Max.  My bet is that he puts his next shot on the green, and two-putts for a birdie.  If I can get this close, I stand a chance to chip in, and he knows it.  The only way to put any doubt in him, is to give me a chance to eagle.  That forces his hand.  He can’t play it safe at that point.”

         Max pulled the head cover off, and handed the driver to Murph, then stepped back, and focused on the ocean waves crashing onto a rocky point off in the distance.  He just couldn’t bear to watch. 
         
         Murph stepped over his ball, and with a swing only Byron Nelson could rival, he cracked his ball with more crispness than he had ever anticipated.  He would tell his wife later that evening, that it was the most incredible feeling he’d ever had from a golf shot.  His ball took off like a bullet, and screamed towards the green.  It hit well short of the green, but the low trajectory allowed for a lot of roll, and he wound up only 20 yards short of the green.  Again, he handed his driver to Max, with an amused smirk on his face. 

         Max was still looking at the waves, when the gallery began to roil to a raucous cheer.  He glanced over to Torson, who was standing off in the rough, chatting with his caddie.  Max was amazed that Torson didn’t seem a bit concerned or impressed with the shot.  But he knew that deep inside, Torson’s bowels were sounding retreat.

         It took the crowd nearly two minutes to settle down.  They had just witnessed the two longest shots Murph had hit in over 20 years.  When the marshals had settled everyone down, Torson pulled out his 1-iron, and hit it with such velocity that the ball was not even visible for a moment.  Every eye in the gallery was focused on the pin, and they were rewarded with a shot that bounced once, hit the pin, and skittered off to the side, leaving Torson with a 19 foot eagle putt.  The crowd again erupted, and the announcers in the booth were uncharacteristically speechless.   

         Murph was looking at a relatively straight forward 30 yard chip to the pin.  He had a chance of making the chip, which would force Torson to hit a very good putt.  The 18th green was a difficult putting green, and the fact that Torson’s approach had glanced off the pin, had left him with a downhill putt that was going to move to the right.  It was a difficult read to say the least.  Torson didn’t relish a playoff, but he certainly didn’t want to 3-putt and hand the victory to his idol. 

         As Murph stood over his chip, the gallery was completely still.  There wasn’t the click of a camera or a cough.  Everyone was on pins and needles.  Murph chipped the ball with a impeccable grace.  His ball hopped off the clubhead, lit on the green, took one bounce and began to track to the cup.  The gallery once again, began its roil.  Every mouth was open in a gasp as the ball headed for the center of the cup.  The speed seemed perfect, and the line was dead on.  And then the ball just stopped on the edge of the cup.  Fans crumbled where they stood.  The gallery gasped in disbelief.  Torson’s caddie almost wet himself.  One more rotation and Murph would have finished with an eagle.  Murph looked at Max, smiled, shrugged his shoulders, then turned in the direction of the green and feigned a blow, like he could blow the ball into the cup.  The Gallery erupted in laughter as Murph trudged up to the cup, to tap in his birdie. 

         Torson rolled his putt to within 18 inches, then tapped in his birdie, and tossed his ball into the gallery.  The men shook hands, exchanged a few cordial words, and the day was done.

         After his success in Hawaii, Murph was stunned.  He was on the cover of every sports magazine that would even write about golf.  Within 24 hours, he had received invitations from every tournament sponsor for the entire season.  Clearly, the golf world had not missed a great opportunity to make some money.

         But Murph took some time with Eunice, and finished their 10-day tour of the Hawaiian islands.  For a little while, they both thought that the road to Hana was going to be the end anyway, and Murph took some solace in the fact that he had at least gone out with a bang.  However, their little rental car saw them through with only a few scratches on the passenger side of the car.  When they got to their resort on Lanai, the red carpet was waiting for them.  The little paradise island hadn’t missed a second of the tournament the previous weekend, and Murph was given a hero’s welcome.  As the shuttle drove them up to the front of the resort, all the guests and  the staff lined the driveway and spilled out over the steps that led to the entryway.  As Eunice and Murph stepped out of the van, hula girls presented them with leis and necklaces made of sea shells.  Hawaiian music played from a band off to the side and everyone applauded and cheered.  Flower petals were sprinkled in front of them as the strolled into the resort.  The Manager of the resort met them at the door.

         “Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, welcome.  I am Phillip Tanaka, and we are all at your service.  We hope to make your stay as wonderful as any you have ever had.  Let me show you to your room.”  With that, Phillip led Murph and Eunice to the elevator of the Palatial resort.  The band struck up with “He’s a jolly good fellow” and the hula girls looked at each other with confused looks, as they had never danced to such a song before.

         The stay on Lanai was very rewarding for the Murphys.  The pace on the small Hawaiian island was slow, and the guests and staff didn’t intrude on their privacy.  They spent their days snorkeling on the wonderful small beach on the South side of the island, lounging in the sand, watching dolphins swim near the beach, and just enjoying each other’s company. 

         “Honey, what do you think?  Should I accept all these invitations to play golf on the regular tour?  Its been a long time since we fought it out in that venue, and I’m the only one that’s aged.  The tour itself just keeps getting younger.  That Torson kid is amazing, and on any given day, there are dozen other guys that can play to his level.  I could turn everyone down now, and go out on top, or I could play in another tournament, miss the cut and be considered a flash in the pan.”

         “A flash in the pan,” Eunice replied.  “I hardly think that would be the perception dear.  Your records speak for themselves, and the fans loved you dearly, even before Sunday.  However, I see where you are coming from.  If you fail to follow up with another strong finish, they could consider this weekend a fluke.”  Then with a soft voice, she said, “but I’ve not seen you so alive in years.”

         Murph paused for a moment.  He took a sip of his drink, and watched the waves rolling into the beach.  “I felt it honey.  I felt something on Thursday that seemed to be urging me on.  When I was on the practice tee, all the aches and pains went away.  It was like I was 20 years younger.  For a second, I felt like I left my body, then returned.  It was strange....really strange.  I was warming up with my 7-iron.  The very next shot sounded like the crack of a rifle.  Max was standing over, talking to Wilson’s caddy, and he looked at me with this amused look on his face, like “what the hell are you doing?”  Every shot after that was like I had gone back in time, but with better equipment,” and he chuckled.  “I don’t think I would have told you this, if I hadn’t played so damned well after that.”

         “Murph, you are trying to be funny, but you are kind of scaring me.  Things like that don’t happen.  People don’t go back in time.  People don’t really have out of body experiences.  You don’t even believe in all that rigamarole.”

         “Oh, I know babe.  Its silly.  I’m sorry I mentioned it.  I’m sure it was just the new arthritis medicine that I’m taking.  Sometimes meds can kind of mess with a guy.  What do you say we take the shuttle up to town for a bottle of wine at the little hotel there?”

         As they strolled back to the resort, they held hands and made idle chat about the beautiful ginger root flowers and palm trees, but in the back of Murph’s mind, he couldn’t help but wonder what he had felt the previous week, and why it had made him feel so youthful the previous weekend.

         “Oh, Daddy, its good to have you back.  Jerry, the kids and I have been glued to ESPN all week.  They keep running that special they did on you about six years ago, chronicling your career, calling you the greatest golfer that ever lived.  I guess they are going to have to do a sequel.” 
                   
         Betsy was Murph and Eunice’s only surviving child.  Their son, Ben, had been killed in a car accident 20 years earlier.  Betsy was a beautiful woman.  She had always been popular in school, and excelled at sports and academics alike.  She was homecoming queen, captain of the volleyball and basketball team, and received a full ride scholarship to the University of Nebraska to play volleyball, where in her senior year, they won the national championship. 

         Unfortunately, later that year, her big brother was killed in a car accident, and the whole family was thrown into a cesspool of depression and pain for several years. 

         Ben was Murph and Eunice’s only other child.  He was a handsome and charming young man.  He too, excelled at sports and academics, but his gravy train, like his father’s, was golf.  He was the state golf medalist in Colorado in high school, but that wasn’t such a feather in his cap, since Colorado isn’t thought of as breeding ground for great golfers.  However, he was also the U.S. Amateur champion, which got everyone’s attention.  He then went on to the University of Texas, and captained their golf team to two straight NCAA titles, winning the medalist honors both years.  It was clear that he was blazing a trail that set a course on his father’s professional records. 

         He planned to play events on the tour for before he turned pro, and had already finished in the top 10 in four of the tournaments.  His U.S. Amateur championship gave him a spot in the Masters the spring of his Junior year in college, and his coach gave him the green light to play.  The Masters had proven to be a tough nut for amateurs over the years.  Even young pros that had played the course numerous times failed to grasp the subtle nuances of the course conceived by the great Bobby Jones.  Augusta National had a knack for allowing these young bucks just so much pleasure before ending it all with a series of 3-putts or a ball in the water at Amen Corner.

         But the media was hot on Ben.  He had all the skill and intelligence to be the first amateur to threaten a win at the Masters since Ken Venturi, and later the great Charles Coe.

         Ben did well in his first Masters.  He was low amateur, finishing with a 3 under, 285, and tied for 15th place.  He played consistently well in that tournament and avoided all the typical mistakes made by the typical amateur in past tournaments.  The fact that his playing partner on the first day was his father probably helped quite a bit.  Unfortunately, Murph shot a 73, followed by a 76 on Friday, and missed the cut by one stroke, so there was no chance of a weekend paring for the father- son team. 

         Ben quickly became the crown prince of golf.  He played in several professional tournaments before he graduated from Texas, and had his eyes firmly fixed on Augusta in the spring of the year following his graduation.  He played in a few tour events to fine-tune his game before Augusta that spring.  He finished in the top 3 of each tournament, finally winning the Dallas Open, two weeks before the Masters.  The media had already awarded him the green jacket, and the odd in Vegas were popping off the charts.

         After winning in Dallas, Ben was going to drive to Atlanta, and play a number of practice rounds in the Atlanta area before moving on to Augusta and fine-tuning his game to the rigors of Augusta National.  One night, after practicing until dark, he was on the freeway, heading back to his hotel, when a presumably drunk driver fell asleep and drifted into the next lane, before waking up, over correcting and swerving violently into Ben’s lane.  Ben didn’t have a chance.  He was travelling at 60 m.p.h., and smashed into the drunk before a semi rear-ended Ben, causing his car to erupt in flames. 

         Among the wreckage was a cracked and empty bottle of gin that was found in the passenger seat of the drunk’s vehicle.

         They finally identified the body of Ben, who had been severely burned and disfigured.  Luckily, he was killed on impact, and had not suffered at all.  The drunk that caused the accident had fled the scene, and was never located.  It was presumed that he was a car thief, as the owner of the car had reported the car stolen the next morning.  When the police questioned his wife, she vouched for him, stating that he had been at home all night in their apartment in downtown Atlanta.  They hadn’t noticed that the car had been stolen until her husband tried to go to work that morning.  The police thought it was interesting that her husband was still in his bathrobe at 10:00 a.m. that morning, but he explained that since he couldn’t drive to work, he had decided to take the day off, as he had a touch of the flu anyway. 

         “Who was the driver that got killed anyway,” asked the wife.

         “Ben Murphy, a kid from Texas, trying to make a name for himself as a professional golfer.”

         The husband’s face lost what little color that he had left.  Looking at his slippers he said, “Hmm...never heard of him.”

         It is reputed that the husband took a 30-day leave of absence from his job that afternoon, and came back a month later, a very sober and somber individual, who never again, took a drink of liquor, even though his wife began cheating on him regularly, and later had two children that were not from their marriage.

         When Eunice picked up her phone the following morning, she stood in shock for a moment before turning towards Murph, and crumbling into his arms.  The nightmare had begun, and it was as if everyone could see the Murphy’s world crumbling around their feet.  The next year or so was a fog for Eunice, Murph and Betsy.  It should have been some of the most joyous and glorious years of their lives, but instead, it had turned into a living hell.

         In those dark days, the Murphys relied heavily on their faith, and their close family friend, Father Patrick.  Father Patrick was a laid back, pleasant man, with a deep faith, and an infectious laugh.  He had an insight into a person’s soul, and at times, it was alleged that he could tell what a person was thinking, without any interaction at all.  Father Patrick was the parish priest at Our Lady of Lourdes, which was the Murphy’s parish in Colorado. 

         Murph stopped playing golf for several months, turned most of his business affairs over to the Vice President of his corporations and had little or no interaction with the public.  He and Eunice spent a lot of time working on the development of a foundation in their son’s name, that helped families who had lost children to illness and untimely accidents.  Eventually, their work resulted in a very active charitable foundation that reached out to these families and focused on helping them get back on their feet as soon as possible after their loss.  Grief counseling and crisis management teams worked together to make sure the families problems did not compound during their time of intense grief.  The Murphy’s had a time tested and trusted group of professionals to take care of their businesses, while they recovered, and they knew that few other families had such a network to support them.

         Through this work, the Murphys were able to slowly come to terms with the terrible loss they had suffered.  Murph played his first round of golf, with three close friends, nearly 9 months after the accident.  Ben’s foundation was still in its infancy, but it was well on its course, and Eunice insisted that Murph take a weekend and play the Old Course at St. Andrews with his brother, Father Patrick and his long time caddie, Lou MacArthur, lovingly referred to as Max.  The staff at the Old Course made sure that no one would know Murph was in town.  He was loved by the Scottish and English like no other professional golfer, and his presence at St. Andrews would have surely drawn a large crowd.  Murph had won two Open Championships on there, and another at Troon.

         But the people of St. Andrews knew when someone was licking their wounds, and they knew when someone was trying to heal a deep wound.  When Murph’s foursome showed up to play on that Saturday, there wasn’t a golfer within 6 holes, either ahead of or behind Murph’s foursome.  The foursome received special treatment like no golfer had ever received, nor receive again at the famed course.  Murph would never forget how kind and thoughtful the people were that day, and from that day on, near the anniversary of Ben’s death, Murph would buy every tee time on every course at St. Andrews, and open the course to any parent/child twosome that could show up to play. 

         To this day, on the first Saturday in May, families from all over Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland, as well as some more far reaching countries, would converge on St. Andrews for 18 holes of golf, complimentary door prizes, coca-cola, hot dogs and apple pie.  The event was called the Ben Murphy Parent/Child Open.  Other than the cost of a smile, everyone, rich or poor played for free, and went home with a medal and a memory they would never forget.  Later, each year, Murph would write a personal letter to the Royal And Ancient Golf Club, and reserve it for the following year.  With his letter, he would enclose a check to the Club, paying for every pence of the previous tournament.  Each year, he’d receive a note from the Chief Executive, informing him that he did, indeed, have it reserved the following year.  In reality, it was reserved for eternity anyway.

         Some would say that Murph was never happier than when he occasionally attended the event, to watch the families interact and enjoy a game that he so thoroughly enjoyed with his son.  One year, he found a girl in the parking lot, crying in her fathers arms.  They didn’t even know who he was, but he asked if he could help.  With a thick Cockney accent, the father said, “ah, my daughter wanted to play, but I’m such an ignoramus, I forgot our clubs back in London.  I didn’t even realize it until I popped the boot to find only our suitcases.” 

         Murph followed the man’s gesture to an old heap of a car parked nearby with its trunk lid open.  Glancing back to the father and his daughter, he could see that they were as poor as dirt.  “Is that your car over there?”

         “Right it is.  Or, m’brother’s actually.  We don’t have a car ourselves.  M’brother’s got a job, and lent it to us for the weekend.”

         Murph was moved.  This was the reason he had started the tournament in the first place.  To give anyone and everyone a chance to play the game.  Just then, Max came around the corner, and shouted, “Murph, you’ve got a call in the business office”. 

         Murph turned and looked at the father, still holding his sobbing daughter in his arms.  “Sir, I actually have some clubs that you can use.  One set for you, and one for your beautiful daughter.  I hope she doesn’t object to playing with men’s clubs.”

         The girl looked up in utter disbelief, then looked at her dad.

         “Why don’t you two stay right here.  I’ll have Max fix you up.”  And with that, he turned and walked over to Max, mumbled a few words and gestured towards the dumfounded cockneys.  Max then had one of the course assistants, a young lad, bring out two brand new sets of clubs in new bags, along with all the gear the two would ever need for a round of golf.  They had shoes, slacks, jackets, rain gear and everything else.  The assistant showed them to the first tee, and introduced them to their playing partners, a father/daughter twosome from Edinburgh.  Mr. and Miss. Hadley, meet Mr. and Miss. Ridley.” 

         The starter then loudly and formally announced, “for the 9:00 a.m. group, we have Mr. Eric and Miss. Mackenzi Hadley from Edinburgh, Scotland, playing with....”

         As the young course assistant turned to walk away, Mr. Ridley grabbed the young lad by the arm and asked where they should leave all the stuff when they were done with it.  The young lad replied “I suggest you take it home and keep it wherever you like.  Mr. Murphy wants you to have it as a gift.”  As he walked back to the clubhouse, grimace Hadley's girl was teeing off.  Mr. Ridley just stood in shock, and watched the young lad stroll back to the clubhouse.  Little did they know it, but when they left to go home, they would have a slightly used, but much newer car to drive back as well.  A note was placed on the windshield, which said, “I’ll have one of my assistants drive your brother’s car back to London for you.  Please accept this car as a gift from the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews and Mr. Harold Murphy of Colorado, U.S.A.  We looked for something a little newer, but this is the best we could find in the short time we had.  If it does not fit with your satisfaction, please contact the clubhouse, and we will see that you are matched with a car more to your liking.  You may keep and use the car for as long as you like, under the condition that you do not tell anyone in the media, nor confirm any media inquiries as to how you obtained this car”  The note was signed by, “Jules H. Reynolds, Chief Executive.”

         By the time the Ridley’s finished their round and got to the parking lot, Murph and Max were already at Heathrow, en route to Denver.  Murph was enjoying a single malt scotch, and grinning, while Max teased him about being some sort of Elvis wannabe.