“Wow, a reporter with some brains.” “Yeah, nice for a change,” answered Buddy. “You know, you were right,” said Buck. “This feels great and it will probably help keep you cool on the first few holes.” “Maybe we should make a habit of it. Let’s do it again tomorrow,” said Buddy.
“Why wait, let’s come back before the back nine,” said Reid. After they finished their coffee Buddy found a few towels. They dried off and put their socks and shoes back on.
“Alright guys,” said Buck. “I’ll catch up with you at the turn. I’ve got to go find Carl and keep things smooth with the press. Buddy, take care of him, this tournament is worth a lot to us all.” He turned to Reid and added, “Play well.” “Don’t worry Buck, I’ll keep him out of trouble,” said Buddy. “See ya later,” said Reid as he and Buddy headed towards the 1st tee.
Chapter 8
One twosome had teed off so far. There were two more groups before Reid. He took out a club and used it to stretch before taking some practice swings. He felt good: he was ready to win.
Reid’s name was announced and he tipped his cap to the crowd. The pungent smell of fresh cut grass filled the air. He teed up his ball, stepped back and looked toward the pin. The lush fairway was in perfect condition, blemish free. The short cut of the grass revealed a diagonal striped design. Reid always loved the look of Augusta National’s immaculate fairways on the first day of the Masters. By Sunday, divots would create a pockmarked surface, scarring the magical image that lay before him. Contrasting the gorgeous emerald carpet-like look of the fairway was the deep, dark-green, surrounding rough. A ball finding its way to the depths of the rough could easily cause the difference of a stroke on a hole: a birdie could become a par, a par a bogey, a bogey a double bogey. Reid took a practice swing, then stepped up and focused on the ball. He swung and hit a slight fading shot to a perfect spot on the fairway, just left of a bunker. While the ball was mid-air, yells of, “In the hole, in the hole,” emanated from the crowd. Reid often wondered about those who yelled this. They did it after almost every tee shot, no matter the distance. Was it absurd optimism or just stupidity? Applause erupted as the ball settled and Reid heard, “Alright, Reid,” “Down the middle, baby,” and, “Do it, bad boy.”
Reid couldn’t stand all the banter, even when it came from his own adoring fans. In fact, he regularly tried quieting his audience, putting his finger to his lips and saying, “Shhh.” He was considered overly sensitive, but he despised any noise on the course. Although he felt somewhat responsible for golf’s increasing popularity with rowdy fans, he did not like the new breed of spectators. He remembered going to a golf tournament with his dad when he was a kid. The crowd was absolutely silent until someone hit a good shot or sank a putt; then they would applaud politely. There was no yelling or cheering, just quiet oohs and ahhs. Times had certainly changed; some of the players actually played to the crowd.
Reid’s actions and etiquette on the course were admirable. He was so focused, he rarely paid attention to anyone, except Buddy. He usually walked down the fairway without a word. When he walked with another player, he hoped there would be no small talk. Reid’s concentration was always on the next shot. He had too many things to consider to allow his mind to wander. He had to think about distance to the pin, hazards, the lie of the ball and the speed and direction of the wind, all of which affected his most important decision: club choice.
He was paired with Jon Kallman today. Kallman was a good-looking thin guy about the same height as Reid. He was known to be very long off the tee but also somewhat erratic. In contrast, his short game was one of the best on the tour, helping him finish in the top 10 regularly. After Kallman teed off, they started walking down the fairway. Jon had hit a good shot, not as long as Reid’s, but right in the middle of the fairway, leaving him a simple approach shot. As expected, a huge crowd followed them. Reid was playing well and with each good shot, the same special few continued their yells. They were difficult to ignore, and Reid was getting annoyed. He asked a security guard to quiet the disruptive spectators. The guard failed and after two more holes, Reid was fed up. He borrowed a megaphone and raised it to his lips. “Listen folks, I need some help. I know your intentions are good, but the more you yell, the worse we’ll play. I’m sure you all came out today to watch some good golf. If that’s true, please stop the cheering and heckling. Applause and an occasional ooh or aah is fine, but no more yells, please.”
The gallery applauded loudly when he was done. Kallman walked over and shook his hand. They resumed play, but as Reid was about to hit his putt on the next green, someone shouted, “One time.” Reid stopped his swing, walked over to the announcer and borrowed the megaphone. He went to a security guard and whispered in his ear. The guard nodded and quietly spoke into his radio. Reid brought the megaphone to his mouth and said, “Okay folks, I have an offer to make and I need you to react quickly. I will pay anyone $500 to raise your hand if you are standing next to one of the obnoxious hecklers.” Four hands went up immediately and guards moved in, apprehending the offenders. As they were ushered off the course, the crowd exploded in applause. Reid said, “Quiet please.” Once the noise died down, he said, “Security, would you please take the names of those who were daring enough to raise their hands. If the four of you come to the clubhouse after we finish today, I will write you each a check.”
Once again, the gallery cheered until Reid said, “Okay everyone, shhh, Let’s continue the match.” The crowd quieted and play resumed. They finished the front nine without another incident. The crowd was much more subdued. Reid said to Buddy and Jon, “It’s amazing how four idiots can provoke an entire gallery to get too loud.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that. I’m impressed,” Kallman said. “You handled it with finesse. You know, having never been paired up with you, I was a little intimidated about today. But after watching and listening to you, I guess I shouldn’t judge someone based on hearsay. You’re a gentleman, Reid, and the PGA is lucky you’re a member.”
“Don’t let anyone hear you say that,” Reid said with a grin. “I wouldn’t want it to ruin the reputation I’ve worked so hard to earn. Come on, let’s grab a sandwich before the back nine.”
After lunch, Reid played phenomenal golf. At the end of the day, he was in the lead. Kallman congratulated him and thanked him for proving the press wrong.
Reid and Buddy went to the locker room to clean up. They had to meet Buck and Carl by the pool for some quick pictures. Outside, Reid sat on the edge of a chaise lounge and made a show of untying one of his sneakers. “Oh, not again!” Buck said. “Just fooling,” Reid said. Buck and Buddy chuckled. Carl and the photographer had puzzled looks on their faces. “Forget about it, Carl, it’s not worth repeating,” said Buck. “Whatever.” Carl shrugged. “Gentlemen,” the photographer said. “If you don’t mind, we need to hurry so I can catch the right light before we lose the sun.” “Sorry, where to?” Reid asked. “Back to the 13th tee. I’d like to get some pictures with the azaleas in the background.” They took shots at the tee, on the fairway and on the green, both with and without cigars. When they finished, Reid asked Carl to join them for dinner. “As long as I can buy,” he said. During dinner, Buck asked if there were any highlights from the day’s round of golf. “I’ll say there was,” Buddy blurted. He explained Reid’s handling of the hecklers. “Perfect, Reid, I love it,” Carl said. “I can see the headlines, ‘The bad boy of golf boots hecklers from the Master’s.’ It’s great for the image. Bad boy or good? Let’s keep ‘em guessing.”