206 THE MEMORIAL

“Midnight, June 16. Starter’s hut, The Old Course.” The e-mail had no origin. It just appeared.When I asked the newspaper’s IT guy about it, he had a

haunted look and begged me not to tell anyone that he couldnot explain an e-mail that came out of nowhere.That was unsettling, so I did what writers do: I went back to

my desk, sat down, and stared at the ceiling. I write aboutsports—and golf, in particular. When I took this job, a friendtaunted: “Sports writing is just 500 clichés rearranged.” Toprove him wrong, I have written three golf histories, and that iswhy, while staring at the ceiling, I recognized the date.

A Conversation W I T H T H E

GOLF GODS

B Y F R E D E R I C K W A T E R M A N

ILLUSTRATIONS BY MICHAEL WITTE

THE MEMORIAL 207

GETT

Y IM

AGES

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208 THE MEMORIAL

I said a word that my grandmother wouldn’thave liked, then a name she wouldn’t haveknown. I confirmed that the Memorial Tourn-ament was the first week of June and that mynewspaper here in Ohio didn’t have the moneyto send me to the U.S. Open two weeks later.After re-arranging some vacation time, I boughta ticket to Scotland.

And that is why, tonight, on the 194thbirthday of Old Tom Morris, I am standing nextto the brownstone starter’s hut at St. Andrews,wondering who or what I am waiting for.

One minute before midnight, a church bellbegan tolling. As I counted, I became uneasy:The ringing was coming from the southeast,from the direction of St. Andrews Cathedral,which has lain in ruins for centuries and iswhere Old Tom was buried.

On the stroke of 12, the door to the starter’s

hut opened, and a man stepped out wearingclothes I have never seen in real life: a three-cornered hat, a long coat with two rows of brassbuttons, and breeches; under his arm were ahalf-dozen, wood-shafted golf clubs, held in themanner of early caddies.

“Aye!” he exclaimed. “Step right in if ya willindulge me, it’s a ride we’ll be goin’ fer.”

I entered the starter’s hut, and the door closedbehind me. The hut seemed to rise, and I had theG-force sensation of standing in an elevator thatwas accelerating to an unnerving, otherworldlyspeed. In the dim light, the old caddie took a flaskout of a coat pocket, uncorked it, and savored along pull. “This will help,” he offered. It waswhiskey, and he was right.

The hut, or whatever we were in, slowedto a stop. The door opened, and I stepped out,bewildered, into daylight. Before me was a per-fect golf tee box: the grass was neatly mownand iridescent green, with a hint of morningdew. Two white arrows served as tee markers,but they did not point down a fairway becausethere was no fairway, nor a green, just low-lying white clouds stretching to the horizon inevery direction.

At the back of the tee box, on two benches,sat four figures, their heads down; at a glance, Iknew them all, and each of them was staring,incongruously, at an iPhone he was holding.

IN THE DIM LIGHT, THE OLD CADDIETOOK A FLASK OUT OF A COAT POCKET,UNCORKED IT, AND SAVORED A LONGPULL. “THIS WILL HELP.” IT WASWHISKEY, AND HE WAS RIGHT.

F I C T I O N

“Got one!” The accent was Scottish, of course,because the man was Young Tom Morris.

The other three—Seve Ballesteros, Walter Hagen, andOld Tom—looked up.

✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸

“DOWN IN SARASOTA, there’s a foursome: total years ofabout 320,” said Young Tom. “Eighteenth hole, and theoldest gent missed a 2-foot putt to win. His playing partnercalled him ‘pathetic.’ Any suggestions?”

“Give the man the yips,” said Ballesteros.Young Tom nodded, “I like that.” He punched the keys

on his iPhone. “One year of the yips coming up.”Hagen, wearing a sweater, tie, and tailored plus-fours,

was the first to notice me. He stood up. “We have a guest,”he announced.

The others rose to their feet.I was stunned, but I understood. “You’re the golf gods!”“That we are!” Old Tom’s smile, though hidden by his

white beard, was revealed in his eyes. “At least, we’retoday’s crew.”

“I never thought about who the golf gods might be,but, they had to be all of you, of course.”

“In service to the game.” Hagen assumed a militarybearing and clicked his heels. The game’s first showman,the Haig was cheerful and at ease; he looked to be in his30s, in his prime, though he had lived to his 70s.

“ ‘Today’s crew’?” I repeated.Ballesteros, young and tanned, answered. “You could

guess the others: Vardon, Jones, Snead, Zaharias, Hogan,Nelson, Ouimet, Wethered, and Sarazen.” He gave eachname a Spanish richness. “They all like a turn.”

I gestured toward the iPhones that each of the greatsheld. “So, that’s how you keep track of all the golf in theworld.”

Young Tom, who never did grow old, was wearing thelarge belt buckle of the British Open champion. Heglanced at the iPhone in his hand and laughed. “I couldnever have guessed what the world would become. You’veinvented so much! The only electricity I saw was up in thesky; now you’ve got YouTube.”

“Before computers,” Hagen explained, “we only hadthe supernatural. Millions of golf shots are hit each day,and we were trying to watch them all. We hired some ofthe other gods—the Greek gods don’t have much to doanymore. Apollo and Athena were diligent, but Zeusalways kept trying to take charge. Now, with the iPhonesand some filters, we can hang out here and watch onlywhat’s important. Punishment or reward in a few seconds.”

“Or have some fun,” said Ballesteros, his dark eyes mis-chievous.

Hagen’s phone beeped. He looked at the small screenand said, “We’ve got a 25 year old about to tee off at RoyalMelbourne. Good athlete, former rugby star, been playinggolf for a year. He’s hoping to break 90 today for the firsttime, and he probably will. What should we do?”

“Instead of breaking 90...” Ballesteros said, pausing for

F I C T I O N

212 THE MEMORIAL

dramatic effect, “...what if he breaks 80instead?”

“Yes!” chortled Young Tom. “He’ll walk offthe course saying he’s got the game figured out!”

“And the next day,“ said Old Tom, “heshoots 105!”

Hagen grinned and tapped the keys on hisiPhone, setting the Aussie’s fate.

Young Tom, addressing me, said, “And youmust be wondering why you are here.”

“Well, yes.”“You know golf history, you love the game,

and you don’t cheat,” he said. “No Mulligans,no ‘gimmes,’ no claims that ‘The handicap system says I can’t take higher than a 7.’ ”

“Bo-gus,” said Ballesteros, drawing out theword.

“And,” said Young Tom, “you lost to yourfather twice, on purpose, when he was gettingolder.”

“I never told... ”“... anyone,” Hagen said, completing my

thought. “Right. But, we knew.”“I assume I’m not here to write about this.”“Who would believe you?” he asked.“No one.”“Consider it a reward for being true to the

game. Enjoy the visit, we’ve invited only a fewmortals up here,” Hagen said.

“Who?”“Seinfeld. And Dave Chappelle—we think

he’s funny. A few others—Kate Upton—twice,”he said.

“Of course.”“And, like all other golfers, we enjoy watch-

ing Caddyshack,” said Young Tom, “so we invitedBill Murray.” He pointed at Old Tom. “Father,what is your favorite line?”

In his fine Scottish brogue, Old Tom Morrissaid, “Big hitter, the Lama.”

We all laughed, and I thought that this was,easily, the strangest moment of my life.

“AND, LIKE ALL OTHER GOLFERS,WE ENJOYWATCHING CADDYSHACK”

SAID YOUNG TOM,“SO WE INVITED BILL MURRAY.”

F I C T I O N

214 THE MEMORIAL

“Where did the golf gods come from?” Iasked.

“I started them,” said Old Tom. “Someoneneeded to keep an eye on things and make surethe game stayed clean. I didn’t want it tobecome a sport only for gamblers—like horseracing, or one that always needed a referee tokeep it fair—like boxing. I wanted this toremain a game of honor, a place for people to beat their best—and for golf to be a refuge fromthe rest of life.”

“So,” I said, “that’s why, if a golfer makes funof someone else’s bad shot, the golf gods makehim hit an even worse one. You’re always listen-ing, always watching.”

“Right,” said Old Tom.“Tell me, what do you do to the cheaters?”“We hate them but we love the payback,”

Young Tom said. “Out in California—and, oh,I would have loved to play that Cypress Pointcourse—in Hillsborough is a golfer with nohonor at all. He moves his ball in the rough,drops a ‘lost’ ball down his pants’ leg and sud-denly ‘finds’ it, and puts Vaseline on the club-face so the ball won’t hook or slice. He’s got allthe moves.”

“What have you done to him?”“This was Seve’s idea—and it was pure

genius,” Hagen said with admiration. “We givehim holes-in-one.”

“What?”“Dozens of holes-in-one—and he’s always

alone,” Hagen laughed. “The first few times,he tried to tell people what happened, andthey mocked him, so he gave up. Now, afterevery ace, he just swears at us. Mouth like asailor. He usually takes the ball out of the holeand throws it into a pond or into the woods, asif it was cursed. Once, we gave him three acesin nine holes. He hates us. He rarely playsalone anymore.”

F I C T I O N

“WHAT DO YOU DO TO THECHEATERS?” “OUT IN CALIFORNIA … IS A GOLFER WITH NO HONOR AT ALL.

WE GIVE HIM HOLES-IN-ONE … DOZENS OF HOLES-IN-ONE, AND

HE’S ALWAYS ALONE.”

216 THE MEMORIAL

“And, we have a solution for guys who hitshots over an elevated green and, if they can’tfind their ball, drop one when nobody is look-ing,” said Old Tom. “When an opponent goes toputt, he finds the cheater’s first ball in the cup.That usually causes some shouting.”

”What about the good golfers, the honestones?” I asked.

“We can only affect things on the course,”Hagen said. “So, if a golfer calls a penalty on him-self or even disqualifies himself for breaking arule, we can’t give him a winning lottery ticket.”

“But, if it’s a tournament,“ said Young Tom,“a lass in the crowd might take a shine to him.”

“Do you ever see anything new?” I asked.

They looked at one another, then Old Tomsaid, “A few years ago, there was an originalthinker in North Carolina: He carried an out-of-bounds stake in his bag. Whenever he wasjust beyond the course boundary, he’d put thatstake down and show his opponent that he wasin-bounds. At night, he’d come back and get it.”

Ballesteros’ iPhone beeped. He read thescreen and said, “There’s a new golfer inHawaii, mid-30s, that we could have some funwith—he’s an atheist!”

Hagen and Young Tom whooped likeschoolboys. “Now we’re talking!” “A mostunfortunate lad.”

“He’s learning to play because his bossplays,” Ballesteros added.

“So, he doesn’t believe in God, and he doesn’t know what a golf god is,” said Hagen.“He’s completely pure: no superstitions ...”

“... yet,” added Old Tom.“Do we break him quick or torture him for a

while?” asked Ballesteros, feigning innocence,then he joined the others as they all said thesame words: “Torture him!”

The Spaniard typed the novice’s fate intothe phone.

“HE DOESN’T BELIEVE IN GOD AND HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT A GOLF GOD IS,” SAID HAGEN.“DO WE BREAK HIM QUICK OR TORTURE HIM FOR A WHILE?”

ASKED BALLESTEROS.

F I C T I O N

218 THE MEMORIAL

“They get so confused,” said Old Tom, shak-ing his head. “The atheists don’t want to believein anything except what they can see, but, outon the golf course there are too many coinci-dences, too many patterns.”

Hagen said, “I’ll admit that I was surprisedthe first time I heard an atheist whisperingprayers to us.”

“You all have a sense of humor,” I said. “I’vemet scratch golfers who’ve never had a hole-in-one, but you gave one to a 4-year-old girl and another to a 102-year-old lady. And you

like to have shots ricochet off trees and rocksand end up back in play.”

“Little lessons in humility,” said Old Tom.Hagen’s iPhone beeped, then Ballesteros’,

Old Tom’s, and Young Tom’s, in rapid successionone after the other. I heard the sound of a doorbehind me, and the old caddie in the three-cor-nered hat stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“You’ve got work to do,” I said to the golfgods. “Thanks for the visit. It all makes a lotmore sense now.”

“We thought you’d like it,” said Hagen.I stepped into the elevator, then leaned out

the door. “Old Tom, would you do me a favor?”“Sure, laddie.”“Say it again.”Old Tom smiled, then, in his grand brogue

said, “Big hitter, the Lama.”I laughed all the way back to Earth. MT

Frederick Waterman, a former sportswriter forUPI, has covered the Olympics, the Super Bowl, the World Series, and Wimbledon. He also worked asa Broadway critic and covered presidential elections.

“YOU ALL HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR.I’VE MET SCRATCH GOLFERS

WHO’VE NEVER HAD A HOLE-IN-ONE,BUT YOU GAVE ONE TO A

4-YEAR-OLD GIRL AND ANOTHER TO A 102-YEAR-OLD LADY.”

F I C T I O N