While relaxing in my office
with my feet up on the desk I thought about what possessed me to want to write
a Faustian golf screenplay in the first place. I thought about getting back
into the music now that I had put the script away in that drawer but I hadn’t
written a song in months.
I
thought about the trip I had taken with my father to Wallingford, Connecticut
in 1963. He was playing the role of Applegate (the Devil) in the musical,
Damned Yankees in the theatre-in-the-round circuit along the eastern seaboard
of the United States. I was in seventh heaven, just me and my dad and a cast
and crew that consisted of starlets and baseball players. What more could an
eleven year old kid want? It gets better.
Not
only were we staying at a Tally-Ho motel with the cast and crew, there was a
baseball field in the back with a real pitcher’s mound and machine rolled foul
lines in pristine white chalk. The baseball players in the show all had
Spalding Whitey Ford signature model baseball gloves and in the early afternoon,
after they had their noon-time cup of coffee, someone decided to play a pick-up
game on the field. I was so excited they included me in their festivities I
almost forgot to get my glove from my dad. He didn’t play that afternoon;
instead he was the home plate umpire, a job more suited to his demonstrative
personality. He let me borrow his glove and I took my position as the starting
second baseman for the Yankees against the Senators. I got three hits (I’m not
sure the pitcher was throwing goose-eggs but I still managed to smack them into
center field). I also threw a few of the opponents out at first and made a
diving catch over the bag in the middle of the diamond. The shortstop came over
and tousled my hair saying. “Way to go, kid.” I was one of the proudest moments
in my life.
That
night was the opening of the show and I got to hang out backstage watching my
amazingly talented father in his red shirt underneath a black suit play the
part of the nefarious Mr. Applegate. Not only was a treated like an equal, I
was coming on like gangbusters to the statuesque showgirls who thought I was so
damned cute. I didn’t care if they thought of me as harmless, in my mind I was
planning to have an illicit time with them (even though I wasn’t quite sure
what illicit meant or how I was to go about consummating any kind of serious
romance). It didn’t matter—they were gorgeous and were paying attention to me.
After
the show, my father and some of the cast went to a diner where they served them
gin in coffee cups so if raided, it would look like they were all having a
harmless cup of java. I was a little confused by it all but didn’t question
anything. I was on a natural high—baseball, broads and showbiz. It goes without
saying that day influenced me greatly. No wonder I ended up writing a story
that was golf’s version of Damned Yankees.
Of
course that show was a major influence and thirty-six years later working at
Nashville Golf and Athletic for Mr. Whittemore proved to be a culmination of
that story. I knew I had something special. My father was an actor who played a
little golf and in Mulligan’s Tour his character, Johnny Mulligan, was the
opposite—a golfer who did a little acting. But there was some other incident
that rekindled my love of golf—The Millennium Quaich.
In
2000, five Haymer’s went on our fourth or fifth trip over to Scotland. In the
old days, my drinking days, single-malt scotch was my favorite drink bar none.
My brother-in-law, Roy, had organized a golf tournament called the Silver Quaich;
a tribute to Bonnie Prince Charlie’s throwing the silver goblet into the Firth
of Forth in defiance of English rule. It was the second time I was to
participate in the tournament. Three years earlier, in 1997, (leaderboard
pictured) I had come in 6th place. I was the lone American out of
twenty-five Scottish golfers.
Now the Quaich was taking place in Pitlochry, the
same place where I proposed to Donna twelve years earlier. I was excited and in
dread about playing with these same twenty-five Scottish blokes since the
winner was supposed to drink a dram of whiskey from the traditional representation
of the famed silver chalice. What if I won? Would I be tempted to drink? I
didn’t want to purposely lose but I also didn’t want to get into a situation
where I would feel obligated to perform the ancient rite.
Again,
twenty-five Scottish golfers and I boarded the hired bus from Glenrothes to
Pitlochry because after the two rounds of golf a lot of celebrating was going
to take place and the golfers would be too drunk to drive home. A good,
sensible idea. I remembered in ’97 I was bleeding drunk and could hardly make
it in my in-laws front door without falling down. But now I was sober and I was
sure I was going to be the only one who was after the tournament concluded.
Paired with
big John Holmes and Ian McShane for the first round, I knew I was in pleasant
company. John was a hulking Scotsman with fiery red hair and a large thirst for
Murphy’s stout which he proceeded to devour after each hole. He was pissed as a
skunk and his score reflected his inebriation. But, at least, he was a charming
and hilarious drunk. Ian, a man in his late fifties, was playing it straight.
In fact when he saw that I was contending in the tournament, he was more like a
cheerleader giving me the confidence and inside information on how to approach
the course. He was a godsend. I entered the clubhouse after the first round
with a 79 and was in third place.
In the
afternoon round I was fortunate enough to be playing alongside Ian and John
again. By this time John had sobered up a bit and managed to keep the ball on
the proper fairway. Ian was out of the running with his first round 96 so he
concentrated on my game more than his own. When I was in the rough on the first
hole he said, “C’mon Jamie, tak yer seven iron and knock it doon.” When I did
as he said, I managed to cozy the ball up between the pot bunkers and the ball
came to rest ten below the pin. Scottish courses are much different that
American ones where instead of everything rolling toward the center the
fairways and greens, they seem to slant to the roughs. I mean you could hit
what you thought was the best shot in the world and still end up out of bounds.
And the roughs? They’re nearly impossible to escape from. You have to muscle
your way out.
While
Big John and Ian bogied and double bogied their way through the next five
holes, I had parred them all. I was one under par. Now at the highest elevation
on the course, the view of the ancient castle in town was breathtaking. It was
also the most difficult part of the course. I bogied seven and eight but
birdied nine and had racked up a decent 39 after the outward nine.
The
back nine was a series of dog-legs that I somehow managed to survey without too
much difficulty. I guess between Ian’s coaching and my prior knowledge from the
first round I came into the clubhouse with a 77— 39 on the front and 38 on the
back. With only three golfers left out on the course I was in first place. My
brother-in-law, Roy and the other mates were slapping me on the back
congratulating me for having the tournament sewn up. Their only regret was
having to hand the Quaich over to a Yank. I told them it wasn’t over yet since Stevie
Robertson, and Alan Tait, two of the top golfers were still out on the course.
My insides were churning like butter. I was hoping that Stevie or Alan would
have a great showing. Second place would be fine and the prize was a Lyle and
Scott sweater. I could handle that.
Alan
had a tough second round and came into the clubhouse worn and weary. But not Stevie
Robertson. He shot a 76 and had beaten me by one stroke. I came in second and,
much to my relief got the gray sweater. At least I didn’t have to break my
sobriety and the Scotsmen didn’t have to relinquish the Quaich to a Yank.
“All’s well that ends well.” Shakespeare said that. “I’d rather have a Lyle and
Scott sweater than a Quaich full of Glenfiddich single-malt scotch.” I said
that.
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