“She’s going with a four-iron.”
“I can’t look.”
The mom didn’t see Ginger rip it, swollen knee and all. The shot soared high and straight. “Be the stick!” Ginger yelled.
The ball found the center of the green—and bit, stayed.
“This kid of yours,” I said. “That was one hell of a shot. She is stronger than laundry.”
Ginger and Debbie both two-putted and came away from the sinister sixteenth with pars, but then the mom found something else to worry about.
“I hate seventeen worse than sixteen,” she said.
Mescalero’s seventeenth was the hole where the tee shot could wind up in downtown Ruidoso if it was hooked or pulled too far left.
Debbie did her best to take her tee shot to downtown Ruidoso, but a long, thin bunker had been strategically placed on the left edge of the fairway for the explicit purpose of catching drives that weren’t hooked or pulled too severely. A safety net for high-handicap members.
Debbie’s ball bounced like it wanted to go downtown, which would have ended her challenge to Ginger, but the bunker saved her. She could rescue a par-four from there, or escape with no worse than a five.
“Destiny is still sucking,” I observed.
“I know,” said Thurlene. “It’s disgusting.”
Ginger’s drive was a rocket. She aimed a little left of the tree line on the right and let the tilt of the fairway take the ball down toward the green after it landed. Even with a weakened knee, it was a 290-yard lick, mountain air assisting. Her second shot would amount to no more than a dainty chip.
We were feeling good about the prospects here, but Destiny wasn’t through with us.
Debbie’s bunker shot was a pull-lunge that tried again to go out of bounds, but the ball hit the trunk of the only tree on the left side of the green and it bounced thirty yards to the right and onto the green, and somewhat astoundingly gave her a twenty-foot birdie putt.
“That’s ridiculous,” Thurlene said. “I mean, it just is.”
When Ginger ran her chip shot up to within four feet of the cup, she was still the favorite to gain a stroke on the hole. I was thinking of this, and I knew the mom was.
But there are times when competitive golf is the cruelest of games. It’s the only sport where luck can trump talent. This was one of those times. If talent gets trumped in any other sport it’s because a zebra, an official in a striped shirt, who is either a fool or a criminal, interferes.
First, Debbie staggered in her twenty-footer for a birdie. The ball hung on the lip for a second before it fell. Then Ginger missed the short one.
Ginger’s putt was stroked on the correct line and with the right speed, and the ball rolled directly into the center of the cup—it hit nothing but air—and yet it refused to drop.
Ginger shook her head angrily. She glared at the world. Her caddie looked stunned, baffled. She mouthed something that might have been, “Can you fucking believe this shit?” Then she listlessly raked the ball into the cup.
Bizarre birdie for Debbie. Unlucky par for Ginger.
Now the girls were tied with one hole to play.
On the other side of the green, Ann Wendell was punching the air again with her fist.
Back in our cart, Thurlene was beyond cussing. In a calm, resigned voice she said, “I hate this game. I hate Scotland for inventing it. I hate New Mexico. I hate this day…I hate this golf course…I hate this tournament.”
She drove the cart halfway up the left side of the eighteenth fairway and stopped parallel to where the tee shots should land.
“Hate is good,” I said. “It’s the reason I read about politicians in the papers every morning. I like to start off the day with a lot of healthy hate.”
She changed her tone. “I don’t actually hate anything, if you want the truth. This game just frustrates me so damn much. I don’t even hate Debbie Wendell and Ann Wendell.”
“I’m going to remember you said that.”
“You want to know why?”
“I would love to know why.”
“I don’t hate them, because no matter what they do—today or any other time—they’ll still be Debbie Wendell and Ann Wendell.”
As cutting remarks go, I rated that one fairly high.
The par-four eighteenth hole presented the golfer with a wide-open fairway. You could drive the ball practically anywhere and be safe. The second shot was a slightly uphill midiron to a huge, sprawling green that wasn’t even protected by bunkers. It was a nothing hole. The only thing you could say in defense of Burch Webb is that sometimes a golf course designer is restricted by a developer who wants to reserve certain acreage for home sites.
We happened to be looking back at the tee in time to see Debbie Wendell almost whiff her tee shot. She did top it, get a piece of it, but the ball only scooted seventy or eighty yards along the ground.
It was an embarrassing example of an athlete having a train wreck.
“Oh…my…God,” Thurlene said slowly.
With no show of emotion, Ginger pounded her own drive about 275 yards into the heart of the fairway, accepted a high five from Tyler Hughes, and walked ahead in a businesslike manner.
Poor Debbie. She topped her second shot with a three-wood. It traveled about forty more yards. Then she topped her third shot with the three-wood. By then she knew the tournament was lost, over, and so did everyone else.
After Ginger smoothly put a five-iron in the middle of the green, the only thing left for Debbie to do was complete her collapse. In order, she shanked a three-iron into the right rough, slashed out of the rough with a sand wedge, smothered a six-iron into the left rough, slashed out of there with the sand wedge again, and finally put her eighth shot on the green. There, she dejectedly three-putted for the eleven that would find her finishing in a tie for twenty-third in the tournament.
As Debbie struggled through her calamity, shot by shot, Thurlene was saying, “This is painful to watch, isn’t it? It’s very sad. It’s awful. It’s really pathetic. It’s just so humiliating…so embarrassing for her…and I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m enjoying it.”
We were out of the cart and standing by then, and in Thurlene’s excitement, she suddenly gave me a kiss. On the mouth. It was a happy kiss, a friendly kiss, but at the same time it was more than that. It lasted just long enough, and was just intense enough, for me to read something else into it. You could call it the kind of kiss a guy wouldn’t forget for a while.
A big moment for me, but maybe a bigger moment for the kid’s career. It would be a big story in the golf world. Two wins in a row on the LPGA Tour. Good-looking teenage babe plays hurt and still does it. Does it on the eve of the year’s first major coming up the next week in Palm Springs. Ginger Clayton was a hotter property than ever.
When the kid holed out her final putt in the Speedy Arrow Energy Bar Classic and high-fived her caddie and raised a victorious fist at her mom, Thurlene raised her own fist back and hollered:
“Yeah, baby!”
Ginger then hobbled over on her sore knee to shake hands with Debbie. Do the public-display-of-sportsmanship thing. But Debbie was rushing off the green to escape the wrath of her infuriated mother, who was coming after her—and closing fast.
29
On a previous occasion there’d been this heated discussion between Hoyt Newkirk and Rusty Morrison about the design of the trophy the winner would receive. I learned from Hoyt that he’d argued for a tomahawk mounted on a plaque, while Rusty wanted a replica of his nutritious candy bar mounted on a plaque. Hoyt won out in the end when he told Rusty that he was losing his patience and on the verge of calling Eddie Wing Tips in Dallas, an associate who could arrange for Rusty to walk with a limp the rest of his life.
It wasn’t too long ago that golf trophies were tasteful and sparkling. They were made of real silver and consisted of claret jugs, water pitchers, plates, bowls to put fruit in, and tall vases to put flowers in, and the lettering on them w
as artistic and engraved by old men in eyeshades who lived in broom closets in Inverness, Scotland.
Not anymore. Every tournament sponsor in the world now—for men, women, or kids—strives to come up with something unique, original. Whether the striving sponsor’s trophy succeeds in achieving this goal generally depends on the observer’s sense of humor or complete lack of a sense of humor.
I’d discussed the subject in the past with colleagues and we’d settled on a list of modern golf’s most unique trophies. They are:
The shining conquistador’s helmet.
The heavy pewter alligator on a wood base.
The bronze sculpture of a golfer swinging a club that looks nothing like the Arnold Palmer it’s intended to be.
The golden pineapple on a wooden base.
The curious object on a small wooden pedestal that could well be a Buick hood ornament.
The plastic toy Goofy lining up a putt for the plastic toy Mickey on a base of artificial turf.
The red plaid blazer that even the Salvation Army won’t accept.
The wood carving of a lady golfer with mysterious wings on her back as she hunches over a putt.
The tall round clear glass sculpture carved into a knob at the top that no golfer will dare kiss in a photo op out of fear that the photo’s nationwide circulation will ruin his or her sex life forever.
The ancient Apache tomahawk mounted on a polished wood plaque that Ginger received was to be admired even if the tomahawk might only date back to 2008 and wasn’t the exact weapon used by the great brave Tall Possum in 1881 when he outfought Col. Bright Finnegan of the U.S. Seventh Cavalry on the patch of ground that was now the eighteenth green at Mescalero Country Club.
The presentation ceremony for the winner of the tournament took place on that very spot.
Golf fans and Apaches surrounded it. Thurlene and I were given folding chairs inside the ropes, in the front row. We were in the same row as This Here’s Fay and Miyuki and other distinguished guests, such as Sinking Canoe and Smokes Loco Weed.
Had Debbie Wendell even made a double bogey six on the last hole, she would have been invited to the front row and introduced as the proud runner-up. As it was, Linda Merle Draper was enjoying that role, having finished five strokes behind Ginger.
We could only imagine where Debbie and her mother were at the moment, and what sort of medieval punishment the daughter was absorbing.
The deputy commissioner acted as the MC.
The first thing Claudia Bradley did was apologize for Marsha Wilson’s absence. The LPGA’s “fantastic” commissioner was unable to return from Palm Springs and attend the ceremony. She was simply too busy getting “all the ducks in a row” for next week’s first major of the year, Le Grand Cheval et Petit Chien Classique.
I nudged Thurlene. “They seriously think that sounds like a major?”
She said, “Jack, you of all people should know that golf tournaments today are named whatever the money wants them named.”
“You’re right. I forgot who I am for a minute.”
Claudia Bradley introduced everybody she deemed important. We didn’t make the cut.
Rusty Morrison, the always clever VP of marketing for Speedy Arrow, presented Ginger with a foot-long replica of the $300,000 winner’s check. The real money would travel from the sponsor to the LPGA office and on into Ginger’s bank account. That’s how it works.
Handing Ginger the replica, Rusty Morrison said, “Congratulations, darling. This should keep you in mascara and lip gloss for a while. I know it would be enough to keep me in stock. Heh, heh.”
Ginger thanked everyone involved with the tournament. She especially wanted to thank Tyler Hughes, Mescalero’s head pro, who came to her rescue as a caddie and saw her through a tough week.
This was as good a time as any, she said, to announce that Tyler was resigning as the head pro and coming on the LPGA Tour as her regular caddie. She pointed to Tyler in the crowd. He waved at everyone.
The deputy commissioner introduced Sinking Canoe, explaining to the audience that he was one of the “big chiefs” of the hotel, casino, and country club.
At the mike, Sinking Canoe said, “May the warm winds of the Heavenly Father blow upon your putts and chip shots…May the same winds jack up your ball in the rough.”
Next, Smokes Loco Weed insisted on going to the microphone although he wasn’t introduced.
He said, “May the Great Spirit give us plenty herbs to heal our brains, you betcha…May the rainbow always touch the shoulders of the paleface girls in the short pants who come here to show us their bodies. May their moccasins make happy tracks to my teepee. May their—”
Hoyt Newkirk was there to snatch the mike from him, cut him off, and tell him to go sit down and stare at something.
Hoyt announced that he was always easy to find if anybody was interested in buying a home site. And he took a moment to recount the battle of “Finnegan’s Folly,” and mentioned that Limping Turkey and Smells a Possum, descendants of the heroes of the battle, had organized a little surprise for everyone.
He motioned for Limp and Possum to step out of the crowd and lead the other Apaches who’d gathered there in the song they’d rehearsed for the occasion.
They came to the mike. Limp wore his red Wal-Mart vest and Possum was in a yellow and blue softball uniform with a patch on the back of the shirt that said, “Teddy Crow’s Auto Repair and Service Center.”
Limp said into the mike, “This is in honor of the soldiers our people fought and killed that are buried here right now under this bent grass green.”
With that, he raised his arms like a musical conductor and the band of Apaches joined Limp and Smells in song. We heard:
“Around their necks they wear the yellow ribbons,
Ladies wear ’em in the springtime
And anytime we say.
And if you ask us why they wear ’em,
It’s for the ones we killed that day.”
There was more to the song, but Thurlene and I caught up with Ginger and the three of us filed out, along with most everyone else.
Thurlene said, “Next stop, Palm Springs.”
“Right,” I said. “Onward to La Vie En Horse.”
PART THREE
TOO MUCH WOMAN
30
It only took two cups of coffee, a cinnamon roll, and one conversation to go from Ruidoso’s Sierra Blanca Regional Airport to Palm Springs International, but this was in the private jet Thurlene chartered on Sunday.
The Falcon 20 was out of El Paso. It would accommodate nine passengers comfortably, but there were just six of us. The other three were Tyler Hughes, Jan Dunn, and Linda Merle Draper. Giving the two LPGA board members and competitors a lift was good politics on Thurlene and Ginger’s part.
The jet was designed with six plush seats and one couch. Thurlene and I sat across from each other in the front row. I complimented her on her low threshold for inconvenience.
She confessed it was the first time she’d chartered a plane, but Ginger needed to get to Palm Springs as quickly as possible and rest her knee. Why should they waste a day driving to El Paso and then flying commercial to Palm Springs with a stop in L.A.?
I said, “Don’t apologize. Tiger Woods doesn’t…and he charters a jet just to go to dinner.”
Nobody said anything for a while. Eventually I leaned over and said, “I’ve known you for two weeks now, right?”
“Yes.”
“Which means you’ve known me for two weeks.”
“Uh-huh. So…?”
“Don’t you think it’s time I ask you out on a real date?”
“A real date?”
“Yeah. Like I open doors for you. We dine. I stare into your eyes when I light your cigarette, except you can’t smoke indoors anywhere. That kind of date.”
“This is a serious hit. There’s no getting around it.”
“What do you think?”
“It sounds okay.”
“Oka
y?”
“It sounds fine.”
“Fine?”
“What do you want me to say—it’s about time?”
“That would do it for me.”
“It sounds wonderful, Jack. How’s that?”
“Great. This will happen in Palm Springs, then.”
I sat back in my seat. She glanced over at me. Grinning.
Good sign.
We were staying at the Desert Mystique Hotel & Spa. It was tournament headquarters and five minutes from downtown Palm Springs.
My room was in the main building. So was Tyler’s. So were most of the competitors’ and LPGA officials’. Ginger and her mom were in one of the sumptuous two-bedroom cabanas facing the Olympicsize swimming pool.
A press packet for the Grand Cheval et Petit Chien Classique—“The First Ladies Major Championship of the Season”—was waiting for me at the front desk when I checked in.
Directions from the hotel to the golf course were provided in case I was driving a car and not taking the shuttle bus that would run every thirty minutes. The directions were tantalizing. They read:
“From the Desert Mystique Hotel on Frank Sinatra Drive go 4 miles east to Barbara Stanwyck Avenue.
Turn left on Barbara Stanwyck Avenue. Go two miles to Fred MacMurray Highway.
Go 5.4 miles on Fred MacMurray Highway. Turn right on Gloria Swanson Parkway.
Take Gloria Swanson Parkway 1.8 miles to Zachary Scott Road. Take Zachary Scott Road 2.3 miles to Gail Patrick Loop.
Stay on Gail Patrick Loop until it becomes Ralph Bellamy Street.
Ralph Bellamy Street leads to Carole Lombard Boulevard.
Carole Lombard Boulevard is the main entry to Hollywood Dunes Country Club. But before you reach the clubhouse you will be directed to Parking Lot A on the south side of the club. This space is strictly reserved for Contestants, Officials, Celebrities, and Working Press.”
There was another fascinating document, the tournament program. It was filled with photos and brief descriptions of the golf holes at Hollywood Dunes. Burch Webb’s creative do-over was said to have retained the unique character of the layout that was originally designed in 1936 by W. C. Fields and Adolphe Menjou, two of Hollywood’s most ardent golfers.