92 gd | us open 2019
“The New Yorker’s elegant im-
mortals Herbert Warren Wind
and novelist John Updike.”
Whitaker passed a long-haired
man levitating nine inches
above his chair—“author of
the mystical classic Golf in
the Kingdom, Michael Mur-
phy”—then approached an
elderly gent in a three-piece
suit, alone, sobbing into a
handkerchief: “And finally,
O.B. Keeler, who’s been weep-
ing inconsolably ever since
Bob Jones lost to Nicklaus in
the quarterfinals.”
“Bob is simply the finest
young man who ever lived,”
said Keeler. “Abe Lincoln,
Julius Caesar and Aristotle,
all rolled into one... and for
him to lose to a strapping Ger-
manic brute who plays a game
with which Bob is so utterly
unfamiliar, I don’t think I’ll ever
get over it... ”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said
Nantz. “After halving 11, the
action has moved to 12, where
things are really heating up.
Let’s send it out to our old
friend, The Squire himself,
Gene Sarazen.”
Sarazen stood greenside
at the par-3 12th, in natty plus
fours and bucket hat. “Thanks,
Jim, I’m here with that efer-
vescent South African exercise
enthusiast, Gary Player, and
Rory McIlroy, one of the game’s
young greats, but I still can’t
believe you beat me in the first
round.”
“Got a bit lucky,” said Rory,
“but honestly, neither of us
were going to get by Jack in the
second.”
“I always say, boys, the key
to beating Jack,” said Player,
raising a forefinger, “is you
must always believe in yourself
and never give up. You’ll still
lose, but you’ll come away feel-
ing anything is possible.”
“Except beating Jack,” said
Ro r y.
“Exactly! Think positive!”
“Can you fellas tell us what
we just saw here at 12?” asked
Sarazen.
“Well, Jack hit a great tee
shot to about 18 inches,” said
Ro r y.
“And then Tiger launched
the identical shot—uncanny!”
“It landed right on Jack’s
ball mark,” said Rory.
“Tiger’s ball rolled straight
for the cup,” said Player, “hit
Jack’s ball, knocked it sideways,
and then hung on the lip.”
“Just incredible,” said Sara-
zen. “Anyway, Jim, birdies for
both at the 12th, still all square.”
Two large figures moved
into the frame behind them.The camera tilted up to reveal
Dustin Johnson and Brooks
Koepka, jogging in place, wear-
ing workout gear.
“Dude,” said D.J.
“Ready?” asked Koepka.
“Squire, Rory, if you’ll ex-
cuse me,” said Player, “these
youngsters asked me for some
fitness tips, so I’m to put them
through their paces. Of we go,
boys—look lively.” Player raced
away at a blistering clip, John-
son and Koepka struggled to
catch him. “You’re welcome to
join us, Rory!”
“I’d rather bench press
Colin Montgomerie,” said Rory,
opening an umbrella.
At the 13th, as the men
reached their perfect tee shots,
they were distracted by Count
Basie’s Orchestra, and the buzz
of Bing Crosby’s house party.
Crosby spotted them and called
through a megaphone:
“Ahoy, mateys—anyone
aboard in need of sustenance,
or a refreshing libation?”
Nicklaus and his caddie had
a brief discussion, then Angelo
set down the bag and walked
toward Crosby. As Tiger took
his stance, Stevie turned toward
the party and screamed:
“QUIET!”
Dead silence. After Jack
and Tiger hit approaches to the
green, the party resumed and
correspondent Roger Maltbie
walked up to Nicklaus:“Jack, can you tell us what
you just discussed with Angelo?”
“Sure. Angelo said he was
thirsty, and Bing’s pouring free
drinks,” said Jack, shouldering
his bag. “Angelo said he’d find
someone in there to carry for
him, so we’ll see—unless you’d
like to volunteer, Roger.”
“Did somebody say free
drinks?” said Maltbie, vector-ing toward Crosby’s. “Back to
you, Jim.”
“Kind of unusual, right
there,” said Miller.
Jack eased his 20-foot birdie
try close for a conceded par.
Taking a more aggressive line,
Tiger rammed it in for a 3.
“Tiger retakes the lead at
13!” said Nantz.A SURPRISE CADDIE
O
n the tee at 14, with
steady rain falling,
Tiger massacred his
drive 320 yards, carrying the
right bunkers. Jack slaughtered
his ball, fading toward the
middle, even with Tiger.
“Did somebody call for a
sherpa?” someone asked as
the gallery parted.Bill Mur-
ray ambled out of the crowd
in a bright-yellow rain slicker,
fisherman’s hood and matching
boots. Gasps turned to laughter
as the three men exchanged
greetings. Murray opened an
umbrella, hoisted Jack’s bag—
pretending to stagger under
it for a moment—and they
marched of.
“There’s only one way this
works, Jack,” said Murray.
“You don’t tell me about funny;
I won’t tell you about golf.”
“Deal,” said Jack. “I was
going to ask my son Jackie to
carry, but then I remembered
he was only 11 in 1972.”
Murray shook his head.“Jack, don’t ever mess with the
mysteries of the time-space
continuum. And like I said,
leave the comedy to me.”
Jack sized up his shot,
pulled his 3-wood and glanced
at Murray. “Whatever you do,”
Murray said, “who you are is
always right.”
Two-fifty to a back-left pin.
Jack gave it a lashing, dead online into the throat between the
bunkers, settling 25 feet right of
the pin.
Tiger didn’t hesitate, pulled
his 3-wood and answered, car-
rying the front-right bunker,
drawing it to the back middle
fringe. Stevie shot a fiery glare
at Murray: “Beat that!”
“That all you got, tough
guy?” asked Murray. “Let me
explain something: If you chase
two rabbits, you’ll not catch
either one.”
For the first time all day,
Stevie looked confused.
Tiger, away, trickled a tick-
lish eagle try down to less than
three feet. Murray stood behind
Jack as he lined up the putt.
“The essence of the Way
is detachment,” said Murray,
then walked of and jumped in
a puddle.
Jack shook his head,
amused, took a run at eagle and
ran it dead center. The gallery
erupted. Murray tried to talk
Jack out of conceding Tiger’s
birdie, until Jack explained he’d
already won the hole.
“And with that roar at 14,
they’re all square again!” said
Nantz. “Let’s welcome into the
booth my old friend and part-
ner Ken Venturi.”
“Thanks, Jim,” said Ken,
trying to slide in a chair. “Little
crowded in here.”
“Try slipping the maitre d’
a twenty,” said Miller. ▶