tournament would still be newsworthy, maybe even historic.
In the press tent, Earl insists he couldn’t care less about any of that. “Winning my first tournament is all the incentive I need,” he says. That’s true, as far as it goes, but the racial backstory gives him all the more incentive. Why wouldn’t it? And you can tell that it means something to the club’s black caddies, who go out of their way to shake his hand, wish him luck, or just make eye contact.
If Earl won’t talk about it, maybe I will. In the last three days, I’ve received dozens of interview requests, including one from ESPN’s Stuart Scott, who suggests I might want to be known for something other than the Ding Dong Lounge. I turn them all down—the last thing I want to do is say something stupid that will put extra pressure on Earl—and Thursday night, when there’s a knock on my hotel door, I ignore it like all the rest.
After thirty seconds, it turns into banging.
“Travis, open up. I know you’re in there.”
Annoyed, I hop from the bed and unchain the door. It’s Stump.
“I want to wish you good luck,” he says. “I think it’s great that you’re out here with Earl.”
“Thanks, Stump. I hope Earl feels the same.”
“Believe it or not, he does. I just ran into the Duke of Earl in the elevator. He told me you actually know what you’re doing. Surprised the hell out of him.”
“I bet. Speaking of surprises, thanks again for what you said in Ponte Vedra. It really opened my eyes. For thirty years I didn’t like you very much.”
“I kind of deduced that.”
“All because you beat me in a college match thirty fucking years ago.”
“You mean the one where you had me down by two with three to go?” says Stump with a shit-eating grin.
“Yeah, that one.”
“You’re a competitive prick, Travis. So am I and so is Earl and every other asshole out here. We wouldn’t be here otherwise. If it makes you feel any better, I always thought you were an asshole, too.”
“But you were right.”
“Yeah, good point.”
Then Stump leans forward and points at a spot above my collar, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “No doubt about it,” he says. “That’s raw and pink and angry. It’s official, son. You’re a redneck now, too.”
25
THE FINAL PIECE OF bad/good news is the weather. On Monday, the temperature barely reached sixty, and it has gotten colder and windier ever since. This morning, when we finally tee off for real, it’s forty-eight, with twenty-five-mile-an-hour gusts. On this course with this setup and this wind, it’s about survival, and who knows more about that than someone who got himself home in one piece from four tours in Vietnam?
For the next four and a half hours, Earl and I keep our heads down and plot our way from point A to B to C, following the routes we mapped out for each hole. Off the tee, Earl keeps it out of the wind with a low, hard stinger even Tiger wouldn’t sneeze at. Although the ball doesn’t get more than twenty feet off the ground, he gets so much roll that he puts it out there 275/280 every time, and while Earl’s playing partners, one of whom is the golf commentator and Senior Tour rookie Gary McCord, are hacking it out of the rough every three or four holes, Earl doesn’t stray from the short grass.
I’m not saying Earl makes it look easy. The human unhighlight film isn’t endowed with that kind of flair. But he makes it look boring, which is even better, as far as I’m concerned. Fairway, green, two putts. Fairway, green, two putts. After six holes of this, I overhear McCord mumble to his caddy, “I think that motherfucker is an android.”
Earl’s got things so under control, I can enjoy the rugged scenery. When I say Shoal Creek was carved out of the woods, I mean real woods, and unlike most courses we play, the wilderness hasn’t been utterly obliterated so a bunch of middle-aged guys can play golf. There have been sightings of
In the press tent, Earl insists he couldn’t care less about any of that. “Winning my first tournament is all the incentive I need,” he says. That’s true, as far as it goes, but the racial backstory gives him all the more incentive. Why wouldn’t it? And you can tell that it means something to the club’s black caddies, who go out of their way to shake his hand, wish him luck, or just make eye contact.
If Earl won’t talk about it, maybe I will. In the last three days, I’ve received dozens of interview requests, including one from ESPN’s Stuart Scott, who suggests I might want to be known for something other than the Ding Dong Lounge. I turn them all down—the last thing I want to do is say something stupid that will put extra pressure on Earl—and Thursday night, when there’s a knock on my hotel door, I ignore it like all the rest.
After thirty seconds, it turns into banging.
“Travis, open up. I know you’re in there.”
Annoyed, I hop from the bed and unchain the door. It’s Stump.
“I want to wish you good luck,” he says. “I think it’s great that you’re out here with Earl.”
“Thanks, Stump. I hope Earl feels the same.”
“Believe it or not, he does. I just ran into the Duke of Earl in the elevator. He told me you actually know what you’re doing. Surprised the hell out of him.”
“I bet. Speaking of surprises, thanks again for what you said in Ponte Vedra. It really opened my eyes. For thirty years I didn’t like you very much.”
“I kind of deduced that.”
“All because you beat me in a college match thirty fucking years ago.”
“You mean the one where you had me down by two with three to go?” says Stump with a shit-eating grin.
“Yeah, that one.”
“You’re a competitive prick, Travis. So am I and so is Earl and every other asshole out here. We wouldn’t be here otherwise. If it makes you feel any better, I always thought you were an asshole, too.”
“But you were right.”
“Yeah, good point.”
Then Stump leans forward and points at a spot above my collar, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “No doubt about it,” he says. “That’s raw and pink and angry. It’s official, son. You’re a redneck now, too.”
25
THE FINAL PIECE OF bad/good news is the weather. On Monday, the temperature barely reached sixty, and it has gotten colder and windier ever since. This morning, when we finally tee off for real, it’s forty-eight, with twenty-five-mile-an-hour gusts. On this course with this setup and this wind, it’s about survival, and who knows more about that than someone who got himself home in one piece from four tours in Vietnam?
For the next four and a half hours, Earl and I keep our heads down and plot our way from point A to B to C, following the routes we mapped out for each hole. Off the tee, Earl keeps it out of the wind with a low, hard stinger even Tiger wouldn’t sneeze at. Although the ball doesn’t get more than twenty feet off the ground, he gets so much roll that he puts it out there 275/280 every time, and while Earl’s playing partners, one of whom is the golf commentator and Senior Tour rookie Gary McCord, are hacking it out of the rough every three or four holes, Earl doesn’t stray from the short grass.
I’m not saying Earl makes it look easy. The human unhighlight film isn’t endowed with that kind of flair. But he makes it look boring, which is even better, as far as I’m concerned. Fairway, green, two putts. Fairway, green, two putts. After six holes of this, I overhear McCord mumble to his caddy, “I think that motherfucker is an android.”
Earl’s got things so under control, I can enjoy the rugged scenery. When I say Shoal Creek was carved out of the woods, I mean real woods, and unlike most courses we play, the wilderness hasn’t been utterly obliterated so a bunch of middle-aged guys can play golf. There have been sightings of
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