foxes, coyotes, and bears, and except for a brick chimney high on Double Oak Mountain, which looks down over the 14th hole, the views aren’t marred by houses.
The first round is classic Earl—fourteen of fourteen fairways, fifteen greens in regulation, and thirty-four putts. One birdie, one bogey, and sixteen pars. That’s just fine, because for once, he’s playing a course where par means something. Earl’s opening 72 leaves him tied for third, two strokes out of the lead.
26
SATURDAY’S JUST AS RAW and gusty, and now it’s raining. By the third hole, it’s coming down hard and we all expect play to be suspended, but with no electricity on the radar, the marshals decide to have us slog on. The wet fairways make the course longer and harder, which plays into Earl’s strengths, but I’m more than a little worried about holding up my end of the bargain, since the one thing harder than playing golf in the wind and the cold is caddying in the rain.
Add a downpour to the equation and caddying becomes borderline impossible. Ever try carrying the bag, cleaning and pulling clubs, pacing off yardages, and deciphering the wind and greens while holding an umbrella over your golfer? It’s like being a short-order cook at a popular diner on a busy morning, when you’ve got a grill full of crackling eggs and new orders piling up. There’s too much to do, and if you crumble under the pressure, you’re toast, as in whiskey down. To keep Earl and his equipment dry, I’ve got four towels in rotation—two in the bag, one under my jacket, and one hanging from the tines of Earl’s umbrella beside an extra glove—and all I’m trying to do is stay calm so Earl can stay calm, too.
“Bearing up okay?” asks Earl as I swap a soaking towel for a semidry one.
“Piece of cake,” I lie. “You just concentrate on fairways and greens.”
Earl does as instructed. He’s like the U.S. Postal Service. Neither wind nor cold nor rain can stop him from delivering pars. On the par-five 10th, he even throws in a birdie, and when the horn blows to stop play with Earl safely on the 12th green, I’m disappointed, because I doubt anyone else is faring as well under these conditions.
Till now, I’ve been too busy to verify that, but as Earl and I thread our way back to the clubhouse, we get our first look at the leaderboard. At the very top, so high it hurts my neck, is the name on the back of my overalls—Earl Fielder—and beside it the only number in red, −1, because he’s the only golfer under par.
“Take a gander at that,” I say.
“Let’s not get too worked up yet. We haven’t even played thirty holes. Speaking of which, as soon as we’re done here, you should head back to the hotel and take it easy. Tomorrow’s going to be a marathon.”
27
I CARRY EARL’S DRIPPING bag through the hotel lobby and into the elevator, and when I get off on the third floor, there’s a puddle in the corner. Inside my room, I pull all the clubs and dry the grips with a bath towel. Then I crank the tin heater to 11, lay the soaking bag in front of it, and head back out the door.
When I drive back through the stone pillars, Shoal Creek is empty. After a day like today the players can’t get away fast enough, and the only people milling about the grounds are the employees of the beverage companies, who are here to restock the hospitality tents for Sunday. In its soggy way, the course is as lovely in the damp gloaming as in blazing sunshine, and as I walk past the abandoned clubhouse, I can hear the water running down the gutters and dripping off the leaves.
Beyond the clubhouse is the pro shop, the retail outlet tastefully tucked away in a Colonial-style house with an eagle over the front door, and tacked to the rear of it like an afterthought is the low-slung caddy shack. Since the touring pros brought their own and the course is closed to members, there’s no work for the regular caddies this week. Nevertheless, a handful have come
The first round is classic Earl—fourteen of fourteen fairways, fifteen greens in regulation, and thirty-four putts. One birdie, one bogey, and sixteen pars. That’s just fine, because for once, he’s playing a course where par means something. Earl’s opening 72 leaves him tied for third, two strokes out of the lead.
26
SATURDAY’S JUST AS RAW and gusty, and now it’s raining. By the third hole, it’s coming down hard and we all expect play to be suspended, but with no electricity on the radar, the marshals decide to have us slog on. The wet fairways make the course longer and harder, which plays into Earl’s strengths, but I’m more than a little worried about holding up my end of the bargain, since the one thing harder than playing golf in the wind and the cold is caddying in the rain.
Add a downpour to the equation and caddying becomes borderline impossible. Ever try carrying the bag, cleaning and pulling clubs, pacing off yardages, and deciphering the wind and greens while holding an umbrella over your golfer? It’s like being a short-order cook at a popular diner on a busy morning, when you’ve got a grill full of crackling eggs and new orders piling up. There’s too much to do, and if you crumble under the pressure, you’re toast, as in whiskey down. To keep Earl and his equipment dry, I’ve got four towels in rotation—two in the bag, one under my jacket, and one hanging from the tines of Earl’s umbrella beside an extra glove—and all I’m trying to do is stay calm so Earl can stay calm, too.
“Bearing up okay?” asks Earl as I swap a soaking towel for a semidry one.
“Piece of cake,” I lie. “You just concentrate on fairways and greens.”
Earl does as instructed. He’s like the U.S. Postal Service. Neither wind nor cold nor rain can stop him from delivering pars. On the par-five 10th, he even throws in a birdie, and when the horn blows to stop play with Earl safely on the 12th green, I’m disappointed, because I doubt anyone else is faring as well under these conditions.
Till now, I’ve been too busy to verify that, but as Earl and I thread our way back to the clubhouse, we get our first look at the leaderboard. At the very top, so high it hurts my neck, is the name on the back of my overalls—Earl Fielder—and beside it the only number in red, −1, because he’s the only golfer under par.
“Take a gander at that,” I say.
“Let’s not get too worked up yet. We haven’t even played thirty holes. Speaking of which, as soon as we’re done here, you should head back to the hotel and take it easy. Tomorrow’s going to be a marathon.”
27
I CARRY EARL’S DRIPPING bag through the hotel lobby and into the elevator, and when I get off on the third floor, there’s a puddle in the corner. Inside my room, I pull all the clubs and dry the grips with a bath towel. Then I crank the tin heater to 11, lay the soaking bag in front of it, and head back out the door.
When I drive back through the stone pillars, Shoal Creek is empty. After a day like today the players can’t get away fast enough, and the only people milling about the grounds are the employees of the beverage companies, who are here to restock the hospitality tents for Sunday. In its soggy way, the course is as lovely in the damp gloaming as in blazing sunshine, and as I walk past the abandoned clubhouse, I can hear the water running down the gutters and dripping off the leaves.
Beyond the clubhouse is the pro shop, the retail outlet tastefully tucked away in a Colonial-style house with an eagle over the front door, and tacked to the rear of it like an afterthought is the low-slung caddy shack. Since the touring pros brought their own and the course is closed to members, there’s no work for the regular caddies this week. Nevertheless, a handful have come
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