golf to hear their slant on other things about New York City and the law.
They left the Jazz Lounge and found a place on the waterfront with live dance music. Scott was enjoying the company of Lizbeth Sweeney. She told him about her large Irish family and injected her sense of humor in the right places. At around midnight Lizbeth told him she had to leave, and explained why. She had to rise at five in the morning to make her flight to New York. Scott thought it best he got some sleep, so he offered to walk her to her hotel. Matt and his new friend stayed to dance the night away.
About halfway to Lizbeth’s hotel, the storm that’d plagued the Monterey Peninsula all day gave a parting blast in the form of a deluge. They ran the rest of the way but arrived in the hotel lobby dripping wet.
"Scott, look at you," she said. "You’re soaked. Come, I have plenty of dry towels in my room."
Later, Lizbeth came out of the bathroom wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, courtesy of the hotel. She was carrying an armful of fluffy white towels. Scott wiped most of the wet from his clothes and hair. A dry towel was left over.
"Your hair’s still wet…here, let me," he said.
Scott took the towel and started rubbing her head, noting that the raven mass of hair was even curlier wet than dry, and the color went well with an attractive face that was not impaired by a tiny cluster of freckles on each side of a slightly upturned nose. After a vigorous rub he said, "there, that’s got it."
Lizbeth looked up at him from her barefoot five-foot-seven height before their kiss. She had the largest brown eyes Scott has ever seen. His arms encircled her, and he could feel her firm body pressing hard against his own.
I t was two in the morning when Scott returned to the motel. Matt was asleep in the other twin. He took a small piece of paper with Lizbeth’s phone number on it out of his pocket and placed it on the nightstand with his wallet and watch. When he did that, he noticed the red message light on the phone flashing. He called the front desk. One call was from the assistant pro at El Camino, Al Ingalls. Scott thought Al just wanted to congratulate him. He’d call Al in the morning
The phone call to Al Ingalls at eight in the morning brought sad news."Sandy dead?"
"Yeah, Scott. He passed away last evening, sometime around six, after he got a call from the head- pro at Poppy Hills telling him you’d made it."
Scott’s thoughts began in a spiral. Sandy was ninety-three and sick, but still …"What about arrangements?"
"None." Al said. "You know, he doesn’t have any relatives. It’ll probably be a quick burial."
"No way, Al. You know he saved me from trouble and helped to get me here. He got Matt on tour as a caddie and has helped many others, like you. We need to celebrate Sandy’s life. I’ll be in San Diego to make the arrangements this afternoon. Book the function room at El Camino for Monday evening." Scott paused. He recalled Sandy’s love for bagpipe music. "I’ll call the Clan Campbell bagpipers to play and contact the newspaper to announce the celebration at El Camino in Sandy’s obituary."
"Who’s gonna pay for all this, Scott? Sandy was broke."
"I am. I just won twenty-five large at Q-School, and Sandy had a lot to do with it."
"Okay, Scott, and by the way, congratulations."
M ore than 300 came to El Camino Country Club for the celebration of Sandy’s life. Many who’d benefited from his instruction were there, including some who’d gone on to the Champions, PGA, Nationwide and LPGA tours. On Tuesday morning, The Clan Campbell bagpipers dressed in their plaid kilts led a procession to the practice range where Sandy’s ashes were lowered in a grave marked by a simple epigraph etched on a small marble stone:
SANDY MCNAIR 1920—2013
HE CAME FROM ST. ANDREWS TO TEACH THE GAME OF GOLF
"Could you come to my office tomorrow at
They left the Jazz Lounge and found a place on the waterfront with live dance music. Scott was enjoying the company of Lizbeth Sweeney. She told him about her large Irish family and injected her sense of humor in the right places. At around midnight Lizbeth told him she had to leave, and explained why. She had to rise at five in the morning to make her flight to New York. Scott thought it best he got some sleep, so he offered to walk her to her hotel. Matt and his new friend stayed to dance the night away.
About halfway to Lizbeth’s hotel, the storm that’d plagued the Monterey Peninsula all day gave a parting blast in the form of a deluge. They ran the rest of the way but arrived in the hotel lobby dripping wet.
"Scott, look at you," she said. "You’re soaked. Come, I have plenty of dry towels in my room."
Later, Lizbeth came out of the bathroom wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, courtesy of the hotel. She was carrying an armful of fluffy white towels. Scott wiped most of the wet from his clothes and hair. A dry towel was left over.
"Your hair’s still wet…here, let me," he said.
Scott took the towel and started rubbing her head, noting that the raven mass of hair was even curlier wet than dry, and the color went well with an attractive face that was not impaired by a tiny cluster of freckles on each side of a slightly upturned nose. After a vigorous rub he said, "there, that’s got it."
Lizbeth looked up at him from her barefoot five-foot-seven height before their kiss. She had the largest brown eyes Scott has ever seen. His arms encircled her, and he could feel her firm body pressing hard against his own.
I t was two in the morning when Scott returned to the motel. Matt was asleep in the other twin. He took a small piece of paper with Lizbeth’s phone number on it out of his pocket and placed it on the nightstand with his wallet and watch. When he did that, he noticed the red message light on the phone flashing. He called the front desk. One call was from the assistant pro at El Camino, Al Ingalls. Scott thought Al just wanted to congratulate him. He’d call Al in the morning
The phone call to Al Ingalls at eight in the morning brought sad news."Sandy dead?"
"Yeah, Scott. He passed away last evening, sometime around six, after he got a call from the head- pro at Poppy Hills telling him you’d made it."
Scott’s thoughts began in a spiral. Sandy was ninety-three and sick, but still …"What about arrangements?"
"None." Al said. "You know, he doesn’t have any relatives. It’ll probably be a quick burial."
"No way, Al. You know he saved me from trouble and helped to get me here. He got Matt on tour as a caddie and has helped many others, like you. We need to celebrate Sandy’s life. I’ll be in San Diego to make the arrangements this afternoon. Book the function room at El Camino for Monday evening." Scott paused. He recalled Sandy’s love for bagpipe music. "I’ll call the Clan Campbell bagpipers to play and contact the newspaper to announce the celebration at El Camino in Sandy’s obituary."
"Who’s gonna pay for all this, Scott? Sandy was broke."
"I am. I just won twenty-five large at Q-School, and Sandy had a lot to do with it."
"Okay, Scott, and by the way, congratulations."
M ore than 300 came to El Camino Country Club for the celebration of Sandy’s life. Many who’d benefited from his instruction were there, including some who’d gone on to the Champions, PGA, Nationwide and LPGA tours. On Tuesday morning, The Clan Campbell bagpipers dressed in their plaid kilts led a procession to the practice range where Sandy’s ashes were lowered in a grave marked by a simple epigraph etched on a small marble stone:
SANDY MCNAIR 1920—2013
HE CAME FROM ST. ANDREWS TO TEACH THE GAME OF GOLF
"Could you come to my office tomorrow at
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