The Victors Club

CHAPTER ONE

Every so often I take the picture down and scour the crowd with a magnifying glass, but I never find Pops. Hard to believe it’s been more than ten years. Eleven, actually. Eleven years since that bright July day, the first one of the new century, when the green-side photographers fired off their machine-gun staccato of shutter clicks. At least I got plenty of angles to choose from when Eli insisted I pick one out, even though I didn’t really want to. So I went for the one showing Eli’s prettiest side, the one where I’m jumping into his embrace and my face is hidden because I’m whispering in his ear on the other side, my favorite side, despite what you might think.

Eli had the picture framed. Fancy mahogany, a forest-green border and non-glare glass. He’d reserved a special place for it to hang on the living room wall, so I said okay. I’ve grown used to it, but I still can’t look without going to war with my eye-spigots. When other folks are around, I win. When I’m alone, the eye-spigots prevail. But it’s okay. Really. Actually, better than okay. Picture or no picture.

A month or so ago, like they do every year, The Golf Network marked the anniversary with an hour-long special. I didn’t watch. Never even recorded it, though I probably should have. Then again, surely somebody in Hillview has the DVD.

Besides the photo, I’ve still got a few more mementos. The putter I used, for instance. But if it wasn’t the same one I used for my round with Pops a week-or-so before, I doubt I’d still have it. It’s not like I don’t have plenty more lying around.

Then, of course, there’s Maverick’s book. He certainly has no scruples about cashing in on that day. Now that the book’s out, folks keep asking about his name. They reckon it’s a nickname, like Babe Zaharias. I used to think so too, until one day he showed me his birth certificate. There it was in large bold print, right next to the fading footprint: Maverick Samuel Mavin, same as on the cover of his book. Almost everyone seems to be reading the thing, and The Golf Network keeps pressing for my side of the story. To be honest, despite all I learned that year about winning and losing, and not just at golf, I really don’t want to talk about it. But I will. I must. The rumors need to stop.

And so it was in late April that year, I was caddying for my husband, Maverick Mavin, as he played the final round of the Atlanta Open at Briar Hills Country Club. Husbands and wives shouldn’t caddie for each other, in case anyone’s curious. At least that’s my take on it. And if they do, they better be blessed with the patience of Job, or at least Eli, as it turns out.

I was standing on the fifteenth tee, leaning against the green golf bag with the big purple MM emblazoned on the side. I didn’t mind that the sun had burned a red spot on my neck where I’d missed with the sunscreen, or that sweat soaking through my lavender polo and white Capri’s had outlined my sports bra and underpants for everyone to see. I even ignored the catcalls from the fans who thought I was the reason Mav never won. In that regard, it didn’t help that I’m female, or that my dark hair that I keep tomboy short, topped off with sunglasses and a visor, didn’t win me any points. At least I didn’t have to put up with any flirty whistling. I let all this stuff go because, only one shot behind, we still had a chance to win. A pretty good chance, except for one thing. Maverick was about to live up to his name, and there wasn’t a darned thing I could do about it.

He motioned to me with his white-gloved left hand. Time to make our move, Star Angel. Let’s go with Gloria for this one. I designed and assembled his golf clubs, the way Pops taught me, and Maverick christened each one with a girl’s name. Gloria was our driver.

The fifteenth at Briar Hills is a 540-yard par five. A perfect drive rewards golfers with a chance to reach the green in two shots, though the second one has to sail two-hundred yards over water. The smart play was to hit our three-wood, Sally, off the tee, and then spank two safe, solid iron shots around the water and onto the green for a birdie putt.

I wanted to play safe. Smart. Use Sally.

But Maverick Mavin play safe? Wasn’t what his big galleries came to see. I almost said something, but I’d done it before and all I got was a sour look from those amber eyes staring out of their deep sockets.

I was the caddie, as I’d been for the four years since Maverick wooed me away from Ozarks College at the end of my freshman year. The golfer is the boss, and a good caddie doesn’t quibble with the boss, especially if the caddie is a spouse. Besides, I sure didn’t want him doubting my confidence in him. He nearly always blasted amazing drives with Gloria, but his infrequent misses had a peculiar way of showing up during the final nine holes on Sunday. This time I prayed he’d pound his tee shot straight enough to stay in the fairway, but short enough that he’d forget about trying the shot over the pond. I worked my fingers over my good luck charm, the white-gold wedding ring that dangled from my neck chain. During four years of caddying, I’d learned that lugging a bag with the ring on my finger was dangerous for the ring, the bag, and sometimes my finger.

He swung with that famous, lashing style, his straw-colored hair scattering around his head, and the first part of my prayer was answered. He drilled it. The ball carried high and long, high enough that I had to squint to follow it, even with my sunglasses on. It dived like a lawn dart to the short grass right behind the pond. He held Gloria up to his mouth and kissed the clubhead, as if he was kissing a real woman right there in front of everybody. I didn’t mind. Maybe I should have.

Great shot, Mav. If he heard anxiety in my voice, worry caused by visions of his next shot splashing into the pond, he didn’t let on. He just kept grinning as we watched Scott Nelson, the tournament leader, play the hole smart with his three-wood. Without a lick of pizzazz, Nelson’s textbook swing guided his ball to a safe landing in the fairway, about fifty yards behind our ball.

We marched down the fairway side by side as the purple MM bag jostled on my back. I stared straight down at the Bermuda grass so Mav wouldn’t see me cringe at the shouts from the gallery lining both sides of the fairway. Come on Maverick, and Go for it, Maverick, echoed through the muggy air. This is what he lived for; his swagger was on full display. Nothing I, or even God, could have said, was talking him out of going for the green.

As usual, I racked my brain for ways to drop a hint. When Mav asked for the yardage, I could give the numbers for the green and the simple shot to the fairway, but he would have shrugged it off. Said something like, Come on, Star Angel. These folks didn’t come to watch Maverick Mavin lay up, did they? You watch me pull this one off.

He’d work all week to get in contention on Sunday, and then, when an easier shot would do, he’d try to hit one of those risky shots he’d been nailing all week. Just like that, his golf ball, along with his winning chances, would splash in the water, or ricochet off a tree, or burrow into a bunker. We were the tour’s lovable losers, the Chicago Cubs of professional golf, and I think it ticked me off more than it did him. But I didn’t lose hope. Some Sunday we’d finish on top and nab that spot in The Victors, golf’s biggest event, where only tournament champions are invited. We’d be losers no more.

An idea hit me. One I couldn’t resist trying. I leaned toward Maverick as we neared his golf ball. What do ya’ think Pops and the guys are sayin’ back in Hillview? My father, who I called Pops, known to the world as former pro golfer George Williams, would be watching the little clubhouse TV back home. Well, not really watching. He’d be playing poker with the regular weekend guys, but the set was always on. Every week they bet on which shot Maverick would mess up to throw away the tournament. Mav knew about this little custom, and odds were good that a fair amount of money rode on his next swing. Maybe he’d aim for Pops to lose a bet. Maybe he’d play this one smart after all.

We stopped behind Mav’s ball, and I barely had the bag off my shoulders before he yanked out Sally. Don’t know what they’re sayin’, he said. But this should get Pops excited. Bet he’s got five bucks down on this one. Blood pressure’s probably up thirty points.

That shut me up, and I kicked myself for thinking that mentioning Pops to my husband could ever be a good idea. Pills kept Pops’ blood pressure down, but he wasn’t feeling so well the last time I’d seen him. Not quite up to par, he’d joked, and I’d thought he looked pale.

Still, I wrapped my fingers around Bessie, our six-iron, just in case a flash of sanity struck Maverick. We watched Nelson casually hit his second shot to the sensible wide target in the fairway, ninety yards short of the green.

What’s the yardage, Star Angel? Toying with me. He knew the distance as well as I did.

I almost barked that he had 180 yards to the spot where Nelson’s ball gleamed in the sunshine like a beacon, but I kept my head and went along with him. 230 to the front, 245 to the pin. I released my grip on Bessie, trying not to sigh. Hit it smooth. I started praying and fingered my ring some more.

Mav rushed to address his ball. Yep. Pops sure gonna lose some money on this one. He stole one more glance at the green, waggled, and fired away. I prayed, without much conviction, for the ball to fly straight. At the peak of its arc, I watched for the inevitable drift to the right or left that would steer it to a splash landing. But darned if this one didn’t carry true, soaring over the pond, bouncing on the front fringe and rolling to the back of the green, about thirty feet from the pin.

My jaw dropped, as did a few thousand others, including, I’m sure, some in the clubhouse at Hillview. I almost couldn’t speak. Super shot, I tried to shout, but it came out as little more than a whisper.

How’d ya like that, Star Angel? This time, Mav pulled me close and kissed me full on the lips. That one will make the highlights tonight. Hope Pops sees it a few times.

I wasn’t sure if he wanted Pops to see the shot or the kiss, but I didn’t care, because once again, just like that, I was under Mav’s spell. This was going to be our day, the day we finally hoisted that winner’s trophy, the day we punched our ticket to The Victors, the day I proved my mother wrong. As Mav and I strutted to the green, I could swear the golf bag weighed less than it had the whole round.

After Nelson maneuvered his third shot to about ten feet right of the flagstick, we studied our uphill thirty-foot putt. What do you think of this one, Star Angel? Mav squatted, trying to see the line of the putt while I stood behind, leaning over him. One thing most folks don’t know was how much he struggled to read greens back then. Lucky for us, it was my strong suit. If I got him aimed correctly and gave him an idea how hard to hit a putt, it stood a fair chance of going in. So, despite being married, we made a pretty good team. At least I thought so at the time.

The line’s six inches to the right of the hole, forty-five feet of pace, I said, which meant I wanted him to hit his ball so it would go forty-five feet if it were on a flat surface. With regular practice he maintained pretty decent speed control. The problem sometimes was getting him to practice.

I backed away, and as soon as he hit the putt I knew it was perfect. Later, the folks in Hillview told me the TV mikes picked up my Yeah! when the ball was still three feet from the hole. The ball plunged in, and Mav pumped his fist in the air. Victors, here we come! he yelled, but I could barely hear him beneath the din of the gallery’s roar. The eagle put us in the lead, and it got even better when the stunned Nelson missed his birdie putt.

We led the Atlanta Open with only three holes to play. We’d never taken the lead this late in the final round before. I was still spellbound, my head filled with images of standing on the first tee at The Victors.

The sixteenth is a 180-yard par three with an elongated green measuring 110 feet front to back. The putting surface slopes gently away from the front edge, and deep bunkers surround the entire green. As usual on tournament Sunday, the pin was set near the front bunker. I guessed Mav would ask for Bessie, since a well-struck six-iron would barely clear that bunker and settle close to the flagstick. Hitting a five-iron, Julie, was the cautious plan, sending the ball further to the middle of the green and not flirting with the bunker. Going for the pin with Bessie was risky, and any other time I wouldn’t want him to try it, but right then, still entranced, I didn’t care. He could have asked me for Gloria and I would have dutifully handed him the driver. But for the second time that day, my husband surprised me.

I humped the golf bag up a flight of about ten limestone steps to the tee. Had to concentrate just to keep both me and the bag from falling, so I wasn’t paying much mind to Maverick. But once safely up on the tee, I saw his expression had changed. Narrowed eyes. Set chin. More serious. Less swagger. I’d never seen him this way before.

Okay, Star. Not Star Angel this time. What was that about? We’re gonna keep this lead. Nelson’s not gonna birdie this one. Two-hundred yards to the middle, right? His voice cracked barely enough for me to notice.

I already had my fingers on Bessie. He never asked for the safe yardage. Of course, we never led a tournament on the sixteenth tee before. Um, yeah, two-hundred.

Gotta be Julie then, don’t ya think? Another first. He wanted my opinion on something other than a putt.

Seems right. I should have sounded more confident, more supportive, but I was taken off guard and shaken out of my trance. Where was the guy who went for broke on every shot, the guy who said nobody came to watch him play safe? I thought about asking what he’d done with my husband, but he didn’t appear in the mood for jokes. I fumbled around for the five-iron and handed it to him.

He couldn’t get comfortable addressing his ball, so he backed away once. Somebody yelled, Go Maverick! I should have stepped in and told him to start his whole routine over. But he was playing the conservative way I’d pulled for all along. Why would I say anything now?

He took his stance again, peeked once more at the green, and swung away. The worst swing I’d seen from him for a long time, maybe his worst ever. He caught the ball heavy and took way too much divot. Following the shot’s trajectory, I knew it would end up short. Way short. The ball landed before it even reached the front bunker, and then it trickled into the sand.

With the pin up close and the green sloping away to the rear, we couldn’t have dropped our ball in a much worse spot. Blasting a bunker shot to anywhere near the hole was almost impossible. For that matter, getting it to stay on the green took a pretty decent shot.

I did my best to help. You can get it up and down. Fans will go crazy.

Sure gonna try, Star Angel. His eyes couldn’t hide their bewilderment. We didn’t ever talk about it, but maybe he was wondering why it was that when he took a chance on every shot, playing the maverick shot, he always ran into one he couldn’t quite pull off, and now when he’d actually tried to play safe, it just wasn’t his style, and his swing fell apart. Maybe that wasn’t it at all, but I knew one thing. His swagger was gone.

Golf fortunes can sure change in a hurry. Nelson, no stranger to playing safe, took advantage of Maverick’s calamity and hit his ball to the center of the green.

We walked toward our ball in silence. Even the gallery was quiet. The steady buzz I’d heard all day was gone, and for the first time I noticed a few birds chirping.

Now Maverick was the one staring down at the grass. A few fans tried to rally him with shouts of Hang in there, Maverick! and the ever present You da man! A stupid cheer if I ever heard one.

I slapped Mav on the back and grinned at him with all the confidence I could muster. How about you hole this out and really give Nelson something to think about, I said. But my visions of The Victors were fading fast.

I handed him his sand wedge, named Sandy of course, and watched him flail away at his explosion shot. He actually hit it pretty well, but he didn’t quite catch enough sand and the ball carried to the back fringe, some eighty feet away from the hole. He took three putts from there, and when Nelson made a false prophet out of Maverick by rattling home his birdie putt, we trailed by two shots, and there would be no trophy, no qualifying for The Victors this day.

Maverick managed to par the last two holes, and the gallery roared when his shot from the deep rough on eighteen stopped only twenty feet short of the pin. But Nelson made two pars himself, and we were lovable Cubs once again. We’d come close to winning, closer than ever, which perhaps should have made me feel better, but it only buried my sinking spirits deeper.

After Mav signed his scorecard, we headed over to the press tent where The Golf Network folks and other sportswriters gathered. Tour officials require the players to accommodate these news conferences, so one more time my husband had to answer questions about losing. He really didn’t seem to mind, maybe he was used to it, and I’m sure it won him some fans, but for me it was getting old. I always waited outside the tent. This time, seeing his face so thick with blank dejection, I almost followed him in, but I didn’t. Back out in a few minutes, he muttered. I found a bench, one of those things with green wood slats, and leaned the MM bag against the end. I sat down, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

Star. Star Mavin. I thought I recognized the voice, and when I opened my eyes, there was The Golf Network’s Craig Beasley, a regular at these tour events. He did a lot of field reporting, and sometimes he even filled in as the anchor for their golf news show.

Maverick’s already inside. I motioned toward the door of the tent. Story won’t be much different this week.

But instead of heading for the tent, Beasley stopped right in front of me. Came closer this time, he said. He’ll win one sooner or later. Probably sooner. But actually, I was hoping to chat with you for a minute. Beasley was tall, with a head and arms that seemed too large for his chest. The way he hovered unsettled me.

What’s on your mind? I tried to sound disinterested.

The network wants to do a human interest story about you. Lots of angles, you know. You caddie for your husband. You’re the daughter of George Williams. And your mother’s been with Tom Barrett for quite a few years now. We’d like to get your side—

I interrupted. Sorry, Mr. Beasley. Not interested. I wasn’t about to discuss Faye Barrett or her Victors Golf Club chairman lover with anyone. I stood up and had to brush against the reporter to get by. I grabbed Maverick’s bag and hotfooted it toward the tent, but he chased after me.

We’d pay you, of course. We’re curious about your side of things. Barrett’s been pretty vocal lately. Anything to say about that?

I had lots to say about that, but not on the record. Sorry, no comment. As much as I hated to do it, I ducked inside the tent, where Maverick was seated up front behind a microphone. Beasley followed me in but moved on up to a better seat. I stayed in back.

Mav’s banter with the reporters perked him up a bit. The media spotlight always seemed to raise his spirits, though it had the opposite effect on me. I found the whole atmosphere stifling. I sure didn’t want to hear how we’d blown another tournament, and I hoped nobody else in there had any ideas like what I’d just heard from Beasley. With his attention now focused on Maverick, I stepped back outside.

I unzipped the side compartment of the bag and pulled out my cell phone. Three missed calls, all since we’d finished our round, and all from the clubhouse at Hillview. I figured we’d cost Pops some money and he couldn’t wait to tell me about it. I dialed the number.

Hillview Municipal Golf Course. Not Pops, but Frank Hutchins, the head groundskeeper.

Hi, Frank. Pops been trying to reach me?

No, Star. He told me to wait till your round was over. I tried three times. So sorry, but he told me not to call sooner. His voice was clipped, too fast. Not like Frank at all. Something was wrong.

What’s going on Frank? My heart was already pounding.

Don’t know if I can say this over the phone. He took a couple of deep breaths. He went out to play a few holes after you finished the sixteenth. Didn’t look good, so I told him to use a cart, but he insisted on walkin’. Looked like somethin’ was buggin’ him.

What happened? Is he okay? Come on Frank, spit it out.

I didn’t like how he looked, did I say that? So I watched him close. He teed off on number one, and he carried his bag down the fairway, but slow like. About two-hundred yards out he dropped his bag, and I thought he was stopping to play his second, and, oh Jesus, I can hardly say this.

Tell me Frank!

He went down, Star. Like he’d been shot, but he wasn’t. I ran as fast as I could, and he was talkin’, said not to bother you till you was done with your round, and Lord I was glad to see him talkin’. I got the ambulance as fast as I could. He’s at the hospital. I don’t know nothin’ else. I’m sorry for waitin’. He told me to.

It’s okay, I managed to say. I’ll get there as quick as I can. I hung up before he could reply.

Whenever ambushed by bad news, I could never hold still. The day Pops told me Momma Faye wasn’t coming back I ran all the way to the golf course before he caught up with me. Now, once again, the jittery dread took over, and I needed to get somewhere, anywhere, away from all the folks who’d soon be pouring out of the press tent. I didn’t run, but I stepped mighty fast to the relative seclusion of the dense birches that divided the first and ninth fairways. In the dark shade I fell to my knees and said Hail Marys and sobbed and shook my fist at the heavens. I prayed You can’t do this! and Please let him be okay and a rambling version of the rosary.

The grass stains in my Capri’s never did come out.

CHAPTER TWO

A few minutes later I decided heaven had heard enough. Besides, jabbering among the trees wasn’t getting me back to Hillview and Pops. I retraced my steps and found my husband on the same bench where Beasley had accosted me. Without so much as a single glance my way, Maverick rapidly and loudly unzipped and zipped all the golf bag compartments. Scouring for anything missing and sending a clear message. It’s an unwritten rule: A caddie never abandons the equipment.

A bit late to be scouting the course, don’t you think? he said, still fiddling with the bag.

When he finally turned and noticed my weepy eyes, he got it all wrong. We’ll win one, you’ll see. Probably next week. Came close at Memphis last year.

I took a deep breath and blurted it out. Frank just called. Pops is at the hospital. Collapsed on the course at Hillview. I’ve got to get home.

Oh, uh, I, uh. I’m so sorry, Star Angel. His cheeks reddened and his eyes softened, perhaps more out of embarrassment than sympathy. He didn’t fuss with the bag anymore, but he didn’t jump up and wrap his arms around me either.

I called the airport, but it turned out we could reach Pops faster by driving. We sped out of Atlanta in my silver Corvette, the one Maverick gave me when he first qualified for the pro tour. As we headed west with Maverick driving, my calls to the hospital were met with the standard Yes, Mr. Williams is admitted here. He’s not able to speak on the phone right now. This was followed by the matter-of-fact, even more frustrating No, I’m not authorized to give out any information over the phone. You can leave your number if you like. Perhaps the nurse can call you later. At least, the way they were talking, Pops must be alive. That was something. I tried the Hillview Municipal clubhouse again, but all I got was the machine announcing the course was closed for the day. Calls to Frank’s cell phone went to his voice mail. I didn’t want to think what that might imply.

Finally, Frank called again, this time from the hospital. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. As soon as we closed the clubhouse I came straight over. Forgot my cell phone in the rush. Had to go back for it.

So how is he?

They won’t tell me much since I’m not family, but he’s awake. They’ve got him in ICU, so I can only go in for ten minutes every hour. Givin’ him some blood. Don’t know much else. He promised to call with any news, but I didn’t hear from him the rest of the trip.

We reached Memphis a couple hours after midnight. Maverick checked in at the Steamboat Hotel, an upscale joint overlooking the week’s tournament venue, Wide River Golf Course. To his credit he offered to come with me to see Pops, but I knew better. Pops and Mav getting together in the same room seldom turned out well. A hospital room