Big Man the Book

The first hole at the Spyglass Hill Golf Course is a downhill right to left par five.

Clarence stood on the first tee swinging a new Big Bertha driver.  He’d hit a few balls on the range and most of the pain in his left hip had retreated. It was an irritating kind of pain that had begun within the last year.  It was just after seven o’clock in the morning and the Big Man was going out as a single with a caddy called ‘Sticks”.  It was easy to see how he’d earned the nickname.  He was six and a half feet tall and as skinny as a rail.  But he had a good smile and a nice easy way about him and the guy in the pro shop said he knew the greens here as well as anybody.

“Downhill slightly right to left,” said Sticks.  “A nice high draw is what you want here.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Clarence taking a big easy practice swing.

“Just let it happen,” said Sticks.  “Nice and easy.”

It was October 4^th.  A Thursday.  The band had just played the last show of the Born In The USA tour.  The tour had been a tremendous success.  The band was huge.  They were selling out giants stadiums for multiple night runs.  The money was fantastic.  The women were fantastic.  Life it’s own self was fantastic.  They’d done their last show in LA on Tuesday night at the coliseum finishing with “Glory Days”.   Clarence had rented a pale yellow Coupe Deville yesterday morning and had driven up the coast to Pebble Beach. He took his time and made a few stops along the way.  He went into a record store in San Luis Obispo called “Boo Boo’s” and found some Bruce bootlegs.  He bought one and planned to give it to the Boss for Christmas.  Bruce had given up fighting bootlegs.  Now he collected them.  Clarence got to the Monterey Peninsula in the late afternoon.  He’d checked into the Lodge and had a hamburger and fries alone in the Tap Room. He drank two bottles of Heineken beer.  Nobody recognized him, which was a blissful change.  He’d made a tee times for Spyglass Hill and Pebble Beach and went to bed early.

He loved traveling alone.  After months and months of togetherness with the band this was a true vacation.  Nobody knew where he was.  He’d awakened at five o’clock that morning.  For the last six months that had been his bedtime.  He was determined to get healthier.  His knees had recently started to hurt during the third hour of the show.  Age, he guessed.  Your shit starts to get fucked up and once that starts it was just a long slow slide to the graveyard.

But not today.  He wasn’t going to die today.  He hoped and prayed that he didn’t die today or any day soon because life was getting very, very sweet.  Bruce had grown into a major songwriter.  He’d also become a better performer, something that Clarence had not thought possible.  Bruce was also starting to look like a fucking body-builder.  Clarence hoped that Bruce would cut back on the weights a little or else the fans wouldn’t recognize him.  What the fuck?  Yeah, get in shape but don’t turn into Arnold fucking Schwarzenegger.

He set up to the ball, took the club back and made his quick turn as the club fell into the slot.  There was the satisfying metallic crack as the club head made contact and he looked up to see a beautiful high draw rise into the light blue sky then fall gracefully past the trees and finally disappear behind the green horizon line of the fairway.

“Perfect,” said Sticks.

The ball made it to the bottom of the hill.  He laid up to the end of the fairway with a crisp five iron then put a sand wedge onto the putting surface, which was surrounded, by an ocean of sand.

“This place looks like a cathedral,” said Clarence as they walked toward the green.

“It’s perfect right now,” said Sticks.  “Nobody in front of us and a foursome behind that we’ll never see.  Plus you’re swinging good.”

“I feel good,” said Clarence.  ‘That’s an understatement’ he thought to himself.  “But it’s still just one shot at a time.”

He lipped out the 12-foot birdie putt and settled for a par.  The truth was he didn’t really care about the score today.  This was a real walk in the park.  They crossed the road and walked up the hill to the elevated second tee.

“You want hit it about two maybe two twenty five max,” said Sticks.  “That’ll leave you a nine iron up the hill.”

And that’s what he did.  A smooth fluid five wood to the left of the bunker and a soft nine up to the blind green.

“You’re dancing,” said Sticks the second the ball left the face of the iron.

They walked up the hill onto the green.  The sound and smell of seals greeted them there.  The ocean view was expansive and impressive.  Big, thick breakers rolled into the bay and folded with awesome force.  He could feel the concussive thud they made and it reminded him of Max’s bass drum behind him.

“That’s Cypress Point over there,” said Sticks pointing left to the old white clubhouse and the first hole on the distant hill.  “If this is a cathedral, Cypress is the Sistine Chapel.”

“How do I get to play over there?” said Clarence.

“You don’t,” said Sticks. “It’s beyond private.  Clint Eastwood’s a member.  You could call him.”  Then he laughed.  Sticks did not seem to have any idea that Clarence was famous.  They had met for breakfast in the little restaurant next to the ninth green across the street from the pro shop.  When Clarence introduced himself Sticks showed no sign of recognition.  They both had bacon and eggs and the most incredible tater tots and talked strictly golf.  Clarence loved to talk golf.  Sticks gave him a rundown of the local courses but he hadn’t mentions Cypress Point.  Clarence guessed that he didn’t because it was pointless.  You couldn’t get on unless you called Clint Eastwood.

“I’ve lived here my whole life,” said Sticks, “I play to a three handicap and I’ve never been able to get on over there.  Someday.”

Clarence two putted again.  On the next hole, a short, dramatically downhill par three, he put his tee shot into the ice plant behind the green.

“Play it like a bunker shot,” advised Sticks.  “This stuff is mostly water.”

He did and the ball popped out softly and rolled to within inches of the cup.

“Easy game,” said Clarence tapping it in.

He made par on the next hole, a devilish short par four with the narrowest most undulating green Clarence had ever seen.  Fortunately he’d hit his second shot a little fat and the ball had stopped on the fringe.  Had it hit the green it would’ve rolled down to the back lower level and left an impossible putt.

On the next hole, another par three, a miracle happened.

It was playing at one hundred and sixty three yards slightly uphill and into a soft breeze.  Clarence hit a six iron.  He hit it perfectly.

“Clubface,” said Sticks as the ball rose in the air.

There was a house on the small hill behind the green.  There was a small sign on the house that said “Sharene’s Dream” and there was a woman, (Sharene?), standing outside watering some flowers in a terra cotta planter.  She looked up and followed the flight of the ball as it headed towards the green.

The pin was in the upper left corner of the two level green.  The ball landed about ten yards short of it, bounced twice and rolled directly into the hole.

“Holy shit,” said Clarence, a huge smile spreading across his face.  “It went in!”

“Yes!” said Sticks holding up two hands for the elusive double high five.

Above the green the woman put down the watering can and applauded.

“Seventy five,” said Sticks later as he handed Clarence the scorecard.  They were back in the snack shack after the round drinking beers. “I think you started to get a little tired there on the back nine.”

“Yeah,” said Clarence.  “The adrenalin rush finally wore off.”

“Oh, and here’s the hole in one ball,” said Sticks handing it to him.

“Thanks man,” said Clarence.  “This was a good day.”

“One of the best,” said Sticks.

“You available tomorrow?” asked Clarence.  “I’ve got a nine o’clock tee time at Pebble.”

“I’d love it,” said Sticks.  “Here, take one of my cards.  My home phone is on there in case anything changes.”

“Cool,” said Clarence.  “I really enjoyed this.”

“So did I,” said Sticks.  “A lot of the time I work for people who can’t play at all.  Honeymoon couples, tourists, stuff like that.  Plus, you are my first hole in one.”

“No shit?”

“Had a couple come close but yours was the first one that went in.”

“How about that?” said Clarence.

Later that night Sticks, who’s real name was Jim Palmer was watching the local news on television at the little house he rented with his girlfriend Nancy in Pacific Grove.  He was watching the weatherman who was calling for another beautiful day tomorrow.  The rain was still a few weeks away.

Nancy came in from the kitchen with a small bowl of deep friend olives she’d just made.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get in an autograph,” she said.

“I don’t do that,” he said taking one of the olives and dipping it in the small cup of blue cheese dressing before eating it.

“I know,” she said.  “But I’m such a huge fan of theirs.  You love “Born In The USA too.”

“These olives are delicious,” he said.

“What did you talk about all day?” she asked.

“Golf,” he said.

The phone rang and Nancy answered it.  When her eyes lit up and she turned to him he knew it was Clarence.

“Yes,” said Nancy after hearing the answer to her ‘may I tell him who’s calling’ question, “He’s right here.”

She handed him the phone, stood up and did a little dance.

“Hello?” said Sticks.

“My man,” said Clarence.  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” said Sticks.

“Slight change of plans for tomorrow,” said Clarence.  “We’re still playing at nine but we’re playing over at Cypress Point.”

“You’re kidding me,” said Sticks.  “How in hell did you arrange that?”

“I took your advice,” said Clarence.  “I called Clint Eastwood.”

“Do you know him?”

“I do now,” said Clarence laughing.  “Turns out he’s a friend of a friend.”

“Well that’s great.  That’s incredible,” said Sticks.  “I’ll get over there early.  In fact why don’t I stop by the lodge and pick up your clubs about eight?”

“You can pick up me and my clubs,” said Clarence.  “And bring your clubs too.”

“My clubs?” said Sticks.

“Yeah,” said Clarence.  “They’ve got their own caddies over there so I told Clint there’d be two of us playing with him.  I think it might be fun.”

Clint Eastwood led the way up the winding path that went from the 15^th green, a fabulous par three, to the 16^th tee.

“This is the center of the universe,” said Clint.

They stepped down onto the hole’s only tee and looked at the green which was above them and across the entire Pacific Ocean.

“It’s a two hundred and twenty yard carry,” said Clint.  “Big Man, you’re up.”

They had enjoyed a wonderful round of golf.  Sticks had played brilliantly and was only two over par.  Clint had been gracious and friendly and exactly the way you hoped he would be.  He reminded Clarence of Bruce in so many ways.

“I don’t know about this,” said Clarence as he took his driver from his caddy.

“Nice and smooth,” said Sticks.

“You’ve got a nice game,” said Clint to Sticks.

“Thank you sir,” said Sticks.

“Clint,” said Clint.

“Okay,” said Clarence.  “Here we go.”

He hit a nice high draw but didn’t quite catch all of it.  The ball sailed out over the water, turned toward the green, hit the edge of the cliff and fell into the sea.

“Shit,” said Clarence.

“Hit another one,” said Clint.

Clarence did.  Into the water again.

“One more,” said Clint.

Again, into the ocean.  Clarence was pissed.

“Shit,” he said.

“We’re going to stand here till you hit the green or we run out of balls,” said Clint laughing.

Clarence finally hit the green on his 8^th attempt.

“What was so hard about that?’ he said.

“You’re up,” said Clint to Sticks.

“I’ve had dreams about playing this hole,” said Sticks.

“Hit a good one,” said Clint.

Sticks selected a three iron and stepped onto the tee.  He took a few swings and then stepped up to the ball.  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly and drew the club back.

If you go to Clarence’s house today you’ll find his hole in one ball in a Lucite box on his coffee table.  It’s got the date and the course and the hole number written on a small plaque at the base of the box.  He’ll be happy to tell you the story of that day and the six iron to the fifth green and the woman with the watering can applauding and the rest of it.  And, with little or no prompting, he’ll tell you about playing at Cypress Point with Clint Eastwood the very next day and how his friend Jim got a hole in one using a three iron into the wind of the sixteenth hole which is universally accepted as the greatest par three in the world.