Bobby Langford

I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the real story about Bobby Langford. America’s favorite golf hero was always bigger than life, and as great a sportsman as he was, there was so much hype about him it was hard to tell where the truth left off and the hyperbole began.

Hyperbole, that was one of his favorite words. I used to tease him about that.

“Ah, come on Max, people need exaggeration. Who cares if I shave the truth a little around the edges?”

“They may like super sports heroes” I told him, “but they’re death on liars. And that last remark of yours was too close to the line.”

“What? About that putt? I’d like to see you or anybody else match it.”

“I give you that. But you still ain’t no Gary Player going up against the 17th. at Willowridge. You didn’t break any jinx: there are no jinxes on this course, and you know it.”

“I wasn’t talking about Willowridge, Max,” Bobby snarled at me, “I was just doing a little crowing, that’s all. Jeez, can’t you stand me tooting my own horn a little?”

“I wasn’t talking about Willowridge either, Bobby. I was talking about your hyperbole.”

Bobby stared at me for a minute, then looked away and seemed to be shaking something off his shoulders. Then he turned back, looked at me and grinned and said,

“Working on my ego again, eh Max?”

“Somebody’s got to.”

“Well that’s why I’ve got you carrying my bag, buddy.”

“That’s right, buddy, and don’t you forget it.”

With that he laughed and sauntered off, slapping his back pocket as if making sure his score pad was there, but more as a reminder to us what that score read: another record breaking day.

I trudged behind him, wondering what bothered him so about Willowridge. Hell, it was just a golf course, and he could handle it as well as anyone. He could handle them all.

I remember the first time I carried his bag and the way his eye never left the ball. His gift of concentration was phenomenal. Watching him, you knew there was nothing else in the world but he and the ball and a spot of green with a flag sticking up out of it. An atom bomb could not have distracted him.

Sophie Chandler used to get pretty pissed at him about that concentration.

“Jeez, I bet I could walk naked in front of you and you’d never even notice me!” she complained.

“On the golf course?” Bobby asked.

“Yeh.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might. But I can tell you one thing, if I did, I’d be the only one.”

“What da yah mean, the only one?” she flared up.

“Everybody else’d be watching me, of course.”

And you know what? He was probably right. Sophie was gorgeous, and well worth ogling, but when Bobby was there, everyone else disappeared. It was always like that. Bobby could do no wrong. He was cool, he was calm. He was relaxed. And his ball seemed to be sitting there waiting for him, waiting for instruction where to go, how high to fly, which way to roll. I’ve seen a lot of players, but I never saw another one like Bobby Langford. He was in a class all his own, and he knew it.

The first time he donned the green jacket at Augusta, people were surprised that he seemed to take it so calmly. Of course he’d led the field throughout the tournament; nobody came close to him. Still, although his performance was remarkable and worthy of the prize, some sign of humility on his part would have been nice. But humility was not in Bobby’s vocabulary. It didn’t fit with hyperbole. So I wasn’t surprised when he accepted the jacket as if he were merely claiming his own possession.

That was Langford in a nutshell, and his courtship with Sophie went pretty much the same way.

“God, you’re so conceited!” she said to him after one of his wins.

“Conceited? What’s that?” he laughed.

“It means you’re an egotistical son-of-a-bitch.”

“So ...?” he replied, a mocking sparkle in his eye.

“Oh you!” she exploded, and starting pounding his chest with her clenched fist.

He grabbed her hands in his, her small fingers curled within his larger, stronger ones, and he pulled her toward him so that their faces met in a smashing kiss.

“I love the way you taste when you’re mad at me,” h gloated.

She squirmed and wriggled and tried to break his embrace, but he only held her more firmly, oblivious to her struggles. Finally she went limp and cried,

“Don’t Bobby, you’re hurting me.”

“I know” he said, “and you love it.”

"I don’t. I never have.”

“Well, you say that now, but wait until tonight and you’ll sing a different tune.”

She shot a look of anger at him and wrenched herself free.

“Oh no I won’t. There’ll be no more songs from me.” And she stormed away.

Bobby watched her go, grinning. “See you tonight.” He called after her. She did not reply, but gave him the finger without looking back.

Bobby chuckled and bent over to pick up the baseball cap that had been knocked off her head in their struggle. He brushed off some dirt and handed it to me.

“Don’t let me forget to return that tonight.” And he walked away.

That was Bobby. Supremely confident, supremely sure of himself, entitled to the whole wide world. The champion of champions. When a reporter once asked him the secret of his success, Bobby replied, “I always win!” And he did.

So what happened at Willowridge? That’s what everybody wanted to know. He’d played it before and played it with his usual brilliance. Particularly that 17th hole, the one he said Player called “jinxed”, an incredibly difficult par four. Admittedly it was a tricky one. All the pros complained of it. The configuration of trees alone made it a nightmare, the slope was treacherous and there was something about the prevailing breezes there that took many a well played ball off course and into the drink. Player and Palmer and Tiger Woods all had trouble there. Bobby Langford broke the curse, if there was one, and ended up in the record books to boot. He’s the only player ever to eagle and birdie it in two consecutive rounds.

“Twice is enough” he quipped afterward, “I’m never playing Willowridge again.” And he never did. Not until last Spring. It was quite a surprise,

The invitation came from Dalton and Farris who joined in challenging Bobby to a celebrity match. “It’s for charity, Bobby, you can’t turn us down.”

“Like hell I can’t” Bobby replied, with a scowl. “I give enough to charity”.

Which was true. Bobby always had a big heart. He lived modestly but he gave unstintingly. Something about his childhood, probably, made him cautious with his money. He and Sophie had a nice house with a view of the Pacific, but that was his only luxury. They had no kids to spend money on. Sophie would have liked children but Bobby nixed the suggestion, said he’d be away too much, he didn’t want to be a part time father. Besides he didn’t like the idea of having children when they weren’t married, and when Sophie made it clear she was ready to tie the knot, he brushed the offer away as if it weren’t serious.

So he was rich and more than willing to give when it was really needed. He didn’t need to play a charity benefit game at Willowridge. But Sophie had other ideas, and she approached him with a new kind of seriousness he wasn’t used to seeing.

I was there when she brought the subject up.

“Maury Farris and Craig Dalton want to play a match with you.” she said, without any buildup. “For charity.”

“They do?” Bobby replied, intrigued. Two of the giants of the golf world wanting to play him. It was like the Three Tenors. It would make millions. “Where?”

“Willowridge.” she said.

“No.” Bobby replied immediately and turned away, as if that was the end of the conversation.

“Why not?” she asked reasonably. I was listening carefully. Why wouldn’t he play them? It would make a fantastic match. I knew he wasn’t afraid of these guys. Playing with them would be perfect. They were the top, the cream of the crop. And Willowridge was ideal for them all. They didn’t need any candy-ass golf course; they needed a real challenge, one that would test their mettle and show the world what real golfers were made of.

Bobby did not reply.

“Why not, I said.” Sophie repeated, and again Bobby ignored her.

“You’re not afraid to meet them are you?”

A nice ploy, I thought, but it wasn’t going to work. Appealing to his player’s ego by pretending he might be afraid of the competition would normally have him rising to the bait, but not this time. His confidence was not the least bit shaken. The point was not worth disputing.

Sophie looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, then turned and went out of the room. Bobby looked at me briefly to see how I had taken this interchange, and then, just as he started to speak, Sophie came back into the room carrying a photo album.

“I want to show you something, Bobby.” She opened the book and handed it to him.

“So? Who’s this?” he asked.

“My brother.”

“Your brother? I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I never told you.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s got something wrong with him. They call it cerebral palsy. He’s been that way as long as I can remember.”

“Where is he now? You don’t have any family any more. Leastways that’s what you told me.”

“I know. He’s in an institution.”

“Jesus. And are you taking care of him by yourself?”

“Yeh, that and a trust the folks left for him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sammy. He’s nineteen.”

Bobby stared at the picture and then looked up.

“And that’s the charity you want me playing for? You think me playing in that game is gonna cure your brother?”

“No, stupid.” she spat at him. “I’m no dummy. There ain’t nothin’ anybody can do for Sammy. It’s too late for him. But maybe we could help others. Maybe some other poor kid could have a chance. We don’t know. Least we’d know we tried. We did something besides saying ‘poor kid’.”

Bobby stared at the picture and then closed the book and handed it back to Sophie.

“I’m sorry about your brother, but I still won’t play. Sorry. I got my reasons.”

“You got your reasons? Bobby; what reason could matter that much? You’re the world’s best golfer. You’re the star. You’re the one that will make people notice. And you can do it so easy. Craig and Maury have already said ‘yes’. They’re itching to play with you. They know they can’t beat you, but they want the thrill of the game. All three of you, playing together. It’s a dream game, Bobby. It’ll be the greatest match of your career. You can’t say no. I told ‘em.”

Bobby looked up suddenly and stared at Sophia.

“You told them? What did you tell them? That I’d play?”

“Yeh. They’re counting on you.”

“You told them I’d play without asking me?”

“Yeh. I was sure you would.”

“You were sure I would. Just like that. You’re a frigging mind reader now, eh? Just ‘cause you sleep with me don’t mean you know what I’m thinking.”

“I didn’t say that Bobby, I just thought you’d give in when you knew about my brother.”

“Well you thought wrong. Tell ‘em you made a mistake. A big mistake.”

Sophie looked at Bobby and he looked straight back. Their mouths weren’t speaking but their eyes were and there was no mistaking the message. Bobby wasn’t giving in. After a moment Sophie said quietly,

“It isn’t that curse business is it? You don’t really believe that old guy, do you?”

Suddenly the silence was deafening as he stared at her. It was as if he were trying to force her eyes to look down just by the strength of his own gaze, but she didn’t blink. She matched his look and waited for an answer.

“What old guy,” I asked, ignoring the fact this was a private conversation and I hadn’t been invited in to express an opinion.

“Nothing.” Bobby said without taking his eyes away from Sophie.

“You never told Max, huh? You never told him your secret? Your good luck charm?”

“Shut up, you bitch!” he shouted at her.

“Why not? Don’t you suppose he’s already suspected it? Figured something wasn’t right? Something wasn’t adding up with your phenomenal run of good luck?”

“I told you to shut up, Sophie, and I meant it.”

She stared at Bobby until I thought I’d burst my blood vessels wondering what the hell the two of them were talking about. Sophie staring at Bobby, Bobby staring right back. Then she smiled, shrugged her shoulders and walked out of the room. But as she went, she called, “If I were you I’d get over that superstitious curse thing. It could affect your game. At least I bet that’s what Maury and Craig would think if they knew about it.”

Bobby stood as still as a statue, his face drained.

“Old guy ...?”“ I started to ask him, but he ignored me and walked out the door.

The curse on the 17th hole at Willowridge was nothing new. People heard talk of it from the day the course first opened. Talmidge Johnson, the course designer, started it with a fanciful tale of some workman who got hit in the head there and was never the same again. The poor guy went loony and killed his wife and kids and claimed it was Johnson’s fault. Said the designer was the devil and had hexed the 17th hole. He never explained why he picked that one; probably because that’s where the poor old guy got hit. Who knows. But the curse was rumored enough that even a pro like Gary Player was supposed to have said it was jinxed. I asked him about it once and he laughed and said he just meant it was a hell of a hole to make. He didn’t believe in the bogey man.

The first time Bobby played it, he was nervous, but he did all right. And afterward he didn’t seem to mind it at all. He even got the eagle and birdie there, as easy as taking candy from a baby. But after that second time he said that was enough. He wouldn’t play Willowridge again. He’d done his best there, he didn’t have anything more to prove. Let others have the curse. When I asked him about it he just laughed and said “I don’t believe in pushing my luck, Max.” And that was that.

When I asked Sophie about it, she turned quiet too. “What about this old guy?” I asked her. “Nothing” she answered, “just something Bobby said once. Didn’t mean anything.” And that’s all she’d say.

A week later Craig Dalton called and said he was glad they were going to play the benefit. I was surprised. “Where did you hear that?” I asked. “It’s all news to me.”

“Bobby called last night. Said he’d do it. I guess he hasn’t gotten around to telling you yet. Oughta be a great match. Maury’s really juiced for it.”

“I’ll bet. He’s still smarting over that defeat Bobby handed him at Pebble Beach.”

“You think? Of course he is. I swear, Bobby pulls the damnedest stunts sometimes. That one that was headed for the ocean? How in the hell could you count on that ball swerving that way, landing on the green instead of the surf? Bobby’s got a genie in that golf bag of his, I’m convinced of it.”

“If Bobby’s got a genie, his name is Max” I said, figuring why should Bobby get all the credit? He was getting some pretty damn good advice from me, and had been for just about the whole of his career. He could spread a little of the glory my way.

“Well you said a mouth full there.” Craig laughed. “You two have been unbeatable for years. Kind of takes the suspense out of the game when you two are around.”

I didn’t say anything to Bobby about Craig’s call, I figured he’d rather tell me about it himself; and Sophie didn’t say anything either. But he didn’t say a word. In fact, he seemed like the cat got his tongue. There was no more of our usual banter and it even felt like he was avoiding me. All he said was to keep his gear ready for a trip.

“We going somewhere? I didn’t think we had anything on until Minneapolis.”

“You thought wrong.” was his reply and he walked away. Sophie was the one who confirmed the trip, but rumors were already in the press. The day after she told me the story broke and the publicity was crazy. Money came pouring in for the Cerebral Palsy Foundation. It made Jerry Lewis look like a piker. In fact, he even called to see if he could line us up for muscular dystrophy next. Everybody was talking about Farris, Dalton and Langford. The Holy Trinity of the golfing world.

Everybody that is but Bobby. The more hoopla there was, the quieter he got. I finally had to give him a talking to lest people think he was afraid of the match.

“You did it before, Bobby. Twice. And you’re a better golfer now than you were then. You have more experience, better judgment and less to prove. This is one game you can walk into to have fun. You’ll enjoy yourself, capture the cup and make millions for charity.”

“You think so, Max? It’s going to be that easy. Wine and roses and ticker tape parades.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. But hell, who needs that? The eyes of the country will be on you and everyone will be pulling for your victory. You’re the fair-haired boy, Bobby my lad. Farris and Dalton don’t have a chance.”

And by rights they shouldn’t have had a chance. Bobby was playing at his best these days. Every swing, every tap, the ball stayed true and faithful to its master. He was unbeatable. But he wasn’t happy. Gone was the infectious grin, the quick quip, the easy saunter across the green. In its place was a severe determination, a kind of inflexible sternness that never relaxed. Commentators began to notice and crowds, that once were noisy and boisterous with camaraderie and good will grew quieter when Bobby approached. It was as if fear had permeated the crowds and the sun was hiding behind a cloud.

The night before the big match Bobby finally broke down.

“I can’t do this, Max, I simply can’t do it.”

“What do you mean you can’t do it? Of course you can. You’ve done it before. It’s a cinch. What’s to keep you from it?”

“Me. That’s what’s going to keep me from it.”

“You?” I said, “That’s crazy. You’ve having a bit of nerves.”

“Am I?” he asked looking steadily at me. “You’re sure of that?” Then turning away, he said, “We’ll see.” He walked a step or two, stopped, started walking again and stopped again. Then he turned to me and, looking straight into my eyes, he said,

“Whatever happens tomorrow, Max, it won’t be my nerves. Promise me you’ll remember that. Remember what I told you. There’s more going on here than you know, more than anyone knows. I’m not afraid for myself. I’ve had my games, I’ve won my trophies. What difference does it make if I lose this one? No, it’s something else a lot worse, that could ..., could ...”

“Could what, Bobby? What are you trying to tell me?”

He stared at me a moment longer then shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

“Nothing. I guess you’re right. It’s nerves.”

Then turning around again he said more earnestly than the first time, “But It’s not about this match. Remember that.” And he said no more.

Well, as Sophie predicted, practically the whole world was watching that match, and they were entertained. While Bobby played a little more slowly, more deliberately than he usually played, he scored well. Craig and Maury, more relaxed than Bobby, probably figured they weren’t going to beat Bobby anyway, so they were having fun and it showed. They never played a better game than they did that day.

Still, Bobby led them, until they reached the 17th hole. Farris teed off first and Dalton followed. Then it was Bobby’s turn. The ball perched on its tee, ready to greet the master’s swing, ready to do Bobby’s bidding, and when Bobby swung, it was magnificent. I can’t remember Bobby ever hitting a ball with greater precision and authority. There was an audible gasp in the stands. I waited for the sound of cheering to break out. It seemed like it took forever. When it came it shook the very ground we stood on.

Bobby stared into the distance, tracing the trajectory of the ball, calculating where it would lie. We’d plotted it all out countless times. He could see its destination in his mind’s eye as clearly as I. There was no mystery to its landing. But even so, we walked in silence towards the group of trees that line the fairway.

“Good shot, Bobby. Now you know what you have to do to get it to the pin.”

“It’s already there, Max.” he said calmly.

“No, that’s not possible, Bobby, it’ll be right where we planned for it to go.”

Bobby looked at me and smiled and repeated, “It’s there Max. It’s in the hole.”

“In the hole? No way, Bobby. Nobody could do that. It’s a par four!”

“I know” he replied, “I know.” And he fell silent.

The crowds had pushed on past us, eager to be there when we found his ball, while Bobby seemed reluctant to go on. The faster they walked, the slower he moved. I looked up and saw that just about everyone was gone now, all but one man sauntering along at about our pace. He beckoned to Bobby and raised his hands in a victory sign, congratulating Bobby for his good luck.

When Bobby saw him, he turned pale. He stumbled and I thought he was about to fall. Then he straightened himself up, glanced at me briefly and said,

“Remember what I told you Max, I wasn’t afraid of losing this match. That wasn’t it at all. Remember that. Please.” And then he turned and started to run toward the man who had beckoned to him. I tried to run with him, but he was too fast for me and in no time they had vanished in the dense growth of trees.

No one has ever seen him again.

Bobby was right. The ball was in the cup, a hole in one on the 17th, a record never seen before at Willowridge. The uproar over Bobby’s disappearance shook the crowd, even more, it shook the world. Countless theories were propounded to explain what happened to him, but no satisfactory answer has ever been given. When I told the police who investigated the incident about the man in the woods, apparently I was the only one who saw him. Just as Bobby vanished into nowhere, the man had appeared and disappeared out of nowhere. We could only guess that what ever had happened, they went together.

Sophie was the one I felt sorry for.

“I didn’t believe him,” she cried on my shoulder. “He told me the magic would end if he ever tried to play Willowridge a third time.”

“Why would he say that?”

“It was the curse, Max.”

“The magic was a curse?”

“He couldn’t be beaten as long as he ...” and she sobbed on my chest.

“As long as he didn’t play that 17th hole again?”

She nodded.

“‘A hole in one and then you’re done’, that’s what the old guy told him.” she said.

“The poor son-of-a-bitch!” I said, and then I, too, started to cry.