below the tee and demanded an explanation. Vance coolly explained that he would be glad to address the subject in detail at a later date but that now he must focus all his energy on assisting Junah. “You’ve done a helluva job of assisting him so far,” the Judge snorted in fury. The caddie’s unruffled calm enraged the elders. This was no time for philosophy. Junah’s swing was gone. His plane was out, his rhythm was shot, his timing was nonexistent! What was wrong with him? What on God’s earth was his problem and what on God’s earth could we do about it?
Here the caddie, who had been moving with the players’and gallery’s flow toward the tee, stopped, turned and met the elders’ eyes.
“Junah’s problem is simple,” he said. “He thinks he is Junah.”
“What in damnation does that mean?” The Judge’s face flushed crimson. “He is Junah, you damn twit!”
“I will teach him he is not Junah,” the caddie answered with his accustomed calm. “Then he will swing Junah’s swing.”
Vance turned and climbed powerfully up the slope to the seventh tee. Anderson wheeled to Dees, Syracuse and me. “I don’t care what the Rules say”—the Judge jerked his thumb in Bagger Vance’s direction—“get that lunatic sonofabitch off Junah’s bag!”
Of course the Judge couldn’t. The Rules of Golf forbade replacement of a caddie other than in an emergency or for voluntary withdrawal, and Bagger Vance was not about to withdraw, voluntarily or otherwise.
In fact on that tee he came forward and more powerfully than ever seized control of Junah, to my own shock and even horror, and to that portion of the gallery who overheard the exchange.
“Why don’t you hook this one out of bounds?” Bagger Vance spoke directly to the champion, wiping a new Spalding, a high-compression black Dot, as he readied to hand it to him. I was there, not three feet away, and couldn’t believe my ears. Neither could Junah. For an instant he tried to take it as a joke. Surely Bagger Vance was trying to loosen his man up with a little reverse psychology. One look in the caddie’s eyes dispelled that notion. Vance placed the ball in Junah’s hand and tugged the oversize persimmon driver up from the bag. “Just snipe it over that first bunker, it’ll hit the road and bound off to hell and gone. Then you’ll be so far out of the match, you can relax.”
Junah stared at him stricken. Golfers in general are suggestible, and never more so than under the pressure of a desperate match. Junah knew (as did I, and the closely pressed part of the gallery including Judge Anderson, Dees, Syracuse and my father, who overheard) that merely to give voice to such a prospect was to guarantee its happening. Junah would step to the tee with that horrifying self-fulfilling thought in mind and…“Go on”—Bagger Vance pressed Schenectady Slim, the driver, into the champion’s hand—“what are you waiting for?”
Hagen and Jones had already driven; Jones about 260 down the right side, Hagen five or ten yards to Jones’ rear, in the center. Now Junah stepped between the markers. His hands were trembling as he set his right leg back and bent over his left, using the driver for balance as he stretched down to tee the ball; you could see the dimples and the little arched Spalding logo wobble atop their wooden perch. Junah actually had to steady the ball with three fingers to keep it from tumbling. He rose, shaken, and tried to settle, shifting and rocking and replanting his spiked soles into a comfortable address position. There. He had his stance. He waggled. A swift glance to Bagger Vance, as if pleading for a reprieve. But the caddie’s eyes met Junah’s sternly; Vance even threw a curt nod for emphasis, as if to say, What’s keeping you, get to it!
Junah swung. You could hear the sickening turnover blow as the ball arced hard off the clubface, left and low, then dove even farther left, spinning furiously over the exact bunker
Here the caddie, who had been moving with the players’and gallery’s flow toward the tee, stopped, turned and met the elders’ eyes.
“Junah’s problem is simple,” he said. “He thinks he is Junah.”
“What in damnation does that mean?” The Judge’s face flushed crimson. “He is Junah, you damn twit!”
“I will teach him he is not Junah,” the caddie answered with his accustomed calm. “Then he will swing Junah’s swing.”
Vance turned and climbed powerfully up the slope to the seventh tee. Anderson wheeled to Dees, Syracuse and me. “I don’t care what the Rules say”—the Judge jerked his thumb in Bagger Vance’s direction—“get that lunatic sonofabitch off Junah’s bag!”
Of course the Judge couldn’t. The Rules of Golf forbade replacement of a caddie other than in an emergency or for voluntary withdrawal, and Bagger Vance was not about to withdraw, voluntarily or otherwise.
In fact on that tee he came forward and more powerfully than ever seized control of Junah, to my own shock and even horror, and to that portion of the gallery who overheard the exchange.
“Why don’t you hook this one out of bounds?” Bagger Vance spoke directly to the champion, wiping a new Spalding, a high-compression black Dot, as he readied to hand it to him. I was there, not three feet away, and couldn’t believe my ears. Neither could Junah. For an instant he tried to take it as a joke. Surely Bagger Vance was trying to loosen his man up with a little reverse psychology. One look in the caddie’s eyes dispelled that notion. Vance placed the ball in Junah’s hand and tugged the oversize persimmon driver up from the bag. “Just snipe it over that first bunker, it’ll hit the road and bound off to hell and gone. Then you’ll be so far out of the match, you can relax.”
Junah stared at him stricken. Golfers in general are suggestible, and never more so than under the pressure of a desperate match. Junah knew (as did I, and the closely pressed part of the gallery including Judge Anderson, Dees, Syracuse and my father, who overheard) that merely to give voice to such a prospect was to guarantee its happening. Junah would step to the tee with that horrifying self-fulfilling thought in mind and…“Go on”—Bagger Vance pressed Schenectady Slim, the driver, into the champion’s hand—“what are you waiting for?”
Hagen and Jones had already driven; Jones about 260 down the right side, Hagen five or ten yards to Jones’ rear, in the center. Now Junah stepped between the markers. His hands were trembling as he set his right leg back and bent over his left, using the driver for balance as he stretched down to tee the ball; you could see the dimples and the little arched Spalding logo wobble atop their wooden perch. Junah actually had to steady the ball with three fingers to keep it from tumbling. He rose, shaken, and tried to settle, shifting and rocking and replanting his spiked soles into a comfortable address position. There. He had his stance. He waggled. A swift glance to Bagger Vance, as if pleading for a reprieve. But the caddie’s eyes met Junah’s sternly; Vance even threw a curt nod for emphasis, as if to say, What’s keeping you, get to it!
Junah swung. You could hear the sickening turnover blow as the ball arced hard off the clubface, left and low, then dove even farther left, spinning furiously over the exact bunker
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