Road to Pebble Beach: The Greatest Nassau Ever Played

By steve davis and trey davis

It is the early 1950s. Bing Crosby and Bob Hope reign on America's airwaves and movie screens. Bobby Jones has already won 13 major tournaments over the course of his golf career, and Ben Hogan, having recently recovered from his near fatal crash, is now considered by many to be the best golfer alive. They may not have much in co

• Language: English
• Publisher: robert davis
• Release date: Nov 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781087822365

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

PEBBLE BEACH

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through windows set high on the walls. The room, which had been so boisterous just moments before, was now largely deserted. Empty metal lockers lined the walls, behind low wooden benches. Pools of water and wet towels were scattered here and there. The room smelled of sweat, shampoo, and Old Spice.

The lone occupants sat around a poker table. Not playing cards; just there. The first to speak was a short man, no more than five-foot nine. Though short in stature, he was solidly built, and conveyed a no-nonsense demeanor. He looked to be in good shape, in his mid-thirties. Perhaps he was having a bad day, but he came across as someone it would be difficult to warm up to. His exasperated tone set the stage, God damned luckiest shot I’ve ever seen. If it misses the pin, it goes in the water. A double bogie for sure.

Jesus Ben, calm down, replied one of his companions. The respondent was a nattily-dressed man sitting to Ben’s left. Though in his mid-forties, he looked somehow more youthful than his companion. He was taller, maybe six feet and his hair was neatly combed and parted down the middle. He wore a three-piece suit and tie, which gave him more the appearance of the lawyer he was; rather than that of an elite golfer — which he also was. He had a soft southern drawl, and a pleasant face. Charisma radiated from his very presence, though his easy-going demeanor seemed to belie a sharply competitive nature. He smiled. That was two hours ago. You’re going to have a heart attack.

Easy for you to say, Bobby. You don’t do this for a living. I should have won this thing, and you know it.

True enough, Bobby replied, but you didn’t. Maybe you should have made that four-footer on 17.

I’m telling you, it’s a lot more stressful when you’re playing for your dinner. You don’t understand that, and never will. No one ever put a silver spoon in my mouth.

The third member of the group chimed in, Jeez, don’t tell my wife about that playing for dinner thing. She’d think it was grand, limiting my diet to what I could buy with golf winnings. The last time I won a golf bet, it was calculated on an abacus. Heck, I’d give the game up, if I didn’t have so many sweaters.

He was also mid-forties. Shorter and heavier; with a round, jovial face and an automatic smile. Though his golf clothes likely began the day in good order, they were now unruly and disheveled. He clearly was not an athlete, but possessed an immediately engaging smile, and a twinkle in his eye. Come to think of it, Ben, maybe I should try that. Only eat what I kill, so to speak. I could lose thirty pounds in a weekend.

The others chuckled, but Ben wasn’t ready to move on. You’d more likely starve, but that’s not the damned point. The best player ought to win. Sure, I missed the putt on 17. Damn thing broke six inches. But, what a birdie on 18. Three wood to the left front from 246 yards. Let’s see Byron do that. He slapped his hand on the table and shook his head theatrically. Not in his wildest dreams!

It’s too bad they don’t award trophies based on who you thought played the best, Ben. You’d never lose, replied Bobby.

Bob followed, Another great idea — award trophies based on who I thought was the best. If the Motion Picture Association followed that advice, I’d have six Oscars by now. I need to hang around you guys more often.

About that time, a bartender appeared with a new round of drinks. He was a tall, thin man, of indeterminable age. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, his hands gently weathered by years spent working in kitchens and bars across the country. His voice, though gravelly and low, betrayed the warmth of a midwestern accent — Kansas City, or maybe St. Louis. A Jack Daniels and Coke for Mr. Hogan. A whiskey neat, for Mr. Jones, and a margarita for Mr. Hope. Oh, and I brought a gin and tonic for Mr. Crosby. I thought he was here with you.

He’ll be back shortly, Bob replied. He’s playing it up to the cameras — and the ladies.

Bobby silently slipped the bartender a 20. Thank you Mr. Jones. That was a magnificent round you played out there today.

Too little, too late, I’m afraid Demitrius. But, thank you for the compliment, and thank you for the beverages.

To be perfectly frank, it was Mr. Hogan that was robbed blind today. Demitrius went on. You had it won and should’ve won. That must’ve been the luckiest shot I ever saw.

Hogan answered "Finally somebody with some sense. That’s what I’ve been telling these clowns, Demitrius. How is it that you’re a better judge of golf than the great Bobby Jones?"

Well, I don’t think I can claim that . But, I do know a lucky shot when I see one. And, that ball was headed for the Pacific Ocean.

I rest my case, Hogan replied.

Finally. Thank God, said Bob. Nelson hit the ball 283 times, and you hit it 284 times, and I thought we were going to have to listen to your recount for another hour and a half. It’s like when I was filming ‘Road to Rio’. . .

Fortunately for the group, Bing busted into the room at just that moment, saving them all from a long narrative about Bob’s latest film success. Hello, hello, hello, Bing literally sang out. How are my four favorite people? And, you too, Bob-a-lou. Bing was neatly dressed in plus fours, long socks and tasseled shoes, a cardigan sweater buttoned all the way up, with a shirt and tie just peeking out. He looked as if he had just stepped out of an ad in a golf magazine.

Without waiting for an answer, Bing continued, Was that the greatest Clam Bake ever, or what? People came from everywhere, and what a finish. Nelson chips in for birdie on 18 to win by one. Awesome theater. Television loved it. I’m telling you I can’t wait to see what those Nielson boys have to say about the ratings.

Ben jumped back in, Hell, if people get a thrill out of watching someone skull a wedge, that explains why Hope’s movies are so popular. I guess people can’t get enough of train wrecks.

Ben’s still a tiny bit bitter, Bobby explained. "He feels that Nelson’s chip-in may not have been the best golf shot of all time. In fact, I think Ben’s exact words were ‘luckiest shot of all time.’

Bing smiled, Shoot, Ben, this may end up being the biggest break of your career, It’s all over the networks, by now. People will see how you lost, and give you some sympathy — for the first time ever, I might add.

You are about as cuddly as a porcupine, Bob added. And, people love the guy who comes in second. I should know; I live there.

I’ll take all the disdain the public can dish out, if it comes with a first place trophy, thank you, Ben answered. You take the adulation from a misinformed and finicky public, and I’ll take home the money. I’ve got no problem with that."

True enough. Bing said, Well, anyway, it was probably the greatest golf tournament of all time, and it was right here at my little Clam Bake at Pebble Beach.

At that, everyone took a breath and worked on their drinks.

Finally, Ben broke the silence, It was a damn fine tournament, Crosby. Big crowds and big money. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. As do all the other pros. I wish there was something like this every week of the year.

Thank you, Ben. Bing replied. That means a lot coming from you. So, what are you boys up to next?

Bobby said, Well, I think I’d better get back to Atlanta, and see to my livelihood. Playing amateur golf doesn’t exactly pay the bills, and, I’m sure there are wills to be written and lawsuits to be filed in the great state of Georgia.

Bob jumped in, Hey Bobby, do you know how to tell that a lawyer is not telling the truth?

No, I’m not sure I do, Bob

His lips move.

Over the laughter of the others, Bobby just shook his head.

How about you, Ben? Bing asked.

Ben said, The Los Angeles Open is not for a couple weeks. So, I’ll probably find someplace cheap to camp out in California, where I can sleep late, pound balls on the range, and sip a little bourbon. Maybe I can sleep on your couch, Hope?

Bob grimaced, Oooh, that might get a bit crowded. Dolores is not too happy with me right now. The problem with incriminating photos in the papers is that they’re so damned incriminating."

Bing whistled, Don’t tell me it’s Miss Maxwell, again, Bob. She’s a fine looking woman, but that’s the worst kept secret in Hollywood.

It’s not my fault that people are inherently nosy, Bob said. I asked Dolores, ‘Who you gonna believe, me or your own two eyes?’ Seems like for now, at least, she’s going with her own two eyes. Anyway, I’ll probably hang around Pebble for a while. See if things cool down at home.

Bobby looked at Bing, So, what are you getting at, Bing? It appears to this poor country lawyer that you’re planning something.

Well, I was just thinking, Ben isn’t going home, Bob can’t go home, I don’t want to go home, and Bobby — well, Bobby, you don’t need to go home. You’ve got more money than Carter has pills. We’re at the greatest golf resort in the world. What if we stay here and play golf?

That’s an idea, said Bob. A chance to play Pebble with the two greatest golfers in the world. Sure beats a weekend on my couch in LA.

I could do that. The LA Open isn’t for two weeks, Ben said. But, I assume we’d want to do something to make it interesting.

Bing nodded, What if we play the biggest Nassau in the history of golf? Two man, best ball, and we all put in $25,000? Winning team gets $50,000 from the losers.

$25,000!? Ben said. Your Clam Bake only paid $7500 for first place. A couple lucky putts, and Hope could be leading the tour money list."

Bobby jumped into the conversation, and said with a smile, I’m in. And, I guess that since Crosby and Hope are such good friends, they’ll be one team and Ben and I will be the other.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, sang Bing. Not so fast lawyer lips. Not only are you and Ben on different teams, we haven’t begun talking handicaps.

Handicaps? said Ben. I thought we were going to play like real men.

I look good in a skirt, said Bob. I’m a nine handicap and I need all nine strokes.

That’s very interesting, said Bobby. Because right here on the player listings for the Clam Bake, it says that you’re a four, Bob. How did you go from a four this morning to a nine this evening?

It’s the new math. I could explain it to you, but I don’t have the time.

Looks like a four to me, said Bobby. And, I’m pretty good at math.

You might have a point, said Bob, but, I’m only a four because I cheat. Bing can tell you — if I counted every stroke, I’d be at least a ten or eleven.

There’s no question about that, said Bing. But, I’m not sure how it matters. There’s certainly no reason to think you’ll cheat less with $100,000 on the line. Now, as for yours truly, I was a two this morning, and I’m a two this evening.

So, we’re settled, said Ben.

Not so fast, replied Bing. Handicaps for Mr. Hope and me are settled, but there’s still a question of handicaps for Mssrs Hogan and Jones.

I’m a plus three, said Bobby. So, I give Bob seven and Bing five."

I’ll play the same, said Ben. I don’t really have a handicap, since I’m a pro, but a plus three sounds about right.

That’s funnier than Bing’s last movie, said Bob. If you guys are plus threes, I’m a fourteen."

So, stop your whining and propose something. Ben growled. Since you and Crosby will be on different teams, it won’t matter all that much. Let’s say Hope gets nine and Crosby gets seven. Fair enough?

Deal, they all said at once.

What are the teams, Bob asked. We have to split up Ben and Bobby.

I have a coin, right here, Bobby replied. Heads I play with Bing, and tails I play with Bob.

Toss it, Ben said.

Bobby flipped the coin into the air, and let in land on the table. Heads. I guess its Bing and me against Ben and Bob.

CHAPTER 2

THE WAGER

About that time, Demitrius returned with another round of drinks.

Bing spoke first, So, what do you think Demitrius? Do Bobby and I have a chance against Mr. Hope and Mr. Hogan?

Well, I can’t rightly say who would win, replied Demitrius. But it might be the greatest golf match of all time. Is it 18 holes, or 36?

Ben smiled. "Ah,