Once, Arnold’s ball ended up clinging to the grass on a steep slope, a few inches above the water hazard. Arnold carefully removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his plus-fours, and stepped into the water.
“I hope there are no poisonous snakes in there,” said Jack.
Catching his attempt to psyche Arnold out, I added: “I don’t think so, but isn’t there an alligator that likes to lurk on the bottom of pools and drag its victims under?”
Our ploy backfired, however, because Arnold quickly chipped his ball and scrambled out of the water as the ball rolled to within three feet of the hole, from where he holed out in two putts.
On another hole, Jack’s ball was resting on the edge of the green with a hen’s-egg- sized clump of dirt between it and the hole. As Jack walked around, surveying the lie, he surreptitiously stepped on the bit of earth, flattening it. I considered mentioning this irregularity, then decided not to; I had been hired to prevent cheating by Nicklaus, not Woods. Besides, the golf bag was growing heavier and heavier and I wanted the game to end.
On the seventh hole, Arnold teed off. The ball went flying, along with the tee and a divot that couldn’t have been bigger unless he had used a backhoe. The ball came to rest ten feet from a large tree which stood directly between the ball and the green. I think he intended to miss the tree by an inch or two, but his mighty swing hit it squarely and the ball returned like a bullet, hitting his caddy in the middle of the forehead. He dropped like a boulder.
“Likely a concussion,” I opined as a round, purple bruise formed.
Eventually he regained consciousness, but it took both of Arnold and Jack to guide him, wobbly-legged, to the end of the course, while I carried both golf bags. I wondered if I would receive an extra fee for the extra caddying. Probably not.
Arnold prepared to putt on the second hole for the second time, ending the match. It was a long putt–well, long for Arnold and Jack–so no one removed the flag from the hole. He tapped the ball, it rolled holeward, reached the cup, and stopped, wedged between the flag and the rim of the hole. After a few moments, Arnold’s caddy, who had recovered, took hold of the pole and with surprising delicacy lifted it slowly. As the flag vacated the hole, the ball dropped in. Then followed a long argument as to whether removing the pole counted as a stroke. I was afraid the issue might end up in the Supreme Court years hence, but we finally agreed that because Arnold had not used a club or touched the ball in any way, it was not a stroke.
Then came the totalling of the score, an exercise in higher mathematics. After much adding and re-adding and debate, the golfers agreed it was a tie. Neither had to pay the other, although Jack had to pay me and I hope Arnold paid his ball-battered, groggy caddy.
For me, it was a pleasant walk spoiled by two inept, arguing golfers and a heavy pair of golf bags.
I wonder what form their next competition will take—perhaps which one can outlive the other.
